"It is beautiful!" said Lady Hermione, with enthusiasm. "Beautiful! Is it at all like me?"
Paul looked from her to the picture, and back to her again.
"No," he said. "Not a bit. You know, I am really a landscape painter."
"What do you mean?" she cried. "You are Peter Samways, A.R.A., the famous portrait painter!"
"No," he said sadly. "That was my secret. I am Paul Samways. A member of the Amateur Rowing Association, it is true, but only an unknown landscape painter. Peter Samways lives in the next studio, and he is not even a relation."
"Then you have deceived me! You have brought me here under false pretences!" She stamped her foot angrily. "My father will not buy that picture, and I forbid you to exhibit it as a portrait of myself."
"My dear Lady Hermione," said Paul, "you need not be alarmed. I propose to exhibit the picture as 'When the Heart is Young.' Nobody will recognise a likeness to you in it. And if the Duke does not buy it I have no doubt that some other purchaser will come along."
Lady Hermione looked at him thoughtfully. "Why did you do it?" she asked gently.
"Because I fell in love with you."
She dropped her eyes, and then raised them gaily to his. "Mother is still asleep," she whispered.
"Hermione!" he cried, dropping his palette and putting his brush behind his ear.
She held out her arms to him.
As everybody remembers, "When the Heart is Young," by Paul Samways, was the feature of the Exhibition. It was bought for £10,000 by a retired bottle–manufacturer, whom it reminded a little of his late mother. Paul woke to find himself famous. But the success which began for him from this day did not spoil his simple and generous nature. He never forgot his brother artists, whose feet were not yet on the top of the ladder. Indeed one of his first acts after he was married was to give a commission to Peter Samways, A.R.A.—nothing less than the painting of his wife's portrait. And Lady Hermione was delighted with the result.
XLVIII
The Barrister
The New Bailey was crowded with a gay and fashionable throng. It was a remarkable case of shop–lifting. Aurora Delaine, 19, was charged with feloniously stealing and conveying certain articles the property of the Universal Stores, to wit, thirty–five yards of book muslin, ten pairs of gloves, a sponge, two gimlets, five jars of cold cream, a copy of the Clergy List, three hat–guards, a mariner's compass, a box of drawing–pins, an egg–breaker, six blouses, and a cabman's whistle. The theft had been proved by Albert Jobson, a shopwalker, who gave evidence to the effect that he followed her through the different departments and saw her take the things mentioned in the indictment.
"Just a moment," interrupted the Judge. "Who is defending the prisoner?"
There was an unexpected silence. Rupert Carleton, who had dropped idly into court, looked round in sudden excitement. The poor girl had no counsel! What if he—yes, he would seize the chance! He stood up boldly. "I am, my Lord," he said.
Rupert Carleton was still in the twenties, but he had been a briefless barrister for some years. Yet, though briefs would not come, he had been very far from idle. He had stood for Parliament in both the Conservative and Liberal interests (not to mention his own), he had written half–a–dozen unproduced plays, and he was engaged to be married. But success in his own profession had been delayed. Now at last was his opportunity.
He pulled his wig down firmly over his ears, took out a pair of pince–nez and rose to cross–examine. It was the cross–examination which was to make him famous, the cross–examination which is now given as a model in every legal text–book.
"Mr. Jobson," he began suavely, "you say that you saw the accused steal these various articles, and that they were afterwards found upon her?"
"Yes."
"I put it to you," said Rupert, and waited intently for the answer, "that that is a pure invention on your part?"
"No."
With a superhuman effort Rupert hid his disappointment. Unexpected as the answer was, he preserved his impassivity.
"I suggest," he tried again, "that you followed her about and concealed this collection of things in her cloak with a view to advertising your winter sale?"
"No. I saw her steal them."
Rupert frowned; the man seemed impervious to the simplest suggestion. With masterly decision he tapped his pince–nez and fell back upon his third line of defence. "You saw her steal them? What you mean is that you saw her take them from the different counters and put them in her bag?"
"Yes."
"With the intention of paying for them in the ordinary way?"
"No."
"Please be very careful. You said in your evidence that prisoner when told she would be charged, cried, 'To think that I should have come to this! Will no one save me?' I suggest that she went up to you with her collection of purchases, pulled out her purse, and said, 'What does all this come to? I can't get any one to serve me.'"
"No."
The obstinacy of some people! Rupert put back his pince–nez in his pocket and brought out another pair. The historic cross–examination continued.
"We will let that pass for the moment," he said. He consulted a blank sheet of paper and then looked sternly at Mr. Jobson. "Mr. Jobson, how many times have you been married?"
"Once."
"Quite so." He hesitated and then decided to risk it. "I suggest that your wife left you?"
"Yes."
It was a long shot, but once again the bold course had paid. Rupert heaved a sigh of relief.
"Will you tell the gentlemen of the jury," he said with deadly politeness, "why she left you."
"She died."
A lesser man might have been embarrassed, but Rupert's iron nerve did not fail him.
"Exactly!" he said. "And was that or was that not on the night when you were turned out of the Hampstead Parliament for intoxication?"
"I never was."
"Indeed? Will you cast your mind back to the night of April 24th, 1897? What were you doing on that night?"
"I have no idea," said Jobson, after casting his mind back and waiting in vain for some result.
"In that case you cannot swear that you were not being turned out of the Hampstead Parliament―"
"But I never belonged to it."
Rupert leaped at the damaging admission.
"What? You told the Court you lived at Hampstead, and yet you say that you never belonged to the Hampstead Parliament? Is that your idea of patriotism?"
"I said I lived at Hackney."
"To the Hackney Parliament, I should say. I am suggesting that you were turned out of the Hackney Parliament―"
"I don't belong to that either."
"Exactly!" said Rupert triumphantly. "Having been turned out for intoxication?"
"And never did belong."
"Indeed? May I take it then that you prefer to spend your evenings in the public–house?"
"If you want to know," said Jobson angrily, "I belong to the Hackney Chess Circle, and that takes up most of my evenings."
Rupert gave a sigh of satisfaction and turned to the jury.
"At last, gentlemen, we have got it. I thought we should arrive at the truth in the end, in spite of Mr. Jobson's prevarications." He turned to the witness. "Now, Sir," he said sternly, "you have already told the Court that you have no idea what you were doing on the night of April 24th, 1897. I put it to you once more that this blankness of memory is due to the fact that you were in a state of intoxication on the premises of the Hackney Chess Circle. Can you swear on your oath that this is not so?"
A murmur of admiration for the relentless way in which the truth had been tracked down ran through the Court. Rupert drew himself up and put on both pairs of pince–nez at once.