The morning after the excursion to Epping Forest he had written a long letter to Fanny: a business-like letter, explanatory of his prospects in life.
He had exhibited in this year's Academy; he had exhibited in the New gallery—more, he had sold the Academy picture for forty pounds. He had a hundred a year of his own, which, as he sagaciously pointed out, was "something." If Fanny would only wait a year, give him something to hope for, something to live for, something to work for. Three[Pg 246] pages of business-like statements ending with a fourth page of raving declarations of love. The letter of a lunatic, as all love-letters more or less are.
He had posted this and waited for a reply, but none had come. He little knew that his letter and a bill for potatoes were behind a plate on the kitchen dresser at "The Laurels," stuffed there by Susannah in a fit of abstraction, also the outcome of the troubles of love.
On top of this all sorts of minor worries fell upon him. Mark Moses and Sonenshine, stimulated by the two pounds ten paid on account, were bombarding him with requests for more. A colour-man was also active and troublesome, and a bootmaker lived on the stairs.
Belinda, vice-president of the institution during Mrs Tugwell's sojourn at Margate, was "cutting up shines," cooking disgracefully, not cleaning boots, giving "lip" when remonstrated with, and otherwise revelling in her little brief authority. A man who had all but commissioned a portrait of a bull-dog sent word to say that the sittings couldn't take place as the dog was dead.
[Pg 247]
Then a cat had slipped into his bedroom and kittened on his best suit of clothes; and Fernandez, the picture dealer to whom he had taken the John the Baptist on the top of a four-wheeler, had offered him five pounds ten for it; and, worst of all, driven by necessity, he had not haggled, but had taken the five pounds ten, thus for ever ruining himself with Fernandez, who had been quite prepared to pay fifteen.
The Captain, who had suddenly come in for a windfall of eighty pounds, was going on like a millionaire—haunting the studio half-tipsy, profuse with offers of assistance and drinks, and, to cap all, the weather was torrid. The only consolation was Verneede, who would listen for hours to the praises of Miss Lambert, nodding his head like a Chinese mandarin and smoking Leavesley's cigarettes.
"I don't know what to do," said the unhappy young man, during one of these conferences, "I don't know what to do. It's so unlike her."
"Write again."
"Not I—at least, how can I? If she won't answer that letter there's no use in writing any more."
"Call."
[Pg 248]
"I'm not going to creep round like a dog that has been beaten."
"True."
"She may be ill, for all I know. How do I know that she is not ill?"
"Illness, my dear Leavesley, is one of those things——"
"I know—but the question is, how am I to find out?"
"Could you not apply to their family physician? I should go to him, frankly——"
"But I don't know who their doctor is—do talk sense. See here! could you call and ask—ask did she get home all right, and that sort of thing?"
Join or Log In!
You need to log in to continue reading
(Left Keyword <-) Previous:
CHAPTER IV TIC-DOULOUREUX
Back
Next:
CHAPTER VI A SURPRISE VISIT
(Right Keyword:->)