Dorothy Lucas

Front matter

a hY EDGAR D. C. BOLLAND SLontron DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 1 8 Bouverie Street, Fleet Street, E.C. To THE FAIR UNKNOWN WHOSE PERFECT FACE SEEN ONLY FOR A FEW MOMENTS IN A TRAIN WAS MY INSPIRATION, I GRATEFULLY DeOicate THIS NOVEL The Author London, CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. A CHANCE MEETING. ..... I II. RALPH EICKERSTETH'S PATRON, . . .14 III. DOROTHY'S FAMILY, ..... 29 IV. DOROTHY MANŒUVRES, . . . .43 V. eickersteth calls on the LUCAS family, . 56 VI. DOROTHY MEETS SIR WILLIAM THORNTON, . 68 VII. THE FIRST SITTING, ..... 80 VIII. JOHN WILSON COMES TO TOWN, . . . 91 ix. Dorothy's second sitting, ... 103 X. THE BARONET MAKES GOOD PROGRESS, . . 114 XI. DAVID LUCAS TAKES CERTAIN STEPS, . 126 XII. RALPH DECLARES HIMSELF, .... I38 XIII. DAVID MAKES MISCHIEF, . . . . 152 XIV. IN THE HALLS OF PLEASURE, . . . . 164 XV.

FROM BAD TO WORSE, . . . 1 79 XVI. FOR HER FATHER'S SAKE, .... 192 XVII. THE PICTURE IN THE ART MAGAZINE, . 205 XVIII. SIR WILLIAM FORCES THE GAME, . . . 2l6 XIX. WILSON AS A 'DEUS EX MACHINA,' . . 228 XX. SUNNY DAYS WILL COME AGAIN, . . .

Chapter I

A CHANCE MEETING ' I say, Ralph, old chap, you'd better hurry up or your train will go on without you. You've a good ten minutes' walk to the station, and it now wants but twelve minutes to the time the train is due.' ' All right, John, I am just ready, and, if it comes to that, I can run to the station instead of walking. Now, where the dickens are my gloves ? ' ' What a fellow you are for leaving your things lying about ! ' replied John Wilson, somewhat testily, and joining in the search for the missing gloves. 'Here they are,' he cried, a moment later, 'on the table, right before your nose. I believe you'll lose your head some day, if it is possible. Now, then, off you go ! You've just eight minutes to get to the station.' ' But your people ? ' began Ralph. ' Oh, never mind them ; you have no time.

I'll make your adieux to them. Be off with you ! ' A 'What an old woman you are!' laughed Ralph. ' Good-bye, old chap ! I shall have to run for it.' ' Run for it ? I should think you would,' grumbled John Wilson to himself, as his friend disappeared from view, running down the station road. ' You're a good sort of fellow, Ralph, but a most confirmed dawdler. Perhaps you can't help it, as you are an artist. Your methods and ways would not suit me, though,' with emphasis. 'If there's one thing I hate it is running for trains, or hurry of any sort that is unnecessary.' ' Has Mr Bickersteth gone, John ? ' called a lady's voice from the top of the stairs. 'Just this minute departed, mother, and he'll have a nice run for it. I don't envy him on this hot morning.' 'Nor I,' replied Mrs Wilson. 'I declare it makes me hot to think of it.

He had his breakfast in good time, at anyrate, to catch the train.' 'Yes, and time for a quiet pipe after it,' replied John. ' But, of course, he had put his gloves and things where he could not find them, and had left his packing till the very last minute. I am afraid he'll lose some good opportunities some day through his slackness.' ' Is he just the same in everything ? ' asked Mrs Wilson, coming downstairs and going with her son into the breakfast-room. ' This visit of his has been the first opportunity I have had of seeing him, and from what little I have seen, I like him very much. But, then, what friend have you ever had, John, that I have not liked ? ' Her son smiled and laid his hand on hers ' You have given me your own sweet nature in part, madre miaj he said fondly, 'and I am never afraid that any friend I may make will be distasteful to you.

