What's Bred in the Bone

Elma’s stranger.

It was late when Elma reached the station.  Her pony had jibbed on the way downhill, and the train was just on the point of moving off as she hurried upon the platform.  Old Matthews, the stout and chubby-cheeked station-master, seized her most unceremoniously by the left arm, and bundled her into a carriage.  He had known her from a child, so he could venture upon such liberties.

“Second class, miss?  Yes, miss.  Here y’are.  Look sharp, please.  Any more goin’ on?  All right, Tom!  Go ahead there!” And lifting his left hand, he whistled a shrill signal to the guard to start her.

As for Elma, somewhat hot in the face with the wild rush for her ticket, and grasping her uncounted change, pence and all, in her little gloved hand, she found herself thrust, hap-hazard, at the very last moment, into the last compartment of the last carriage —­alone—­with an artist.

Now, you and I, to be sure, most proverbially courteous and intelligent reader, might never have guessed at first sight, from the young man’s outer aspect, the nature of his occupation.  The gross and clumsy male intellect, which works in accordance with the stupid laws of inductive logic, has a queer habit of requiring something or other, in the way of definite evidence, before it commits itself offhand to the distinct conclusion.  But Elma Clifford was a woman; and therefore she knew a more excellent way.  Her habit was, rather to look things once fairly and squarely in the face, and then, with the unerring intuition of her sex, to make up her mind about them firmly, at once and for ever.  That’s one of the many glorious advantages of being born a woman.  You don’t need to learn in order to know.  You know instinctively.  And yet our girls want to go to Girton, and train themselves up to be senior wranglers!

Elma Clifford, however, had not been to Girton, so, as she stumbled into her place, she snatched one hurried look at Cyril Wiring’s face, and knew at a glance he was a landscape painter.

Now, this was clever of her, even in a woman, for Cyril Waring, as he fondly imagined, was travelling that line that day disguised as a stock-broker.  In other words, there was none of the brown velveteen affectation about his easy get-up.  He was an artist, to be sure, but he hadn’t assiduously and obtrusively dressed his character.  Instead of cutting his beard to a Vandyke point, or enduing his body in a Titianesque coat, or wearing on his head a slouched Rembrandt hat, stuck carelessly just a trifle on one side in artistic disorder, he was habited, for all the world like anybody else, in the grey tweed suit of the common British tourist, surmounted by the light felt hat (or bowler), to match, of the modern English country gentleman.  Even the soft silk necktie of a delicate aesthetic hue that adorned his open throat didn’t proclaim him at once a painter by trade.  It showed him merely as a man of taste, with a decided eye for harmonies of colour.

So when Elma pronounced her fellow-traveller immediately, in her own mind, a landscape artist, she was exercising the familiar feminine prerogative of jumping, as if by magic, to a correct conclusion.  It’s a provoking way they have, those inscrutable women, which no mere male human being can ever conceivably fathom.

She was just about to drop down, as propriety demands, into the corner seat diagonally opposite to—­and therefore as far as possible away from—­her handsome companion, when the stranger rose, and, with a very flushed face, said, in a hasty, though markedly deferential and apologetic tone—­

“I beg your pardon, but—­excuse me for mentioning it—­I think you’re going to sit down upon—­ur—­pray don’t be frightened—­a rather large snake of mine.”

There was something so comically alarmed in the ring of his tone—­as of a naughty schoolboy detected in a piece of mischief—­that, propriety to the contrary notwithstanding, Elma couldn’t for the life of her repress a smile.  She looked down at the seat where the stranger pointed, and there, sure enough, coiled up in huge folds, with his glossy head in attitude to spring at her, a great banded snake lay alert and open-eyed.

“Dear me,” Elma cried, drawing back a little in surprise, but not at all in horror, as she felt she ought to do.  “A snake!  How curious!  I hope he’s not dangerous.”

“Not at all,” the young man answered, still in the same half-guilty tone of voice as before.  “He’s of a poisonous kind, you know; but his fangs have been extracted.  He won’t do you any injury.  He’s perfectly harmless.  Aren’t you, Sardanapalus?  Eh, eh, my beauty?  But I oughtn’t to have let him loose in the carriage, of course,” he added, after a short pause.  “It’s calculated to alarm a nervous passenger.  Only I thought I was alone, and nobody would come in; so I let him out for a bit of a run between the stations.  It’s so dull for him, poor fellow, being shut up in his box all the time when he’s travelling.”

Elma looked down at the beautiful glossy creature with genuine admiration.  His skin was like enamel; his banded scales shone bright and silvery.  She didn’t know why, but somehow she felt she wasn’t in the least afraid of him.  “I suppose one ought to be repelled at once by a snake,” she said, taking the opposite seat, and keeping her glance fixed firmly upon the reptile’s eye; “but then, this is such a handsome one!  I can’t say why, but I don’t feel afraid of him at all as I ought, to do.  Every right-minded person detests snakes, don’t they?  And yet, how exquisitely flexible and beautiful he is!  Oh, pray don’t put him back in his box for me.  He’s basking in the sun here.  I should be sorry to disturb him.”

