No More Learning

Take those infernal creaking boots of yours away. "

"Poor chap! " said Torpenhow to himself. "I must have been sitting on his
nerves lately. He wants a lighter step. " Then, aloud, "Very well. Since
you're so independent, I'm going off for four or five days. Say goodbye
at least. The housekeeper will look after you, and Keneu has my rooms. "

Dick's face fell. "You won't be longer than a week at the outside? I
know I'm touched in the temper, but I can't get on without you. "

"Can't you? You'll have to do without me in a little time, and you'll be
glad I'm gone. "

Dick felt his way back to the big chair, and wondered what these things
might mean. He did not wish to be tended by the housekeeper, and yet
Torpenhow's constant tenderness jarred on him. He did not exactly know
what he wanted. The darkness would not lift, and Maisie's unopened
letters felt worn and old from much handling. He could never read them
for himself as long as life endured; but Maisie might have sent him some
fresh ones to play with. The Nilghai entered with a gift,--a piece of
red modelling-wax. He fancied that Dick might find interest in using his
hands. Dick poked and patted the stuff for a few minutes, and, "Is it
like anything in the world? " he said drearily. "Take it away. I may get
the touch of the blind in fifty years. Do you know where Torpenhow has
gone? "

The Nilghai knew nothing. "We're staying in his rooms till he comes
back. Can we do anything for you? "

"I'd like to be left alone, please. Don't think I'm ungrateful; but I'm
best alone. "

The Nilghai chuckled, and Dick resumed his drowsy brooding and sullen
rebellion against fate. He had long since ceased to think about the work
he had done in the old days, and the desire to do more work had departed
from him. He was exceedingly sorry for himself, and the completeness
of his tender grief soothed him. But his soul and his body cried for
Maisie--Maisie who would understand. His mind pointed out that Maisie,
having her own work to do, would not care. His experience had taught him
that when money was exhausted women went away, and that when a man was
knocked out of the race the others trampled on him. "Then at the least,"
said Dick, in reply, "she could use me as I used Binat,--for some sort
of a study. I wouldn't ask more than to be near her again, even though I
knew that another man was making love to her. Ugh! what a dog I am! "

A voice on the staircase began to sing joyfully--

"When we go--go--go away from here, Our creditors will weep and they
will wail, Our absence much regretting when they find that we've been
getting Out of England by next Tuesday's Indian mail. "

Following the trampling of feet, slamming of Torpenhow's door, and the
sound of voices in strenuous debate, some one squeaked, "And see, you
good fellows, I have found a new water-bottle--firs'-class patent--eh,
how you say? Open himself inside out. "

Dick sprang to his feet. He knew the voice well. "That's Cassavetti,
come back from the Continent. Now I know why Torp went away. There's a
row somewhere, and--I'm out of it! "

The Nilghai commanded silence in vain. "That's for my sake," Dick said
bitterly. "The birds are getting ready to fly, and they wouldn't
tell me. I can hear Morten-Sutherland and Mackaye. Half the War
Correspondents in London are there;--and I'm out of it. "

He stumbled across the landing and plunged into Torpenhow's room. He
could feel that it was full of men. "Where's the trouble? " said he. "In
the Balkans at last? Why didn't some one tell me? "

"We thought you wouldn't be interested," said the Nilghai, shamefacedly.

"It's in the Soudan, as usual. "

"You lucky dogs! Let me sit here while you talk. I shan't be a skeleton
at the feast. --Cassavetti, where are you? Your English is as bad as
ever. "

Dick was led into a chair. He heard the rustle of the maps, and the talk
swept forward, carrying him with it. Everybody spoke at once, discussing
press censorships, railway-routes, transport, water-supply, the
capacities of generals,--these in language that would have horrified a
trusting public,--ranting, asserting, denouncing, and laughing at the
top of their voices. There was the glorious certainty of war in the
Soudan at any moment. The Nilghai said so, and it was well to be in
readiness. The Keneu had telegraphed to Cairo for horses; Cassavetti
had stolen a perfectly inaccurate list of troops that would be ordered
forward, and was reading it out amid profane interruptions, and the
Keneu introduced to Dick some man unknown who would be employed as war
artist by the Central Southern Syndicate. "It's his first outing," said
the Keneu. "Give him some tips--about riding camels. "

