Читать книгу Reflected Glory - John Russell Fearn - Страница 5

CHAPTER ONE

For quite ten minutes Elsa Farraday had been aware of the young man’s scrutiny and it was commencing to make her feel embarrassed.

She continued quietly with her lunch, meantime glancing around the crowded London café—yet every time her eyes were drawn to the young man three tables away. And every time his gaze was fixed on her in polite but searching interest.

By degrees Elsa began to feel annoyed. This was downright rude, even impudent. Being young and attractive-looking, Elsa Farraday was by no means averse to a second glance, but this was too much.

Frowning to herself she lowered her eyes to her lunch and, for a time, tried to picture the young man mentally. He too was worth a long scrutiny, she decided. He was handsome in a dark kind of way with rather untidy black hair, straight nose, and well-formed jaw and mouth. Perhaps twenty-five, and impeccably dressed. Yes, he was certainly—

“I say, I hope you’ll excuse me....”

“Huh?” Elsa looked up with a start. The young man was standing beside her table looking down at her with a seriously apologetic face.

“I hope you’ll excuse me,” he repeated. “It just occurred to me that you must be thinking I’ve no manners, considering the way I’ve been looking at you.”

Elsa had grey eyes, and upon occasion they could be very cold. They were now. With her well-shaped mouth rather taut she responded:

“I was just thinking that you were providing ample evidence of the fact that the age of chivalry is dead!”

“Yes; I suppose it did look that way.”

The young man hesitated as though he expected Elsa would invite him to be seated on the remaining chair at the table. She did not. She continued eating her lunch as though be did not exist.

“I’m most awfully sorry,” he said, after a pause.

“That is the least you can be,” Elsa responded, with another direct look. “I don’t think I have ever been so thoroughly—er—summed-up in all my life! And I don’t like it! What’s the matter with me? Or do you find a young woman something of a curiosity?”

“In your case, something of a revelation.” Then as he saw a warm tide steal into the girl’s pale cheeks the young man added hastily, “I—I mean in the artistic sense. You see, I’m Clive Hexley.”

“Should I be impressed?” Elsa inquired coldly.

“Well, that depends. I’m an artist. R.A., to be precise. I hope you haven’t got the idea wrong,” Clive Hexley continued ur­gently. “I was studying you so intently because you have just the exact face, throat, and shoulders I’m looking for. For a model, I mean. See here,” he finished, and handed over his card.

Elsa read:

Clive Hexley, R.A.

Cardenworth Studios

Dell Road, Chelsea

London

“I hope,” Clive Hexley added anxiously, “that that somewhat explains my extraordinary conduct.”

Elsa’s expression slowly changed and the severity gave way to a slight smile.

“Yes, I suppose it does,” she admitted. She clicked the card between her fingers for a moment and became pensive; then Clive Hexley found her grey eyes upon him again. “So you think I have prospects as a model, do you? That is...quite a fascinating thought.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“Tell me about it,” Elsa suggested, and motioned to the soli­tary chair.

The young man seated himself and contemplated her again with earnest blue eyes.

“Well, you see, Miss—er—?”

“It’s Farraday. Elsa Farraday.”

“Well, Miss Farraday, I’ve been hunting for the past three months for a young woman with the right features to portray the essential mysticism of a feminine face. The painting is to be called ‘Woman, the Mystery,’ and naturally for a subject like that I have to use features that have just the right suggestion of the enigmatic. I require too the exact turn of the head and line of the throat which from the attitude will—”

“Mr. Hexley, you are an artist,” Elsa interrupted, smiling. “I am not—in that sense, at least. I can only grasp the essen­tials of your work, I’m afraid. What you mean is: I happen to be the right type of person with the right type of features for your subject?”

“There’s not the slightest doubt of it. Mind you, I know all this must seem dreadfully informal—for me to suddenly descend on a young lady who is a complete stranger and tell her that she has exactly the right face for a painting. But that is how my work is. I descend on all kinds of people, from beggars to drug ­addicts, from servants to film stars.”

“And you are a Royal Academician....” Clive Hexley noticed that Elsa had a lazy, fascinating kind of smile that gave just a glimpse of perfect teeth.

“Yes; and I’m proud of it,” he answered. “Of recent years I have been quite successful, making up for the years when I was not.” He smiled reflectively. “‘Clive Hexley’ on a painting—especially a portrait—actually means something at last. I even have several important commissions.”

“That’s splendid,” Elsa said, somewhat absently, still ap­parently thinking of something else—and in the quiet moment that followed Clive Hexley had time to notice that she had night-black hair, perfectly contrasted by a rather absurd scarlet hat and scarlet stud earrings.