Cyril Waring looked at her in considerable surprise.  He caught the creature in his hands as he spoke, and transferred it at once to a tin box, with a perforated lid, that lay beside him.  “Go back, Sardanapalus,” he said, in a very musical and pleasant voice, forcing the huge beast into the lair with gentle but masterful hands.  “Go back, and go to sleep, sir.  It’s time for your nap. ...  Oh no, I couldn’t think of letting him out any more in the carriage to the annoyance of others.  I’m ashamed enough as it is of having unintentionally alarmed you.  But you came in so unexpectedly, you see, I hadn’t time to put my queer pet away; and, when the door opened, I was afraid he might slip out, or get under the seats, so all I could do was just to soothe him with my hand, and keep him quiet till the door was shut to again.”

“Indeed, I wasn’t at all afraid of him,” Elma answered, slipping her change into her pocket, and looking prettier through her blush than even her usual self.  “On the contrary, I really liked to see him.  He’s such a glorious snake!  The lights and shades on his back are so glancing and so wonderful!  He’s a perfect model.  Of course, you’re painting him.”

The stranger started.  “I’m painting him—­yes, that’s true,” he replied, with a look of sudden surprise; “but why ‘of course,’ please?  How on earth could you tell I was an artist even?”

Elma glanced back in his face, and wondered to herself, too.  Now she came to think of it, how did she know that handsome young man, with the charming features, and the expressive eyes, and the neatly-cut brown beard, and the attractive manner, was an artist at all, or anything like it?  And how did she know the snake was his model?  For the life of her, she couldn’t have answered those questions herself.

“I suppose I just guessed it,” she answered, after a short pause, blushing still more deeply at the sudden way she had thus been dragged into conversation with the good-looking stranger.  Elma’s skin was dark—­a clear and creamy olive-brown complexion, such as one sometimes sees in southern Europe, though rarely in England; and the effect of the blush through it didn’t pass unnoticed by Cyril Waring’s artistic eye.  He would have given something for the chance of transferring that delicious effect to canvas.  The delicate transparency of the blush threw up those piercing dark eyes, and reflected lustre even on the glossy black hair that fringed her forehead.  Not an English type of beauty at all, Elma Clifford’s, he thought to himself as he eyed her closely:  rather Spanish or Italian, or say even Hungarian.

“Well, you guessed right, at any rate,” he went on, settling down in his seat once more, after boxing his snake, but this time face to face with her.  “I’m working at a beautiful bit of fern and foliage—­quite tropical in its way—­in a wood hereabout; and I’ve introduced Sardanapalus, coiled up in the foreground, just to give life to the scene, don’t you know, and an excuse for a title.  I mean to call it ‘The Rajah’s Rest.’  Behind, great ferns and a mossy bank; in front, Sardanapalus, after tiffin, rolled spirally round, and taking his siesta.”

This meeting was a long-wished-for occasion.  Elma had never before met a real live painter.  Now, it was the cherished idea of her youth to see something some day of that wonderful non-existent fantastic world which we still hope for and dream about and call Bohemia.  She longed to move in literary and artistic circles.  She had fashioned to herself, like many other romantic girls, a rose-coloured picture of Bohemian existence; not knowing indeed that Bohemia is now, alas! an extinct province, since Belgravia and Kensington swallowed it bodily down, digested, and assimilated it.  So this casual talk with the handsome young artist in the second-class carriage, on the Great Southern line, was to Elma as a charming and delightful glimpse of an enchanted region she could never enter.  It was Paradise to the Peri.  She turned the conversation at once, therefore, with resolute intent upon art and artists, determined to make the most while it lasted of this unique opportunity.  And since the subject of self, with an attentive listener, is always an attractive one, even to modest young men like Cyril Waring—­especially when it’s a pretty girl who encourages you to dilate upon it—­why, the consequence was, that before many minutes were over, the handsome young man was discoursing from his full heart to a sympathetic soul about his chosen art, its hopes and its ideals, accompanied, by a running fire of thumb-nail illustrations.  He had even got so far in the course of their intimacy as to take out the portfolio, which lay hidden under the seat—­out of deference to his disguise as a stock-broker, no doubt—­and to display before Elma’s delighted eyes, with many explanatory comments as to light and shade, or perspective and foreshortening, the studies for the picture he had just then engaged upon.

By-and-by, as his enthusiasm warmed under Elma’s encouragement, the young artist produced Sardanapalus himself once more from his box, and with deftly persuasive fingers coiled him gracefully round on the opposite seat into the precise attitude he was expected to take up when he sat for his portrait in the mossy foreground.