"Oh, those camels! " groaned Cassavetti. "I shall learn to ride him
again, and now I am so much all soft! Listen, you good fellows. I know
your military arrangement very well. There will go the Royal Argalshire
Sutherlanders. So it was read to me upon best authority. "

A roar of laughter interrupted him.

"Sit down," said the Nilghai. "The lists aren't even made out in the War
Office. "

"Will there be any force at Suakin? " said a voice.

Then the outcries redoubled, and grew mixed, thus: "How many Egyptian
troops will they use? --God help the Fellaheen! --There's a railway
in Plumstead marshes doing duty as a fives-court. --We shall have the
Suakin-Berber line built at last. --Canadian voyageurs are too careful.
Give me a half-drunk Krooman in a whale-boat. --Who commands the Desert
column? --No, they never blew up the big rock in the Ghineh bend. We
shall have to be hauled up, as usual. --Somebody tell me if there's an
Indian contingent, or I'll break everybody's head. --Don't tear the
map in two. --It's a war of occupation, I tell you, to connect with the
African companies in the South. --There's Guinea-worm in most of the
wells on that route. " Then the Nilghai, despairing of peace, bellowed
like a fog-horn and beat upon the table with both hands.

"But what becomes of Torpenhow? " said Dick, in the silence that
followed.

"Torp's in abeyance just now. He's off love-making somewhere, I
suppose," said the Nilghai.

"He said he was going to stay at home," said the Keneu.

"Is he? " said Dick, with an oath. "He won't. I'm not much good now, but
if you and the Nilghai hold him down I'll engage to trample on him till
he sees reason. He'll stay behind, indeed! He's the best of you all.
There'll be some tough work by Omdurman. We shall come there to stay,
this time.

"But I forgot. I wish I were going with you. "

"So do we all, Dickie," said the Keneu.

"And I most of all," said the new artist of the Central Southern
Syndicate.

"Could you tell me----"

"I'll give you one piece of advice," Dick answered, moving towards
the door. "If you happen to be cut over the head in a scrimmage, don't
guard. Tell the man to go on cutting. You'll find it cheapest in the
end. Thanks for letting me look in. "

"There's grit in Dick," said the Nilghai, an hour later, when the room
was emptied of all save the Keneu.

"It was the sacred call of the war-trumpet. Did you notice how he
answered to it? Poor fellow! Let's look at him," said the Keneu.

The excitement of the talk had died away. Dick was sitting by the studio
table, with his head on his arms, when the men came in. He did not
change his position.

"It hurts," he moaned. "God forgive me, but it hurts cruelly; and yet,
y'know, the world has a knack of spinning round all by itself. Shall I
see Torp before he goes? "

"Oh, yes. You'll see him," said the Nilghai.



CHAPTER XIII

The sun went down an hour ago,
I wonder if I face towards home;
If I lost my way in the light of day
How shall I find it now night is come?
--Old Song

"Maisie, come to bed. "

"It's so hot I can't sleep. Don't worry. "

Maisie put her elbows on the window-sill and looked at the moonlight on
the straight, poplar-flanked road. Summer had come upon Vitry-sur-Marne
and parched it to the bone. The grass was dry-burnt in the meadows, the
clay by the bank of the river was caked to brick, the roadside flowers
were long since dead, and the roses in the garden hung withered on their
stalks. The heat in the little low bedroom under the eaves was almost
intolerable. The very moonlight on the wall of Kami's studio across
the road seemed to make the night hotter, and the shadow of the big
bell-handle by the closed gate cast a bar of inky black that caught
Maisie's eye and annoyed her.