Besides, I make very few, as you know. But Ralph is the greatest friend I have. If one man can be said to love another, I love him. It is a sort of David and Jonathan affection. I was attracted by him as soon as I saw him first, when I was staying near his home, and he was drawn by me in the same manner.' ' And yet two more opposite natures would be very hard to find, John,' said Mrs Wilson. ' Exactly so. Ralph is careless, casual, happy-go lucky, like many of the artist fraternity, whilst I am steady, plodding, methodical and punctual. Ralph has a romantic soul, which finds a congenial outlet in the painting of pictures, whilst I have not a spark of romance in the whole of my being. I am thoroughly matter-of-fact and prosiac' ' Not altogether, John. I have not forgotten that little episode of Maggie Dawson.

Ah, forgive me, my son,' she cried hastily, as a look of deepest pain clouded his brow. ' I flattered myself the scar of that wound was completely healed by now. It is nearly ten years ago, and Maggie Dawson was never worthy of you.' 'But I loved her, mother, with my whole soul,' replied John, in a low, husky tone. ' And I still execrate the memory of the blackguard who took her from me and ruined her fresh young life.' Tenderly his mother pressed his hand, and with true sympathy said no more on the subject. John recovered his usual equanimity in a few minutes. ' Come, little mother,' he said, ' don't let us rake up these old troubles to harrow our feelings. I prefer to be without a spark of romance, as I say, and to look upon Maggie's funeral as the funeral also of all senti ment of that kind in me.

I wonder if old Ralph caught his train ? ' Ralph Bickersteth had not at that moment caught his train, but he seemed in a fair way to do so. He had run most of the way to the station, and was walking now, as he was close there and the train was only just in sight. He was intensely hot as he stepped on to the Goring platform at the same moment that the train glided in, and the perspiration was streaming down his face. He had had no leisure so far to mop himself with his handkerchief. Stepping into the nearest carriage, a third-class compartment, he sank into a corner with a great sigh of relief and immediately proceeded to pull out his handkerchief. As it happened, he had, in his usual careless manner, stuffed it into his pocket first, and later had pushed in his purse on the top of it. The natural consequence was that, when he pulled out his handkerchief, he jerked out the purse, which fell on the seat, but, opening from the fall, spilled several coins on the floor.

Most people would have forgotten everything in their hurry to recover their money, but Ralph's ways were uncommon. He first of all proceeded to reduce his over-heated frame to a normal temperature by much fanning and mopping, and then started to collect his scattered coins. He counted them as he did so. ' One pound fifteen and sixpence halfpenny,' he muttered to himself. ' Now, I am sure I had nearer three pounds than two, therefore a sov. is still to be recovered.' He searched carefully all round his end of the carriage, even going down on his knees and striking a match to look under the seat — a big effort, you might say, for a man of his lazy disposition, but, then, he was but a poor artist and sovereigns were none too plentiful. Had they been so, no doubt he would have abandoned the coin to fall into the clutches of the next porter who swept out the carriage.

As he was rising from his knees after a fruitless search, a girl, seated at the opposite end of the com partment, whom he had but just glanced at previously, stooped to the floor and, picking up the missing sovereign, which had rolled to her feet, held it out to him. ' Is this what you are looking for, may I ask ? ' she said. ' It had rolled to this end of the carriage.' ' Ah, thank you very much ; that must be my sovereign,' replied Ralph, relieved. And then for the first time he looked in her eyes. A swift rush of blood to his face was the result as his eyes met hers, and the girl, too, flushed slightly, though she quietly resumed her reading. But Ralph Bickersteth was in an ecstasy, or at anyrate the artistic portion of him was roused to a pitch of the highest enthusiasm. Never before in his life, he thought, had he looked on such a perfect face.

