The Westcotes | Page 6

it had been
admittedly dismal--its slate-coloured walls scarred and patched with

new plaster, and relieved only by a gigantic painting of the Royal Arms
on panel in a blackened frame; its ceiling garnished with four pendants
in plaster, like bride- cake ornaments inverted.
To-day, as she stepped across the threshold, Dorothea hesitated
between stopping her ears and rubbing her eyes. The place was a Babel.
Frenchmen in white paper caps and stained linen blouses were laughing,
plying their brushes, mixing paints, shifting ladders, and jabbering all
the while at the pitch of their voices. For a moment the din bewildered
her; the ferment had no more meaning, no more method, than a
schoolboy's game. But her eyes, passing over the chaos of paint-pots,
brushes, and step-ladders, told her the place had been transformed. The
ceiling between the four pendants had become a blue heaven with filmy
clouds, and Cupids scattering roses before a train of doves and a
recumbent goddess, whom a little Italian, perched on a scaffolding and
whistling shrilly, was varnishing for dear life. Around the walls--
sky-blue also--trellises of vines and pink roses clambered around the
old panels. The energy of the workmen had passed into their paintings,
or perhaps Dorothea's head swam; at any rate, the cupids and doves
seemed to be whirling across the ceiling, the vines, and roses mounting
towards it, and pushing out shoots and tendrils while they climbed.
But the panels themselves! They were nine in all: three down the long
black wall, two narrower ones at the far end, four between the orange-
curtained windows looking on the street. (The fourth wall had no panel,
being covered, by the musicians' gallery and the pillars supporting it.)
In each, framed by the vines and roses, glowed a scene of classical or
pseudo-classical splendour; golden sunsets, pale yellow skies,
landscapes cleverly imitated from recollections of Claude Lorraine,
dotted with temples and small figures in flowing drapery, with here and
there a glimpse of naked limbs. Here were Bacchus and Ariadne, with a
company of dancing revellers; Apollo and Marsyas; the Rape of Helen;
Dido welcoming Aeneas. . . . Dorothea (albeit she had often glanced
into the copy of M. Lempriere's Classical Dictionary in her brother's
library, and, besides, had picked up something of Greek and Roman
mythology in helping Narcissus) did not at once discriminate the
subjects of these panels, but her eyes rested on them with a pleasant

sense of recognition, and were still resting on them when she heard
General Rochambeau say:
"Ah, there is my genius! You must let me present him, Mademoiselle.
He will amuse you. Hi, there! Raoul!"
A young man, standing amid a group of workmen and criticising one of
the panels between the curtains, turned sharply. Almost before
Dorothea was aware, he had doffed his paper cap and the General was
introducing him.
She recognised him at once. He was the young prisoner who had nailed
the board against her brother's apple-tree.
He bowed and began at once to apologise for the state of the room. He
had expected no visitors before Wednesday. The General had played a
surprise upon him. And Miss Westcote, alas! was a critic, especially of
classical subjects.
He had heard of her drawings for her brother's book.
Dorothea blushed.
"Indeed I am no artist. Please do not talk of those drawings. If you only
knew how much I am ashamed of them. And besides, they were meant
as diagrams to help the reader, not as illustrations. But these are
beautiful."
He turned with a pleasant laugh. She had already taken note of his
voice, but his laugh was even more musical.
"Daphne pursued by Apollo," he commenced, waving his hand towards
the panel in face of her. "Be pleased to observe the lady sinking into the
bush; an effect which the ingenious painter has stolen from no less a
masterpiece than the Buisson Ardent' of Nicholas Froment."
The General fumbled for the ribbon of his gold eye-glass. M. Raoul
moved towards the next panel, and Dorothea followed him.

"Perseus entering the Garden of the Hesperides."
The painting, though slapdash, was astonishingly clever; and in this, as
in other panels, no trace of the artist's hurry appeared in the reposeful
design. Coiled about the foot of the tree, the dragon Ladon blinked an
eye lazily at three maidens pacing hand in hand in the dance, over-hung
with dark boughs and golden fruit. Behind them Perseus, with naked
sword, halted in admiration, half issuing from a thicket over which
stretched a distant bright line of sea and white cliff.
"You like it?" he asked. "But it is not quite finished yet, and
Mademoiselle, if she is frank, will say that it wants something."
His voice held a challenge.
"I am sure, sir, I could not