"Horrid thing! It should be all white," she murmured. "And the gate
isn't in the middle of the wall, either. I never noticed that before. "

Maisie was hard to please at that hour. First, the heat of the past few
weeks had worn her down; secondly, her work, and particularly the study
of a female head intended to represent the Melancolia and not finished
in time for the Salon, was unsatisfactory; thirdly, Kami had said as
much two days before; fourthly,--but so completely fourthly that it was
hardly worth thinking about,--Dick, her property, had not written to
her for more than six weeks. She was angry with the heat, with Kami, and
with her work, but she was exceedingly angry with Dick.

She had written to him three times,--each time proposing a fresh
treatment of her Melancolia. Dick had taken no notice of these
communications. She had resolved to write no more. When she returned
to England in the autumn--for her pride's sake she could not return
earlier--she would speak to him. She missed the Sunday afternoon
conferences more than she cared to admit. All that Kami said was,
"Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez toujours," and he had been repeating
the wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a cicada,--an
old gray cicada in a black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge felt
hat.

But Dick had tramped masterfully up and down her little studio north
of the cool green London park, and had said things ten times worse than
continuez, before he snatched the brush out of her hand and showed her
where the error lay. His last letter, Maisie remembered, contained
some trivial advice about not sketching in the sun or drinking water at
wayside farmhouses; and he had said that not once, but three times,--as
if he did not know that Maisie could take care of herself.

But what was he doing, that he could not trouble to write? A murmur of
voices in the road made her lean from the window. A cavalryman of the
little garrison in the town was talking to Kami's cook. The moonlight
glittered on the scabbard of his sabre, which he was holding in his hand
lest it should clank inopportunely. The cook's cap cast deep shadows on
her face, which was close to the conscript's. He slid his arm round her
waist, and there followed the sound of a kiss.

"Faugh! " said Maisie, stepping back.

"What's that? " said the red-haired girl, who was tossing uneasily
outside her bed.

"Only a conscript kissing the cook," said Maisie.

"They've gone away now. " She leaned out of the window again, and put a
shawl over her nightgown to guard against chills. There was a very small
night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its head as one
who knew unutterable secrets. Was it possible that Dick should turn his
thoughts from her work and his own and descend to the degradation of
Suzanne and the conscript? He could not! The rose nodded its head and
one leaf therewith. It looked like a naughty little devil scratching its
ear.

Dick could not, "because," thought Maisie, "he is mine,--mine,--mine. He
said he was. I'm sure I don't care what he does. It will only spoil his
work if he does; and it will spoil mine too. "

The rose continued to nod in the futile way peculiar to flowers. There
was no earthly reason why Dick should not disport himself as he chose,
except that he was called by Providence, which was Maisie, to assist
Maisie in her work. And her work was the preparation of pictures that
went sometimes to English provincial exhibitions, as the notices in the
scrap-book proved, and that were invariably rejected by the Salon when
Kami was plagued into allowing her to send them up. Her work in the
future, it seemed, would be the preparation of pictures on exactly
similar lines which would be rejected in exactly the same way----The
red-haired girl threshed distressfully across the sheets. "It's too hot
to sleep," she moaned; and the interruption jarred.

Exactly the same way. Then she would divide her years between the little
studio in England and Kami's big studio at Vitry-sur-Marne. No, she
would go to another master, who should force her into the success that
was her right, if patient toil and desperate endeavour gave one a
right to anything. Dick had told her that he had worked ten years to
understand his craft. She had worked ten years, and ten years were
nothing. Dick had said that ten years were nothing,--but that was in
regard to herself only. He had said--this very man who could not find
time to write--that he would wait ten years for her, and that she was
bound to come back to him sooner or later. He had said this in the
absurd letter about sunstroke and diphtheria; and then he had stopped
writing. He was wandering up and down moonlit streets, kissing cooks.
She would like to lecture him now,--not in her nightgown, of course,
but properly dressed, severely and from a height. Yet if he was kissing
other girls he certainly would not care whether she lecture him or not.
He would laugh at her. Very good.
She would go back to her studio and prepare pictures that went, etc. ,
etc.