He could not remove his eyes from her, although his gentlemanly instincts told him he was likely to annoy the girl by his persistence ; he gazed at her from his corner of the other end of the carriage like a man in a trance. Her face was seen by him as a ' three-quarters' face,' to use a photographer's term, and his eyes feasted eagerly on the lovely contour and the exquisite moulding of the features. Unfortunately, at least so the young man thought, the fair unknown was wearing a veil with large black spots on it, but even through this it was easy to see that her skin was of a creamy purity; her delicately-tinted cheeks, fine eyebrows, perfect in shape, and a mouth were sufficient to fill any man with rapture, let alone a man with such a thorough artist's soul as Ralph Bickersteth possessed.

As to the artificial adornment of her person, she was dressed plainly but neatly. A dark red skirt, long, dark, greeny-coloured jacket, trimmed with some sort of black fur, and a white straw hat, carrying the afore mentioned black-spotted veil. This description is for the benefit of anyone whom it may interest ; it certainly did not interest Mr Bickersteth — he had no eyes for anything but that, to him, marvellous face. He had ever longed to paint one like it ; he had dreamed of such, but never before had he seen it in real life, and he felt that this was his opportunity, not to be let slip for any consideration. He must ask permission of the girl to be allowed to make a sketch of her ; he could finish it off at home, aided by his memory. But supposing she refused his request, which it was more than likely she would do ?

He could then only sketch her furtively and run the risk of her discovering his occupation and thwarting him by turning her head away. With such thoughts as these chasing each other through his brain, an anxious look came into his face as he still regarded her stead fastly. She glanced up suddenly, caught a glimpse of this look on his face and, as if his expression struck her in a comical light, a faint smile curved her lips, flickered a moment and then died away. Faint and flickering as it was, however, it had not escaped the artist's vigilant eye, and he took from it courage and resolution to his faint heart. In a very decided fashion, which quite surprised himself, he rose from his seat, walked to the other end of the carriage and deliberately planted himself opposite to her. In a hurry, lest this sudden access of courage should evaporate, he addressed himself to her. ' I trust you will excuse me, madam,' he began nervously, ' thus talking to you, unacquainted as we are.

Perhaps you will allow the missing sovereign to act as a passport for me to your good graces, at any rate till we reach London. May I go on ? You're not annoyed ? ' ' Yes, you may go on ; I am not annoyed,' she re plied, in the same softly-modulated tones she had spoken with before, and with a rare smile playing round her mouth. ' I am generally afraid of strange men, but I feel you can be trusted, and I am not afraid of you.' Bickersteth bowed, and, it must be written, blushed also. ' You do me a great honour, madam,' he replied, as formally as before. 'I am an artist ; at present, I fear, not much known to fame. My name is Ralph Bickersteth, and I live in London, of course.' ' An artist ? Bickersteth ? ' cried the girl, her face now full of animation. 'Then you painted that beautiful picture called " Tithonus and Aurora," which I saw in the Academy this year ? ' ' Yes, I did paint that picture.

I am sorry more people did not hold the same opinion of it as yourself,' he added drily. ' I might have sold it better.' ' Then you are not a real artist, but only paint for money,' she said, looking disappointed. Bickersteth was charmed with her frankness, and at the same time piqued by her words. 'You mistake me,' he replied gravely. 'There is no painter in this world who could possibly love his art more than I do. To me it is my life, but,' with a smile, 'of itself it is not bread and cheese. Even artists must have money and must sell pictures to get it. Even when they part with the result of their efforts, there is always the satisfaction of knowing that one's thoughts have been expressed and will last so long as paint and canvas will endure.' ' I see,' replied the girl, vaguely, gazing out of the window. ' Do you know why I spoke to you ? ' he went on after a brief pause. ' It was because I wanted to ask your permission to be allowed to sketch you.

Speaking as an artist, I have never seen a more perfect face than yours, and, as soon as I did see it, I was filled with a desire to transfer its likeness on to paper. I could not, even at the risk of offending you, allow the opportunity to slip by. Will you grant me this small request ? ' Her eyes sparkled joyously as she listened to him. ' Do you really want to sketch me ? ' she asked excitedly. ' I shall be only too glad ; I have always longed to be painted by a real artist.' And down went her book, forgotten in a moment, and she was all impatience for him to commence his task. The young man, too, was wildly excited at having obtained his request so easily, and had jumped up with alacrity to get his sketching-book from his bag. Of course, he had put it in somewhere where he could not find it.