“You’ll probably think I’m making the strides of a Gulliver,” he continued, “but would you consent to sit for me? Everything will be perfectly all right,” he added, as she studied him. “Babs—or I should say Barbara—will be there too. That’s Miss Vane, a very good friend of mine, and a professional model. She sort of takes care of the ethics when necessary.”

Ethics did not seem to be in Elsa’s mind for she asked a question that had nothing to do with them.

“I suppose the subject of a painting in the Academy becomes the focus for all eyes, Mr. Hexley? A sort of target?”

“Naturally the person in the painting is discussed,” he agreed. “Why? Wouldn’t you care for that?”

“I’d love it!” she declared, with surprising earnestness. “In fact I can’t think of a better way of attracting attention without being present in person.”

Clive felt that this was a most extraordinary statement, and he was still struggling to explain it to himself when the girl spoke again.

“My glory, such as it is, Mr. Hexley, is reflected. I said that I am not an artist in the same sense that you are. By that I mean I cannot paint or draw. I’m a writer.”

The young man’s face lighted. “A writer! Well, then, that surely gives us a kind of kinship, doesn’t it? Writers, actors, and artists are all in the same class. I suppose I should know your works?” He looked somewhat ashamed. “I’m afraid I read very little. Certainly I can’t recall having seen the name of Elsa Farraday.”

“That’s not surprising,” Elsa laughed. “I use the name of ‘Hardy Strong.’ Quite successfully, too. My enjoyment comes from the fact that I achieve popularity, even fame of sorts, without having to do it with my personality. I’m just not the type to be on show. I’m—afraid of people.”

“I find that hard to credit—a girl as attractive and poised as you.”

“All you see is the outward shell, Mr. Hexley. There’s quite a lot going on in my mind.”

Clive looked deeply into her grey eyes for a moment and then came back to his subject.

“About my painting.... Do you think you’d care?”

“I’d be delighted. It so happens that I can spare the time just at present. I’m between novels, hunting round for ideas—and they don’t come too easily sometimes.”

“Inspiration has no master,” he smiled. “I know that, too.... However, to become very commonplace for a moment: there is a fee of—”

“Which doesn’t interest me in the least,” Elsa interrupted. “Whatever it may be, donate it to a worthy charity. I’ll pose for you because I want the extreme pleasure of seeing my portrait hanging in the Academy and having people discuss it—and me. You perhaps can’t understand the thrill of being discussed and yet being just an onlooker at the same time?”

“No.” Clive looked at her frankly. “I’m afraid I can’t. It sounds quite an odd outlook to me. Matter of temperament, I sup­pose.... Well now, what time would suit you? Beforehand, let me say that in summer I work mornings and evenings. From noon until six I wander around looking for material. That’s why I’m in this café now—and this time my search has proven fruitful.”

“I’ll be staying in London overnight,” Elsa said, thinking. “I’m not returning to Midhampton—that’s in Surrey—until tomorrow evening. I could sit for you to tomorrow morning.”

“That’ll be fine, only....” Clive looked troubled. “I shan’t be able to do it at one sitting. You surely realize that? It will take several. Before we start how is that possibility going to fit in with your arrangements?’

“If you can make the sittings consecutive I can delay my return home for a week, or even longer— Or are you one of the tempera­mental geniuses who work in spasms at monthly intervals?”

He shook his dark head. “My business is too serious to permit of temperament, Miss Farraday. I work as a man works at his of­fice. Four consecutive mornings should do the trick.”

“Then it’s settled then,” Elsa said, as he rose. “I’ll be at your studio at ten tomorrow morning.”

He reached down and shook the cool, slim hand she held up to him. For a moment he retained his grip on her fingers.

“I have my car outside, if there’s anywhere I can drop you?’

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Hexley—but I don’t much care for cars. Even though I live out in the country I never use a car. In any case I’ve several calls to make this afternoon. If any urgency should demand you get in touch with me I’m staying at the Clare­mont Hotel in Kingsway.”

“Right!” He released her hand, hesitating again. “I suppose I couldn’t pick you up tomorrow morning at your hotel? My place is a bit tricky to get at.”

“I’ll find it,” Elsa assured him coolly. “Thanks all the same. I’m a bit of an individualist in some things.”

He laughed. “That’s the creative instinct! Well, tomorrow morning, then.... Bye for now.”

Elsa nodded and watched him hurry back to his table. He stayed only long enough to pick up the check, then taking his hat from the nearby pillar hook he headed towards the cash desk. Elsa saw him leave by the big glass doors and vanish in the busy main street.

“To think that there is a chance of the artistic world talking of Elsa Farraday,” she murmured. “Perhaps it is just one real opportunity of having the world recognize me—in a way that could never obtain through my novels.”

She lighted a cigarette and pondered—until she realized that with the steady arrival of potential diners her table was needed.