Chapter VI

CHAPTER VI.

MILD LUNACY.

"THIS must be the house, No. 105 Cadogan Place," said Clement Fildew to himself, as he stopped in front of an imposing-looking mansion. Taking the steps two at time, he gave a loud rat-tat-tat at the door. "Is Miss Collumpton at home?" he asked of the man who answered his knock.

Miss Collumpton was at home.

"Will you give her this card, and say that I have called at the request of Sir Percy Jones?"

He was shown into a morning-room while the man took his message. After three or four minutes the door opened, and a young lady entered, dressed very plainly in black. As their eyes met they both started, and then, as if moved by a common impulse, they drew a step or two nearer each other, while Clem colored up to the roots of his hair. The young lady, who was by far the more self-possessed of the two, was the first to speak. "Unless I am much mistaken," she said, "you are the gentleman to whose kindness I was so greatly indebted when coming up to town the other day."

"And you are the lady to whom I had the good-fortune to be of some slight service."

"A slight service, do you call it? It seemed to me a very great service at the time. I missed you in the confusion at the terminus, so that my aunt was not able to thank you, as she would very much like to have done."

"I certainly can't see that any thanks were needed. But, putting that aside, I am very pleased to have met you again." And as he said this there was a fire and earnestness in his eyes that in its turn brought a vivid blush to the young lady's cheeks. "I came here at the request of Sir Percy Jones," he added, "to see Miss Collumpton respecting a portrait. I never expected to have the pleasure of finding you under the same roof."

"I have been living here for some time," she said. Then to herself she added, "I wonder whom he takes me for--a nursery governess or a companion, or what?"

"I hope Miss Collumpton is not a very exacting young lady. If she is, I am afraid that I shall scarcely be able to please her. I have painted very few portraits as yet, but Sir Percy was so pleased with the one I did of him that he declared he must have one of his god-daughter to take with him when he goes abroad."

"I don't think that you will find Miss Collumpton very exacting."

"I am glad to hear that. I wish it was your portrait I was going to paint instead of hers."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask, "Why do you wish that?" but, happening to glance at his face, she saw the same look in his eyes that had troubled her before. She dropped her lids and looked another way. There was a moment's awkward silence. Then she said, "I think I had better go and fetch Miss Collumpton. She promised to follow me at once;" and with that she got out of the room.

Left alone, Clem went back at once to his examination of the prints and sketches on the walls. But he saw them without seeing them, and could remember nothing of them afterwards. He had caught Love's fever, and the symptoms were declaring themselves already. He was standing before a little sketch by Stanfield and smiling fatuously, as though there was something comical about it, which there certainly was not. When the patient takes to smiling in this purposeless way it is looked upon by those learned in such matters as a very bad sign.

About a week previously, as he was coming up to town, a young lady--the young lady who had just left the room--got into the same carriage, a second-class one, at Tring, in which he was already seated. He was not aware that she had been driven to take refuge in the second-class on account of the first-class seats being all occupied. They were presently joined by a cad of a fellow, who was evidently half-drunk, and just as evidently determined to talk to the pretty girl on the opposite seat, whether she liked it or not. At length the annoyance reached such a pitch, and the lady became so plainly distressed, that Clem, whose blood had been simmering for some time, felt called upon to interfere. Thereupon the cad turned on our friend like a young bear, and growled out something about wise people minding their own business, adding a certain epithet which had better have been left unspoken. The result was that before he knew what had happened he found himself lying in a heap in a corner of the carriage, with a discolored eye and a bruised nose, and a feeling as if a fifth of November cracker had exploded in his head. The train was slackening speed at the time, and as soon as it stopped the wounded knight scrambled out of the carriage, holding his handkerchief to his nose and muttering something about fetching the police. But he was seen no more. The rest of the journey came to an end far too soon for Clem. When he alighted at Euston the young lady was at once taken possession of by an elderly lady, while Clem rushed off in search of his portmanteau. But Clem had not forgotten the sweet face of his travelling companion. Being an artist, what more natural than that he should attempt to sketch it from memory as soon as he reached home, and not once but twenty times.