In desperation, he held the bag upside down, turning out all its contents, and there, at the very bottom of all, lay the missing book. He was hastily bundling the miscellaneous collection of bachelor's perquisites back into the bag when his new acquaintance came to the rescue. ' Let me pack them for you,' said she ; ' you men can never pack tidily. I always have to pack for my father.' In blank amazement, Bickersteth let her have her own way, and stood beside her watching her deftly packing in the things. In any other girl he thought he would have condemned such conduct as immodest, at least ; but with this girl, whose face was the most beautiful he had ever seen, it was different. She was quite unconscious, apparently, that there was any thing unusual in her packing a strange man's bag for him, and, for the life of him, Bickersteth would not have brought a blush of shame to those lovely cheeks by hinting a suggestion of what Mrs Grundy might have to say on the matter.

As soon as the packing was finished, and the collars and shirts, brushes and the rest safe in the bag, taking up far less room, be it said, than before, the girl returned to her former seat in a state of pleasurable suspense. ' I suppose you will want me to take my veil off ? ' she said. And without waiting for his reply, she unpinned it nimbly, and laid it on the seat beside her. Then, to use another photographer's phrase, she essayed to 'look pleasant.' Bickersteth at once protested. ' Please don't try to get a " suitable expression," ' he said. 'I must sketch you as you really are, not with that stiff, formal look. You can talk as much as you please, as long as you keep your head fairly still.' ' I'm so glad I can move a little, and talk as much as I like. If you knew me better you would know I was a typical woman in that respect.

Mamma is always saying my tongue is never still. Do you like girls that talk ? ' In most girls such a question would have seemed a very barefaced attempt to receive a compliment ; but his model said it so naively and innocently, that Bickersteth checked the ordinary response he might have given. ' To me there is scarcely anything pleasanter,' he said, ' than a girl's voice, when she is happy and light hearted, and nothing more jarring and irritating when she is cross, or in a rage. I should think you were generally good-tempered.' ' Perhaps I am, but I can get terribly angry at times. You would be frightened of me then.' ' Should I ? ' he replied, laughing. ' Perhaps I should work your angry expression into some picture — of the Furies, say. Would you like that ? ' ' No, I don't think I should,' she replied seriously. ' I always feel ashamed of myself when I have been in a temper, and to see a picture of myself when angry, would make me sorry every time I saw it.' There was a pause for a few moments, Ralph busy all the time with his pencil, wrapt up in his work. ' Do you like Goring ? ' she asked suddenly. ' Very much indeed,' he replied, smiling. ' I have just been staying a few days with some friends of mine, called Wilson.

Do you know the place at all ?' ' Not very well. I once stopped at a farmhouse there for a month in the summer, after I had been very ill. I remember hearing of the Wilsons then. The farmer's wife spoke of them as the kindest and best people about.' ' They are indeed the kindest people I know, and the very best friends I have,' said Ralph, earnestly. Another pause. ' I have been staying at Ilfracombe recently with an aunt of mine,' she began again. 'There were several artists there, but they were all scene painters.' Ralph laughed outright in spite of himself. 'You mean landscape painters,' he said. 'They would have felt insulted if they had heard you class them with the painters of theatrical scenery.' ' I'm sure I beg their pardon,' she replied, laughing too, ' though they were all fogies, after all — not one I would have cared to have known.

