# Elizabeth's Pretenders/Part 3/Chapter 4

CHAPTER IV.
She was standing at a turn in the road, where the eye swept a wider range of sapphire-coloured sea, which, followed with its narrow white fringe the indentations of the Italian coast. To the right, the san had already disappeared behind the mountain; but the little town was still backed by a pale, unclouded sky, suffused with gold, against which the piled-up houses stood out in purple-brown relief. This was a view of which Elizabeth never tired. Here it seemed as if she were above and beyond the cares that beset her at the hotel lying there below. The infinite expanse of sea and sky brought a calm with it which entered into her soul. She was unhappy. She had many reasons for being so; but each afternoon of late she had found it restful to come here, and, as it were, release her mind from the bandages of restraint so tightly swathed around her thoughts in the presence of Hatty and her brother.
She did not doubt but that the dear little woman, whom she had grown to love like a sister, was dying. It might be very soon, it might be a little later; but the end could not be far off. What should she do then? Where should she go—feeling, as she would, so much ​more desolate even than she did when she fled from England? Return to Madame Martineau's? Take up the old superficial life again, with Morin and Doucet and Madame de Belcour? She had borne with it six months ago. There was a time when, perhaps, it had even amused her; but now, with a sore heart—no, she could not go back. He would never go; of that she felt very sure. He had always hated the pension. It was only for Hatty's sake, to whom it offered more comforts than she could have had in a lodging, that he had endured it for so many months. And now the poor solitary fellow would go and live, up au cinquiéme, somewhere in the Quartier Latin, and dine at dreadful restaurants, and, shunning the rowdy lot about him, pass friendless evenings!
Perhaps, for the first time, she fully, frankly realized the place that Alaric Baring had got to fill in her life. Had she not been startled by the conviction that a crisis was at hand, things might have slid on some time longer in the tranquil routine of daily existence without this self-examination. For some weeks past she had known that his influence was growing stronger and stronger; she had known that her feeling for him was altogether different and apart from that with which she regarded all other men; but she had not seen clearly, as she now did, that if they were to be parted for ever, life would never be the same to her again. The secret should die with her, unguessed by any one, unless he came to her with some like acknowledgment. Ah! would he ever come?
Her heart, in the golden silence, had gone down to the ​deep well-heads of life, and was drawing up waters wherewith to assuage, if possible, that crying thirst which the shallow brooks and noisy runlets she had known could never do, when she heard a rapid step approaching on the road, and turned, half-dreaming still, to find Melchior close to her.
Her eyes, had he read them aright, would have told him how she resented the intrusion. She had thought but little of the man since Hatty's attack. She knew his sittings were nearly over, and that business called him back to Paris the end of the week. As she meant to avoid seeing him again, she hoped this disagreeable episode was over, and that she should hear no more of Monsieur Melchior. But now, here he was, and she felt that some definite line of conduct must be adopted to stave off the danger that was at hand. Her wits, though unpleasantly startled, were not disconcerted. She knew it was needful that she should have them all at her command.
"Good evening, mademoiselle," he began airily, taking a cigar from his red lips, and showing his brilliant teeth. "We have not met for many days, and I was anxious to see you before I return to Paris."
"You are leaving so soon, monsieur?" she said.
"The day after to-morrow."
She turned, and began leisurely to descend the hill. He continued—
"Now, though our acquaintance has been a short one, I want you to know that you have made a very deep impression on my heart, an impression that will not be effaced by absence. You have in me, mademoiselle, an ​admirer who is ready to make any sacrifice in order to win your smiles."
He paused a moment, but she did not speak. The colour rose in her face. She quickened her pace a little, but so little as to be scarcely perceptible.