"What do you mean by neglecting your Academy picture in this way?" Tony Macer had fiercely demanded three days later. "And what do you mean, sir, by drawing the same simpering face from morn till dewy eve, and grinning to yourself all the time like a jackass in a fit? You've not been idiot enough to go and fall in love, have you? By Apelles! if I thought you had, I would take you vi et armis, and hold you under the back-kitchen tap for half an hour, and see whether that wouldn't cool your foolish brain!"

This threat of Tony must be taken cum grano, seeing that he was only about four feet eight inches high and had the arms of a girl of sixteen, whereas his friend Clem could easily have lifted him up with one hand and have thrown him across the room. But Tony's objurgations did Clem good, and he was fast regaining his interest in mutton-chops, bitter-beer, and the progress of his picture, when the deplorable meeting we have just recorded took place, and all hopes of his convalescence were at once scattered to the winds.

The siren who was the cause of all this commotion in our young painter's heart, having shut the door behind her, ran quickly up-stairs and burst into a tiny boudoir, where another young lady, also dressed in black, was sitting calmly at work.

"Mora! Mora! what do you think? This Mr. Clement Fildew, whom god-papa has sent here to paint my portrait, turns out to be the same gentleman who took my part in the train the other day when that man insulted me so dreadfully. Is it not strange that we should meet again in this way, and so soon afterwards?"

"Very strange, indeed. But such coincidences happen oftener in real life than many people imagine."

"But the strangest part is to come, dear. Mr. Fildew doesn't take me for myself, but for you."

"How can he take you for me, Cecilia, when he and I have never seen each other?"

"I mean that he doesn't take me for Miss Collumpton. He believes me to be somebody else living under the same roof with that paragon."

"But why did you not undeceive him the moment you discovered his mistake?"

"I don't intend to undeceive him just yet, it is such fun to be mistaken for somebody else."

"But you cannot keep him in ignorance much longer. He has come here to take your portrait."

"I'll tell you what I mean to do, Mora--it came into my head while I was talking to him: I mean to introduce you to Mr. Fildew as Cecilia Collumpton and myself as Mora Browne, your companion and friend. He can then take your portrait as well as mine."

Miss Browne's large blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. "Good gracious! Cecilia, what madcap scheme will you take into your head next?"

"I don't know what my next scheme will be, but I think this one will be immense fun, and I trust to your friendship to enable me to carry it out."

"Of course you may trust me for anything; you know that quite well. But what will your aunt say, and what, in the name of goodness, will Lady Loughton say, should either of them hear of it? They would never forgive me for my share in the deception."

"I don't mean either of them to know anything about it. Surely you and I can keep our little plot to ourselves."

"Your scheme frightens me, I must confess. It seems so terribly audacious."

"In its audacity lies our security. Besides, what is there to be afraid of? You certainly look the heiress more than I do. And for myself, it will be a fresh experience--something altogether novel and delightful--to be talked to and treated, not as a young woman with so many thousands a year, but--but--"

"As her humble friend and companion," interposed Miss Browne, with the slightest tinge of bitterness in her tone. "As one who esteems herself passing rich on eighty pounds a year."

"Forgive me, dear," said Cecilia, contritely. "I had no intention of hurting your feelings."

"I know it, dear, I know it. Don't say another word. And now I am at your service, although I am afraid you have hardly considered how foolish we shall both look when we have to face the necessity of an explanation."

"I don't at all see why we should look foolish. You may leave me to arrange all that." Miss Browne shook her head, but offered no further opposition in words.