Have you finished me ? ' she went on, as Bickersteth came to a stop and surveyed his work complacently. ' Yes, I think you'll do now, at anyrate for a rough sketch.' ' Oh, do let me see it,' she cried, stretching out her hand. He handed her the sketch-book. ' Am I really like this ? ' she cried. ' I am sure you have flattered me.' ' Not the least bit in the world,' he replied gravely. 'On the contrary, I have not done you justice. I shall be able, though, to make a decent picture from that when I get home.' ' Then mayn't I keep this ? ' she asked, almost piteously. ' Not this rough attempt. I will send you the picture when I have done it, if you will allow me.' ' Will you really ? Oh, thank you so much. When will it be finished ? ' ' Well, say the day after to-morrow. Will you tell me your name and your address to send it to ? ' ' My name is Dorothy Lucas, and we live at No. 1 1 Munster Square.

Write it down so that you won't forget it. Make haste, for we are just coming to Paddington.' He obeyed gladly. They entered the terminus. ' I am very sorry we are here,' he said quietly. ' You have given me one of the rarest treats I have ever had in all my life, and I am very grateful. May I call a cab for you ? ' he added, as they alighted from the train. ' Oh, no, thank you,' she replied. ' I expect my father is here to meet me. Good-bye, and don't forget to send the picture.' He held her hand for a brief moment and then she was gone, lost in the crowd. Still in a dream of delight, he stepped into a hansom and was driven rapidly to his lodging.

Chapter II Ralph Bickersteth's Patron

In one of the not over-pretentious houses in Bloom Street situated close to Addison Road, Ralph Bicker steth had two years previously pitched his tent, and there for the present he was likely to remain. Whilst his mother was still alive he had lived with her in the little house she kept up in the Thames valley, for as soon as his father had died he had had to prematurely abandon his studies in Paris and other parts of the Continent. His father had had an income left him many years ago by a relative, but this ceased with his death ; fortunately, or perhaps one might say naturally, he had insured his life pretty heavily, and accordingly his widow, Ralph's mother, had had sufficient to live quietly with her son in the old home till her death. They had been deeply attached to each other, and each had fully recognised the benefits derived from the society of the other.

Without her son Ralph, Mrs Bickersteth would have found her life insupportably dreary and lonely, and on the other hand, Ralph was cheered and encouraged by her loving sympathy and advice when failure and disappointment were at first his portion. They had made the acquaintance of John Wilson one summer when the latter chanced to be staying in their neighbourhood, and he had at the same time both won the heart of Mrs Bickersteth and gained the close friendship and esteem of Ralph. This was but a short time before Mrs Bickersteth had quitted this world, and before she and Mrs Wilson had ever met, and immediately after her death, Ralph had gone away to the Continent to seek solace in a wandering pursuit of his beloved art. A whole year he remained abroad and then came home and took the lodgings that he now occupied, which suited him perfectly both for their convenience and for their cheapness, his private income being barely a year and his bringing up had, perhaps, been hardly adapted to a life of scraping and contriving.

Three rooms he had in occupation— a bedroom, dressing-room and studio — none of them palatial in size or fittings, but quite spacious enough for his requirements. The best room of the three was the studio, in which he spent most of his time, and this was furnished more luxuriously and with more care than his bedroom. It contained the usual requisites of an artist's calling — easels, canvases, a throne for models, paint tubes, brushes and pipes lying about in lovely confusion, and round the walls, on a shelf, stood plaster casts of heads, hands, feet, etc., and various little sketches — some finished, some unfinished. A number of artistically-coloured curtains and draperies were hung about, collected by the young artist whilst abroad, and two or three easy-chairs, very easy chairs, stood about, inviting one to try their cushioned comfort.

Over the mantelpiece hung two portraits, one of his father and one of his'mother, painted by himself, and surrounded by numerous quaint, oriental swords and daggers ; on the mantelpiece were crowded together a large collection of photographs of his friends and relations, and a few of famous beauties and models. The fire place was old-fashioned, with hobs on each side of the grate ; at the time of which I write, being summer, a mass of ferns and plants almost completely hid it from view, and gave a look of coolness to the whole apartment. Ralph had always been an early riser, and the morning following his meeting with Dorothy Lucas in the train, he was up and doing in his studio by seven o'clock, working on a large picture which he was painting to order and which was approaching comple tion.