Elma couldn’t say why, but that creature fascinated her.  The longer she looked at him the more intensely he interested her.  Not that she was one bit afraid of him, as she might reasonably have expected to be, according to all womanly precedent.  On the contrary, she felt an overwhelming desire to take him up in her own hands and stroke and fondle him.  He was so lithe and beautiful; his scales so glistened!  At last she stretched out one dainty gloved hand to pet the spotted neck.

“Take care,” the painter cried, in a warning voice; “don’t be frightened if he springs at you.  He’s vicious at times.  But his fangs are drawn; he can’t possibly hurt you.”

The warning, however, was quite unnecessary.  Sardanapalus, instead of springing, seemed to recognise a friend.  He darted out his forked tongue in rapid vibration, and licked her neat grey glove respectfully.  Then, lifting his flattened head with serpentine deliberation, he coiled his great folds slowly, slowly, with sinuous curves, round the girl’s soft arm till he reached her neck in long, winding convolutions.  There he held up his face, and trilled his swift, sibilant tongue once more with evident pleasure.  He knew his place.  He was perfectly at home at once with the pretty, olive-skinned lady.  His master looked on in profound surprise.

“Why, you’re a perfect snake-charmer,” he cried at last, regarding her with open eyes of wonder.  “I never saw Sardanapalus behave like that with a stranger before.  He’s generally by no means fond of new acquaintances.  You must be used to snakes.  Perhaps you’ve kept one?  You’re accustomed of old to their ways and manners?”

“No, indeed,” Elma cried, laughing in spite of herself, a clear little laugh of feminine triumph; for she had made a conquest, she saw, of Sardanapalus; “I never so much as touched one in all my life before.  And I thought I should hate them.  But this one seems quite tame and tractable.  I’m not in the least afraid of him.  He is so soft and smooth, and his movements are all so perfectly gentle.”

“Ah, that’s the way with snakes, always,” Cyril Waring put in, with an admiring glance at the pretty, fearless brunette and her strange companion.  “They know at once whether people like them or not, and they govern themselves accordingly.  I suppose it’s instinct.  When they see you’re afraid of them, they spring and hiss; but when they see you take to them by nature, they make themselves perfectly at home in a moment.  They don’t wait to be asked.  They’ve no false modesty.  Well, then, you see,” he went on, drawing imaginary lines with his ticket on the sketch he was holding up, “I shall work in Sardanapalus just there, like that, coiled round in a spire.  You catch the idea, don’t you?”

As he spoke, Elma’s eye, following his hand while it moved, chanced to fall suddenly on the name of the station printed on the ticket with which he was pointing.  She gave a sharp little start.

“Warnworth!” she cried, flushing up, with some slight embarrassment in her voice; “why, that’s ever so far back.  We’re long past Warnworth.  We ran by it three or four stations behind; in fact, it’s the next place to Chetwood, where I got in at.”

Cyril Waring looked up with a half-guilty smile as embarrassed as her own.

“Oh yes,” he said quietly.  “I knew that quite well.  I’m down here often.  It’s half-way between Chetwood and Warnworth I’m painting.  But I thought—­well, if you’ll excuse me saying it, I thought I was so comfortable and so happy where I was, that I might just as well go on a station or two more, and then pay the difference, and take the next train back to Warnworth.  You see,” he added, after a pause, with a still more apologetic and penitent air, “I saw you were so interested in—­well, in snakes, you know, and pictures.”

Gentle as he was, and courteous, and perfectly frank with her, Elma, nevertheless, felt really half inclined to be angry at this queer avowal.  That is to say, at least, she knew it was her bounden duty, as an English lady, to seem so; and she seemed so accordingly with most Britannic severity.  She drew herself up in a very stiff style, and stared fixedly at him, while she began slowly and steadily to uncoil Sardanapalus from her imprisoned arm with profound dignity.

“I’m sorry I should have brought you so far out of your way,” she said, in a studied cold voice—­though that was quite untrue, for, as a matter of fact, she had enjoyed their talk together immensely.  “And besides, you’ve been wasting your valuable time when you ought to have been painting.  You’ll hardly get any work done now at all this morning.  I must ask you to get out at the very next station.”

The young man bowed with a crestfallen air.  “No time could possibly be wasted,” he began, with native politeness, “that was spent—­” Then he broke off quite suddenly.  “I shall certainly get out wherever you wish,” he went on, more slowly, in an altered voice; “and I sincerely regret if I’ve unwittingly done anything to annoy you in any way.  The fact is, the talk carried me away.  It was art that misled me.  I didn’t mean, I’m sure, to obtrude myself upon you.”

And even as he spoke they whisked, unawares, into the darkness of a tunnel.