"You will not leave your sick friend at present? Well, whenever you like it, only say the word, and I will make arrangements for your joining me in Paris, where I can promise you as good an establishment and as handsome a turn-out as are to be seen there. You shall have fifty thousand francs a year for your dress, and if you want to buy another picture of Baring's———"
He laughed, and before he finished his sentence, she said, in a voice she tried to make steady and passionless
"I understand this to be an offer of marriage, monsieur? It is most flattering. As you know, you can know absolutely nothing about me. It happens to be the fourth offer I have had within seven months. I have refused them all. I shall never marry a man whom I do not know well."
He was dumfounded. What did the girl mean? She had snatched the last card out of his hand—the card he had certainly not meant to play so soon—and had, so to speak, tossed it in his face.
"Do you realize all that you reject?" he at last stammered out, with a grin. "My hotel is the finest on the Boulevard Haussmann. I have more than two million of francs yearly."
"If you had a million a minute," she again interrupted, and this time quite calmly, "I should not marry you unless I loved you, Monsieur Melchior. To love a person ​one requires to know him some time. It is less than a fortnight, monsieur, since I first saw you."
"Pardon me," he remarked with a sneer. "You forget. We met in Jacob's shop, when you commissioned him to buy Baring's picture."
It all flashed upon her. This, then, was how he had possessed himself of her secret.
"Indeed?" she said, after a moment's pause, which she employed in reflecting how she could continue to fence with this dangerous adversary without exasperating him. "You will hardly call that an acquaintance, however. It reminds me that you said just now you were willing to make any sacrifice I might ask. May I claim one—a very small one—at your hands? It is that you will be silent—absolutely silent—as to that transaction."
He laughed aloud, and, at the same time, threw away the end of his cigar.
"As I said the other day, it is nice to have a secret with you. But who supplies you with money? Tell me that."
"I have some means of my own—more than Mr. Baring or his sister believe. If I choose to live as I do, that is my own affair. I have my own reasons for wishing to remain obscure, unknown, to all appearance poor. Now that I have told you the simple truth, you will understand that I had no need to get the money from any one."
"This, then, is the reason you reject my offer—because you have money of your own?"
"It is not the reason. The reason is what I have told you. But it prevents there being any merit in my doing ​so, which I suppose some people would say there was, were I a half-starving girl."
"You are an extraordinary one, at all events. I never met a woman like you."
"Perhaps you will believe better of me now, monsieur, than you have done," she said, turning her dark eyes steadily upon him.
"Have I not paid you the greatest compliment a man can pay a woman?" he cried, extending his hands dramatically.
"Hardly; but let that pass. I ask not for a compliment, but a kindness—the 'sacrifice,' in short, you offered to make for me just now. I ask you to refrain from speaking of me or my concerns to any one."
"Oh, come, I can't promise that. Why, I can't find out if what you tell me is true, if I don't inquire."
She looked at him with ineffable scorn.
"You doubt my word, then? That is not complimentary, at all events."
"Oh!" he laughed, "I should not think the worse of you if you lied to me about your intimate affairs. All women do."
"Women of honour do not, any more than men. And let me tell you, I shall never look on any man as my friend, in whose honour I have not implicit trust."
"I am not a bad friend to have, mademoiselle. My purse shall ever be at your service."
"I don't want your purse. I want your reticence."
He hummed an opéra-bouffe air; then suddenly, "And you offer nothing in return? You do not even hold out any hope?"
​She replied, with a heightened colour, "Yes, I hold out the hope of thinking better of you—as you shall behave by me in this matter."
On the handsome face, to her so much more unpleasant than ugliness, there again gllttered that smile devoid of all heart-warmth, in which eyes and teeth seemed to flash simultaneously a cold brilliant light, and die out, leaving the countenance darker than before. They had reached a flight of steps which led down by a short cut into the hotel garden.
"I am going back to my sick friend," she said, "so I will wish you good-bye here, monsieur."
"And I shall not see you again, mademoiselle?"
"Probably not. I seldom leave my friend's room."
"This, then, is 'farewell,' till I see you in Paris?"
"Yes. It is farewell, monsieur."
"You will shake hands with me?"