The mill-wheel of thought swung round slowly, that no section of it
might be slurred over, and the red-haired girl tossed and turned behind
her.

Maisie put her chin in her hands and decided that there could be no
doubt whatever of the villainy of Dick. To justify herself, she began,
unwomanly, to weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he had said he
loved her. And he kissed her,--kissed her on the cheek,--by a yellow
sea-poppy that nodded its head exactly like the maddening dry rose in
the garden. Then there was an interval, and men had told her that they
loved her--just when she was busiest with her work. Then the boy came
back, and at their very second meeting had told her that he loved her.
Then he had----But there was no end to the things he had done. He
had given her his time and his powers. He had spoken to her of
Art, housekeeping, technique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as a
stimulant,--that was rude,--sable hair-brushes,--he had given her the
best in her stock,--she used them daily; he had given her advice that
she profited by, and now and again--a look. Such a look! The look of a
beaten hound waiting for the word to crawl to his mistress's feet. In
return she had given him nothing whatever, except--here she brushed her
mouth against the open-work sleeve of her nightgown--the privilege
of kissing her once. And on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that not
enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had he not cancelled
the debt by not writing and--probably kissing other girls? "Maisie,
you'll catch a chill. Do go and lie down," said the wearied voice of her
companion. "I can't sleep a wink with you at the window. "

Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting
on the meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had
nothing to do. The moonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the
skylight of the studio across the road in cold silver; she stared at it
intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other. The shadow
of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, lengthened again, and
faded out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came
limping home across the road. Then the dawn-wind washed through the
upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by
the drought-shrunk river. Maisie's head fell forward on the window-sill,
and the tangle of black hair covered her arms.

"Maisie, wake up. You'll catch a chill. "

"Yes, dear; yes, dear. " She staggered to her bed like a wearied child,
and as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, "I think--I
think--But he ought to have written. "

Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and
turpentine, and the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist,
but a golden teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy with him. Maisie
was not in sympathy that day, and she waited impatiently for the end of
the work.

She knew when it was coming; for Kami would gather his black alpaca
coat into a bunch behind him, and, with faded flue eyes that saw neither
pupils nor canvas, look back into the past to recall the history of one
Binat. "You have all done not so badly," he would say. "But you shall
remember that it is not enough to have the method, and the art, and
the power, nor even that which is touch, but you shall have also
the conviction that nails the work to the wall. Of the so many I
taught,"--here the students would begin to unfix drawing-pins or get
their tubes together,--"the very so many that I have taught, the best
was Binat. All that comes of the study and the work and the knowledge
was to him even when he came. After he left me he should have done all
that could be done with the colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only,
he had not the conviction. So today I hear no more of Binat,--the best
of my pupils,--and that is long ago. So today, too, you will be glad
to hear no more of me. Continuez, mesdemoiselles, and, above all, with
conviction. "

He went into the garden to smoke and mourn over the lost Binat as the
pupils dispersed to their several cottages or loitered in the studio to
make plans for the cool of the afternoon.

Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, restrained a desire to
grimace before it, and was hurrying across the road to write a letter
to Dick, when she was aware of a large man on a white troop-horse. How
Torpenhow had managed in the course of twenty hours to find his way to
the hearts of the cavalry officers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to
discuss with them the certainty of a glorious revenge for France, to
reduce the colonel to tears of pure affability, and to borrow the best
horse in the squadron for the journey to Kami's studio, is a mystery
that only special correspondents can unravel.

"I beg your pardon," said he. "It seems an absurd question to ask, but
the fact is that I don't know her by any other name: Is there any young
lady here that is called Maisie? "

"I am Maisie," was the answer from the depths of a great sun-hat.