Cecilia Collumpton had stated no more than the truth when she said that Mora Browne looked far more like an heiress than she did--that is, taking the common idea of what an heiress ought to look like. For Mora was tall, fair, and stately, with large, limpid blue eyes and a wealth of yellow hair. Her figure had the ample proportions of a youthful Juno, but as all her movements seemed tuned to slow music, there was no perceptible lack of harmony. She had a cold, clear, incisive voice, and a slight hauteur of manner, which in her case was not affectation, seeing that it was natural to her and not put on. She was the daughter of a rector who had ruined himself and his family by some mad speculations in mining shares. Although she was Cecilia's dearest friend, and had known her since girlhood, she would not come to live with her except on the footing of a paid companion, to whom, and by whom, a month's notice could at any time be given. But none the less had Mora an intense detestation of poverty and all its surroundings, and years ago she had made up her mind that if she were ever to marry it should be only to some man of ample fortune, who could afford to keep her as she felt she ought to be kept.

Cecilia Collumpton at this time was just twenty-two years old. She was a brunette, and rather petite in figure. She had a small, classically shaped head, a straight, clear-cut nose, and eyes of the darkest gray, with gleams of opaline light in them whenever she was at all excited. She was quick, vivacious, and emotional, and brimful of spirits and energy. She was easily imposed upon. A tale of distress brought tears to her eyes in a moment, and she never paused to inquire whether it was a reality or a sham before bringing out her purse. She was fond of riding, but loved a wild scamper across the downs far more than a regulation canter in the park. Her aunt called her "undisciplined," and Lady Loughton termed her "a hoyden," while Slingsby Boscombe, in some verses he once addressed to her--the feet of which, truth to tell, halted so wofully that Sir Percy Jones, who happened to come across them one day, gave it as his opinion that they must have been composed by a cripple--wrote of her as his "sweet wild rose," and yet Slingsby had never been in love with her.

Miss Browne, followed by Cecilia, sailed slowly into the room where Clement was waiting. He broke his reverie with a start, and advanced a few steps to meet them. "You are Mr. Fildew?" said Mora. Clem bowed. "And you have called respecting a portrait which Sir Percy Jones has commissioned you to paint?"

"Yes, Sir Percy asked me to call without delay, as his time in England was now getting very short. I am desirous of knowing on what days and at what hours it will be convenient for you to give me the requisite sittings."

Mora put a finger to her lips, and considered for a moment.

"To-day is Tuesday. Suppose we say Thursday next, at eleven, for the first sitting. We can arrange for future sittings afterwards. Will that suit you, Mr. Fildew?"

"Any time will suit me, madam. On this card you will find the address of my studio."

"I wish you to bear in mind, Mr. Fildew," said Mora, as she took the card, "that there will be two portraits for you to paint."

"Two portraits, Miss Collumpton!"

"Mine and that of my friend, Miss Browne. I have decided that we shall both be taken at the same time and in the same style."

"Oh."

It was a sort of ecstatic sigh drawn from the bottom of his heart--wherever that may have been.

The two girls glanced at each other.

"I had the pleasure of meeting Miss Browne a few days ago," stammered Clement. He felt that he was making a great idiot of himself.

"I have told Miss Collumpton," said Cecilia, "how much I owed to your kindness on that occasion."

"For Mora's sake, Mr. Fildew," said Miss Browne, "I am glad to be able to thank you in person for the service you rendered her. She was coming up to town to stay with me at the time you met her."

"How well she acts her part," said Cecilia, to herself, with an admiring glance at her friend. "And how well she would carry out such a part in real life."

Clem muttered something about the service he had rendered being a very slight one, after which he took a rather hurried leave. He was glad to get out into the cold, wintry afternoon. It seemed to him that he walked home that day as the gods of old are fabled to have walked--on ambient air. Surely those were not the cold, slushy streets of dreary, commonplace London. Everything seemed as if it had been touched by a necromancer's wand.

"Mora." He whispered the word to himself again and again. What a sweet and romantic name it was! He did not venture to say, even to himself, that Mora's surname was either sweet or romantic. But that surname should be changed for another, by and by, or he would know the reason why.