She extended a frigid hand, and he grasped it, held it for a moment, and then raising his hat with a flourish, turned and walked rapidly down the road, while she slowly descended the steps to the left.
Melchior was a vain man, but he was no fool. He knew that if what she said as to having means of her own was true, then his chances of success with her were greatly reduced. His wealth was an all-potent argument to the impecunious; it would lose some of its weight when applied to one with a competence. And then he was going away! She would no longer be under the spell of his personal charm. He felt decidedly less sanguine when he descended than when he had mounted the hill.
​Elizabeth, on her part, was sore perplexed.
Had she acted wisely? Was there any other course she could have pursued towards this man? In one respect she was now even more in his power than before. But she did not see how she could have done otherwise than tell him the truth—or, at least, some portion of the truth—in order to prevent his betraying her secret, if possible.
Meantime, Alaric, after working as long as the fading daylight would allow, had strolled into the hotel garden with his pipe, and was wandering up and down the narrow paths, spotted here and there with fallen oranges, and fragrant with their borders of violets, when his eyes lighted on two figures coming down the road above him, and as yet some distance off. He stood still, amazed. They approached the top of the steps. He could scarcely believe his eyes. Elizabeth Shaw, who had expressed such contempt for Melchior, was walking alone with him, and at parting gave him her hand. Had they met by a preconcerted plan? It really looked like it, for he knew Melchior had returned to Monte Carlo that morning. It was incredible that she liked this man; but what on earth could she have to say to him? Alaric had no right to inquire—no right to allude to what he had seen; he was neither of a jealous nor a suspicious temperament. To be suspicious of her—in whom he had now such absolute trust—to be jealous of him, a man whom he so despised, it was impossible. After all, it would probably be explained in a few words by Elizabeth. But he would not appear to be spying her steps, and did not go forward to join her.
​When they did meet, half an hour later, in Hatty's room—she was lying on the sofa, and better able to talk to-night—he purposely gave Elizabeth an opening by mentioning Melchior's departure the following evening for Paris.
"He wants me to paint a frieze for his dining-room there."
"Really?" cried Hatty, raising her head from the pillow, with excitement. "I am so glad!"
"I have not decided whether I shall accept the commission. What should you do, in my place, Miss Shaw?"
She had hoped the two men would not meet again after to-morrow for a long time; and now this would inevitably bring them much together. But she could only say, after a moment's hesitation, "I suppose it would depend on whether I cared for the subject proposed."
"Oh! the subject is well enough—'The Abundance of the Earth and of the Sea.' It is the object I don't care about."
His sister threw up her hands impatiently. "What nonsense, Ally! Because it is for a dining-room?"
"For his dining-room. He wants it to be a fresco. That means my being in his house for weeks—perhaps months."
"Well? What then? He will be at his business all day. You will probably never see him from one week's end to the other. Such an offer as this does not come to an artist every day. And you who so often say———"
"I know. Don't get excited, Hatty. I ought to be glad to get the order; but, somehow, I am not. I suppose I must give him an answer to-morrow."
​Still Elizabeth did not mention having met Melchior that evening. It certainly was very odd. He felt worried about it—more worried than he knew he had any right to be.
When he left the room a little later, Hatty said, screwing up her short-sighted eyes at her friend, "How he has got to hate this Jewish Mecænas! It is a pity."
"It is a pity," echoed Elizabeth, but without conviction in her tone.
"I am persuaded I know the reason."
"Do you?"
"Yes, Lizzie. It is because he thinks the man admires you."
Elizabeth tried to laugh; but the laugh sounded very hollow to her sharp-eared listener.
"I can't fancy a worse reason. Your mind, dear little Hatty, runs riot, since you have been shut up so long. The 'Jewish Mecænas,' as you call him, is a contemptible creature, and your brother knows it. That is the long and the short of his dislike."
Then she began to talk of the sunset, and Hatty wisely refrained from returning to a subject which she saw was distasteful to her friend.