"I ought to introduce myself," he said, as the horse capered in the
blinding white dust. "My name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my best
friend, and--and--the fact is that he has gone blind. "

"Blind! " said Maisie, stupidly. "He can't be blind. "

"He has been stone-blind for nearly two months. "

Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly white. "No! No! Not blind!
I won't have him blind! "

"Would you care to see for yourself? " said Torpenhow.

"Now,--at once? "

"Oh, no! The Paris train doesn't go through this place till tonight.
There will be ample time. "

"Did Mr. Heldar send you to me? "

"Certainly not. Dick wouldn't do that sort of thing. He's sitting in
his studio, turning over some letters that he can't read because he's
blind. "

There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head
and went into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa,
complaining of a headache.

"Dick's blind! " said Maisie, taking her breath quickly as she steadied
herself against a chair-back. "My Dick's blind! "

"What? " The girl was on the sofa no longer.

"A man has come from England to tell me. He hasn't written to me for six
weeks. "

"Are you going to him? "

"I must think. "

"Think! I should go back to London and see him and I should kiss his
eyes and kiss them and kiss them until they got well again! If you don't
go I shall. Oh, what am I talking about? You wicked little idiot! Go to
him at once. Go! "

Torpenhow's neck was blistering, but he preserved a smile of infinite
patience as Maisie's appeared bareheaded in the sunshine.

"I am coming," said she, her eyes on the ground.

"You will be at Vitry Station, then, at seven this evening. " This was
an order delivered by one who was used to being obeyed. Maisie said
nothing, but she felt grateful that there was no chance of disputing
with this big man who took everything for granted and managed a
squealing horse with one hand. She returned to the red-haired girl,
who was weeping bitterly, and between tears, kisses,--very few of
those,--menthol, packing, and an interview with Kami, the sultry
afternoon wore away.

Thought might come afterwards. Her present duty was to go to Dick,--Dick
who owned the wondrous friend and sat in the dark playing with her
unopened letters.

"But what will you do," she said to her companion.

"I? Oh, I shall stay here and--finish your Melancolia," she said,
smiling pitifully. "Write to me afterwards. "

That night there ran a legend through Vitry-sur-Marne of a mad
Englishman, doubtless suffering from sunstroke, who had drunk all the
officers of the garrison under the table, had borrowed a horse from the
lines, and had then and there eloped, after the English custom, with one
of those more mad English girls who drew pictures down there under the
care of that good Monsieur Kami.

"They are very droll," said Suzanne to the conscript in the moonlight
by the studio wall. "She walked always with those big eyes that saw
nothing, and yet she kisses me on both cheeks as though she were my
sister, and gives me--see--ten francs! "

The conscript levied a contribution on both gifts; for he prided himself
on being a good soldier.

Torpenhow spoke very little to Maisie during the journey to Calais;
but he was careful to attend to all her wants, to get her a compartment
entirely to herself, and to leave her alone. He was amazed of the ease
with which the matter had been accomplished.

"The safest thing would be to let her think things out. By Dick's
showing,--when he was off his head,--she must have ordered him about
very thoroughly. Wonder how she likes being under orders. "

Maisie never told. She sat in the empty compartment often with her eyes
shut, that she might realise the sensation of blindness. It was an order
that she should return to London swiftly, and she found herself at last
almost beginning to enjoy the situation. This was better than looking
after luggage and a red-haired friend who never took any interest in her
surroundings. But there appeared to be a feeling in the air that she,
Maisie,--of all people,--was in disgrace. Therefore she justified her
conduct to herself with great success, till Torpenhow came up to her
on the steamer and without preface began to tell the story of Dick's
blindness, suppressing a few details, but dwelling at length on the
miseries of delirium. He stopped before he reached the end, as though he
had lost interest in the subject, and went forward to smoke. Maisie was
furious with him and with herself.