On the small table beside him, which bore his paints and brushes, he had also placed his sketch-book containing the ' most beautiful face he had ever seen,' which face indeed, or, I should say, its representation, smiled up at him tantalisingly as he essayed to give his whole attention to the picture before him. This state of things continued, perhaps, for an hour, he all the time growing more restless and hardly making any progress with his work. At last he rose in disgust. ' It's not a bit of good,' he said to himself. ' Dear face, you fascinate me. I feel that I could work better now at your portrait than at this other picture.' He moved away the large easel and picture, and bringing up a smaller easel placed a fresh canvas, hardly a foot square, upon it ; beside this on the easel he laid his sketch of Dorothy Lucas and his pleasant task began.

Now there were no signs of restlessness, no sighs of discontent. He worked steadily, hardly looking away a moment from the easel. The portrait grew rapidly and he felt he was doing the very best work he had ever done, though on a small scale. At nine o'clock Mrs Ryan, his landlady, came in to make preparations for his breakfast. As a rule her lodger was quite ready for it and hailed her arrival gladly, for, whatever his defects might be, his appetite never failed him ; this morning, however, he was so absorbed in his work that he felt inclined to do without his meals and said as much to Mrs Ryan. ' Good lawjeous days ! ' exclaimed the worthy woman, ' what's come over yer, sir ? I've never known yer refuse yer breakfast afore. I 'opes yer not poorly, sir ? ' ' No, no, Mrs Ryan,' he answered, ' I'm not ill at all, only very busy.

However, if it is only to allay your fears, I'll have my breakfast as usual.' ' That's right, sir, that's 'ow I likes to hear yer talk ; if yer went without yer breakfast, goodness knows what would happen to yer. You sich a good feeder, an' all.' And with her shining face beaming from her victory, the good woman bustled about preparing the meal, whilst Ralph seated himself in one of the cosy chairs and watched her nimble movements with an amused smile. She was a very kind, motherly old lady, and had always been very fond of Ralph ; she B had once confided to him, a long time ago, that she liked him because he was so like a son she had once had. Be that as it may, she was invaluable to her lodger, whom nothing would have induced to leave her for new quarters. He made a good breakfast after all, for, once his mind was taken from his work, it was for the time relieved from thought of it altogether, and he had leisure to apply himself to relieving his creature comforts.

The meal at length finished, he rolled a cigarette and lay back again in the easy-chair, smoking lazily, whilst Mrs Ryan cleared away the things. She had just completed this task and was about to leave the room when her eye fell on the picture of Dorothy Lucas, on which Bickersteth had been engaged. Now she always took the warmest interest in any picture upon which he was working and criticised and com mented on them with the greatest freedom. Planting herself opposite the picture, she placed her arms akimbo and examined it carefully. Her examination was satisfactory. ' My ! Mr Bickersteth,' she said, in a tone of great relish, ' that's the prettiest face ye've painted for many a day ! May I make so bold as to ask if it is painted from natur' ? I'm thinkin' it must be out of yer 'ead ; it's altogether too bonnie ! ' ' I'm very glad you think well of it, Mrs Ryan,' replied Bickersteth, smiling, ' because / think it the best bit of work I have ever done.

And it is from nature, too. My model was a young lady I met in the train.' ' A young lady you met at Goring, sir ? ' ' Oh, no, I had never seen her in my life, before I met her in the train.' ' An' yer mean to tell me, sir, that she let you, a stranger, draw her picter in the train ? ' ' Certainly, Mrs Ryan.' Bickersteth was much amused. ' You must remember I am an artist, and I could not resist asking her to let me take a sketch of her. As it happened, she was quite charmed with the idea.' ' The forward minx ! ' ejaculated Mrs Ryan, with virtuous indignation. ' With that pretty face she'll be gettin' into trouble one of these days, if she lets strange gentlemen get talkin' to 'er.' ' Do you consider me then, Mrs Ryan, a dangerous gentleman for a pretty girl to talk to ? ' ' Bless yer 'eart, no, sir, not you !