Melchior came to his sitting the next morning, ready primed. He was resolved to learn one thing before he returned to Paris, and he could only learn it from Baring. He talked a great deal, and upon indifferent matters for some time. At last, as the sitting drew near its close—
"Have you known Miss Shaw long?" he suddenly asked.
​"Five months," replied the artist, with a resolute touch of his brush on the canvas, and without looking up.
"Will she ever become an artist—a real artist?"
"That depends on how she works."
"You do not think much of her at present, then?"
"She is but a beginner."
"She is sure to get on"—here he laughed—"on account of her looks. Perhaps not positively handsome, but very 'fetching'—eh?"
The painter frowned. "Is that the reason yon bought her picture?"
"Of course. I seldom buy a woman's work for any other reason."
"I think it a very bad one.
"Bah! you can't humbug me, Baring. You would not take such an interest in the girl, if she were a fright. Come, now, what, is her history? You may as well tell me." Here he looked mockingly at the painter, with half-closed eyes. "Do you really think, now, that she is so very poor?"
"I know nothing of her history or of her finances. She is a young lady whom I respect greatly. She is my sister's friend; but her affairs do not concern me."
"Don't they?" Again that evil smile crossed the Jew's face. "Some people might say they concerned you very much. Vous faites l'innocent, mon cher. It won't do with me."
Baring looked up. His cheek was flushed, and his steel-grey eyes flashed, as they crossed swords with Melchior's.
"I do not understand what you mean, Monsieur Melchior: but there are subjects upon which I permit no ​man to joke, or to use innnendoes, with me. To every gentleman, a lady's name is sacred."
This was the thrust most calculated to irritate his antagonist.
"Bah!" he said, with ill-humour, "it isn't necessary to be blind to a gentleman, I suppose?"
"It is necessary to be dumb."
"That is as much as an acknowledgment that there is something to conceal. You are very deep, Baring; you know much more than you choose to say."
"If I did know much more, I should certainly not say it. I do not choose to discuss Miss Shaw and her affairs with any one."
"You are quite right," sneered Melchior. "When you have got hold of a good thing, keep it. Who supplies her with money? You don't inquire. You take the goods the gods send you, and ask no questions. The girl is not a poor artist. She has money—and you know it."
"Your tone. Monsieur Melchior, is offensive," said the painter, sternly. He laid down his palette, and walked deliberately across to where the other was seated. "What do you mean to insinuate?—that Miss Shaw is helping to support me and my sister?"
"In one sense, she certainly is, since it was she who bought your picture from Jacob."
He had not meant to say this—at all events, at present; but the American's tone of superiority, and the impossibility of learning anything from him, had exasperated the Jew past endurance. The effect of his words on Alaric Baring was curious. He turned white; he could not speak for a moment or two.
​"What are you driving at, monsieur? What is your object in inventing a story like this?"
"It is no invention. If you did not know it, perhaps you guessed it; only you choose conveniently to shut your eyes."
"Can you prove the truth of what you say?" asked the other sharply, and heedless of the latter allegation.
"I was in the shop at the time. Jacob told me all about it when she had gone out."
"You? You actually saw her there?"
"Certainly I did—and she is quite aware of the fact."
It flashed upon Alaric at once that this might be the explanation of their meeting the previous evening.
"She wishes to keep her secret, I imagine—and you have threatened to betray it to me?"
"No; I did not threaten. She wanted me to promise, and I wouldn't do that, for I was determined to find out the truth. I begin to think now that it is news to you. Well, you need not let out I told you. But where does she get the money? Has she really means of her own? Is there not some—some other man in it?"
The painter turned sharply away. He took three or four rapid strides up and down the room. He knew that the Jew, blackguard as he was, had not lied. He also knew that his own position, from which there was no escape, was one of bitter humiliation. Men of the stamp of Melchior—nay, perhaps many better than he—would always believe that he, Alaric Baring, had knowingly allowed his sister's friend to sacrifice some portion of her small capital in the purchase of his picture. Oh, why had she done this thing? That slender fabric of ​hope and ambition which he had been building of late was suddenly swept down. Nothing could ever again be as it had been between them.