She was hurried on from Dover to London almost before she could ask for
breakfast, and--she was past any feeling of indignation now--was bidden
curtly to wait in a hall at the foot of some lead-covered stairs while
Torpenhow went up to make inquiries. Again the knowledge that she was
being treated like a naughty little girl made her pale cheeks flame. It
was all Dick's fault for being so stupid as to go blind.

Torpenhow led her up to a shut door, which he opened very softly. Dick
was sitting by the window, with his chin on his chest. There were three
envelopes in his hand, and he turned them over and over. The big man
who gave orders was no longer by her side, and the studio door snapped
behind her.

Dick thrust the letters into his pocket as he heard the sound. "Hullo,
Torp! Is that you? I've been so lonely. "

His voice had taken the peculiar flatness of the blind. Maisie pressed
herself up into a corner of the room. Her heart was beating furiously,
and she put one hand on her breast to keep it quiet. Dick was staring
directly at her, and she realised for the first time that he was blind.

Shutting her eyes in a rail-way carriage to open them when she pleased
was child's play. This man was blind though his eyes were wide open.

"Torp, is that you? They said you were coming. " Dick looked puzzled and
a little irritated at the silence.

"No; it's only me," was the answer, in a strained little whisper. Maisie
could hardly move her lips.

"H'm! " said Dick, composedly, without moving. "This is a new phenomenon.
Darkness I'm getting used to; but I object to hearing voices. "

Was he mad, then, as well as blind, that he talked to himself? Maisie's
heart beat more wildly, and she breathed in gasps. Dick rose and began
to feel his way across the room, touching each table and chair as he
passed. Once he caught his foot on a rug, and swore, dropping on his
knees to feel what the obstruction might be. Maisie remembered him
walking in the Park as though all the earth belonged to him, tramping
up and down her studio two months ago, and flying up the gangway of the
Channel steamer. The beating of her heart was making her sick, and Dick
was coming nearer, guided by the sound of her breathing. She put out a
hand mechanically to ward him off or to draw him to herself, she did not
know which. It touched his chest, and he stepped back as though he had
been shot.

"It's Maisie! " said he, with a dry sob. "What are you doing here? "

"I came--I came--to see you, please. "

Dick's lips closed firmly.

"Won't you sit down, then? You see, I've had some bother with my eyes,
and----"

"I know. I know. Why didn't you tell me? "

"I couldn't write. "

"You might have told Mr. Torpenhow. "

"What has he to do with my affairs? "

"He--he brought me from Vitry-sur-Marne. He thought I ought to see you. "

"Why, what has happened? Can I do anything for you? No, I can't. I
forgot. "

"Oh, Dick, I'm so sorry! I've come to tell you, and----Let me take you
back to your chair. "

"Don't! I'm not a child. You only do that out of pity. I never meant to
tell you anything about it. I'm no good now. I'm down and done for. Let
me alone! "

He groped back to his chair, his chest labouring as he sat down.

Maisie watched him, and the fear went out of her heart, to be followed
by a very bitter shame. He had spoken a truth that had been hidden from
the girl through every step of the impetuous flight to London; for he
was, indeed, down and done for--masterful no longer but rather a little
abject; neither an artist stronger than she, nor a man to be looked up
to--only some blind one that sat in a chair and seemed on the point of
crying. She was immensely and unfeignedly sorry for him--more sorry than
she had ever been for any one in her life, but not sorry enough to deny
his words.

So she stood still and felt ashamed and a little hurt, because she had
honestly intended that her journey should end triumphantly; and now she
was only filled with pity most startlingly distinct from love.

"Well? " said Dick, his face steadily turned away. "I never meant to
worry you any more. What's the matter? "

He was conscious that Maisie was catching her breath, but was as
unprepared as herself for the torrent of emotion that followed. She had
dropped into a chair and was sobbing with her face hidden in her hands.

"I can't--I can't! " she cried desperately. "Indeed, I can't. It isn't my
fault. I'm so sorry. Oh, Dickie, I'm so sorry. "

Dick's shoulders straightened again, for the words lashed like a whip.