As to Melchior's vile insinuation, it was only when he repeated the question that Baring saw he must reply, and resist the inclination to punch his sitter's head.
"Miss Shaw's character is beyond all suspicion—if that is what you mean, monsieur. Wherever this money comes from, I will put my hand into the fire for it, it comes to her honourably, straightforwardly. Your information is a great shock to me. I cannot disbelieve you; but the only explanation of it I can give is that she is romantic in her friendships, and has made the great mistake of wishing to help my sister by—by this unfortunate means. No one can regret it more than I—no one can regret it as much. If you choose to believe that I knew of this—that I accepted this sacrifice—you must. It does not much matter. All that matters is that no discreditable suspicion should attach to her name."
"I have learnt what I wanted to know," said the other, rising. "Under that cold exterior of yours you love this girl—you care for her in a way that I shall never care for any woman. Whether she cares for you I am not so sure. It may be only 'romantic friendship'"—here he laughed—"as you call it. If so, well. I may have something more to say to you by-and-by. At present I have no choice but to leave the field to you. Make your running while you can. Je ne vous en veux pas—'All is fair in love and war.'"
"No! What you have done is neither fair nor honourable. You have surprised a secret, and betrayed it. You ​have taken the surest way—if that was your object of creating an impassable gulf between me and a lady for whom I have the greatest—friendship and regard. Whatever you may choose to believe, no word of love has ever passed my lips to her—and assuredly now none ever will. But if I imitated your example, and betrayed you, Monsieur Melchior, be assured her contempt for you would be equal to my own!"
His voice shook with suppressed rage. He turned his back on his visitor, and walked to the window. Melchior was, for the first time, impressed. He had looked on this as little more than a duel of wits, in which he had succeeded in wrenching the rapier from his antagonist. He now saw that what he thought was a scratch, not worth serious concern, was, in fact, a mortal wound. He was surprised; he had even a tinge of compunction. It was so odd that a man should feel in that sort of way! Instead of gratified vanity, he had aroused a sensitive pride past the Jew's comprehension. He did not know how to deal with a factor so unlooked-for in any human computation. Not that it signified much to him. He was too clever to suppose that anything he could do now could alter the position of affairs as regarded himself. The girl was not to be won, even as a wife, by money. Let the painter say what he would, he loved her—that was clear to Melchior; but if compassion was the only sentiment that inspired her, and that hereafter her funds, from whatever source, ran short, the Jew felt there was yet a possibility that she might look to him.
He turned over these things in his mind as he arranged his cravat at the glass, and slowly put on his gauts de ​Suède, which he buttoned carefully. Then, as he drew out a cheque, already signed and filled in, from a gorgeous pocket-book, he said—
"Here is my debt to you. As soon as the portrait is dry, have it packed and sent to me. It shall be exhibited at the Champs de Mars. And about the frieze? I conclude you accept."
Baring swung himself round from the window, against which his head was pressed, and showed a pale, set face.
"Your cheque—for work done—I have no right to refuse," he said; "your commission I do."
"That is not business, Baring. It is foolish to quarrel with your bread-and-butter on this account. We both like the same girl. Well, keep your affaires du cœur and your business transactions separate. Don't let them interfere with each other."
"Monsieur Melchior, I have painted your portrait, and you have paid me. We have nothing further to do with each other. Our acquaintance from this hour ends."
The patron of art raised his eyebrows superciliously, and his red lips curled.
"It is unwise for a man in your position to speak thus to a man in mine, Baring. But, since you will have it so, good morning."
He put on his soft grey hat deliberately as he spoke, and took up his white umbrella. Baring opened the door for him, and bowed. The Jew passed out.