“And I am to be prepared to see cat’s eyes painted there instead of my
own when I see it next?” she asked, passing by the canvas. Dick laughed. “Oh, you will hardly notice the difference,” he said. “How odd it is
that I always have detested cats so--they make me feel actually faint,
although you always reminded me of a cat.”

“You must ask your friend Mr Merwick about these metaphysical
mysteries,” said she. *       *       *       *       *

The background to the picture was at present only indicated by a few
vague splashes close to the side of the head of brilliant purple and
brilliant green, and the artist’s mouth might well water at the thought
of the few days painting that lay before him. For behind the figure in
the long panel-shaped canvas was to be painted a green trellis, over
which, almost hiding the woodwork, there was to sprawl a great purple
clematis in full flaunting glory of varnished leaf and starry flower. At
the top would be just a strip of pale summer sky, at her feet just a
strip of grey-green grass, but all the rest of the background, greatly
daring, would be this diaper of green and purple. For the purpose of
putting this in, he was going down to a small cottage of his near
Godalming, where he had built in the garden a sort of outdoor studio, an
erection betwixt a room and a mere shelter, with the side to the north
entirely open, and flanked by this green trellis which was now one
immense constellation of purple stars. Framed in this, he well knew how
the strange pale beauty of his sitter would glow on the canvas, how she
would start out of the background, she and her huge grey hat, and
shining grey dress, and yellow hair and ivory white skin and pale eyes,
now blue, now grey, now green. This was indeed a thing to look forward
to, for there is probably no such unadulterated rapture known to men as
creation, and it was small wonder that Dick’s mood, as he travelled down
to Godalming, was buoyant and effervescent. For he was going, so to
speak, to realise his creation: every purple star of clematis, every
green leaf and piece of trellis-work that he put in, would cause what he
had painted to live and shine, just as it is the layers of dusk that
fall over the sky at evening which make the stars to sparkle there,
jewel-like. His scheme was assured, he had hung his constellation--the
figure of Lady Madingley--in the sky: and now he had to surround it with
the green and purple night, so that it might shine. His garden was but a circumscribed plot, but walls of old brick
circumscribed it, and he had dealt with the space at his command with a
certain originality. At no time had his grass plot (you could scarcely
call it “lawn”) been spacious; now the outdoor studio, twenty-five feet
by thirty, took up the greater part of it. He had a solid wooden wall on
one side and two trellis walls to the south and east, which creepers
were beginning to clothe and which were faced internally by hangings of
Syrian and Oriental work. Here in the summer he passed the greater part
of the day, painting or idling, and living an outdoor existence. The
floor, which had once been grass, which had withered completely under
the roof, was covered with Persian rugs; a writing-table, and a
dining-table were there, a bookcase full of familiar friends and a
half-dozen of basket chairs. One corner, too, was frankly given up to
the affairs of the garden, and a mowing machine, a hose for watering,
shears, and spade stood there. For like many excitable persons, Dick
found that in gardening, that incessant process of plannings and
designings to suit the likings of plants, and make them gorgeous in
colour and high of growth, there was a wonderful calm haven of refuge
for the brain that had been tossing on emotional seas. Plants, too, were
receptive, so responsive to kindness; thought given to them was never
thought wasted, and to come back now after a month’s absence in London
was to be assured of fresh surprise and pleasure in each foot of
garden-bed. And here, with how regal a generosity was the purple
clematis to repay him for the care lavished on it. Every flower would
show its practical gratitude by standing model for the background of his
picture. The evening was very warm, warm not with any sultry premonition of
thunder, but with the clear, clean heat of summer, and he dined alone in
his shelter, with the after-flames of the sunset for his lamp. These
slowly faded into a sky of velvet blue, but he lingered long over his
coffee looking northwards across the garden towards the row of trees
that screened him from the house beyond. These were acacias, most
graceful and feminine of all green things that grow, summer-plumaged
now, yet still fresh of leaf. Below them ran a little raised terrace of
turf and nearer the beds of the beloved garden; clumps of sweet peas
made an inimitable fragrance, and the rose-beds were pink with _Baroness
Rothschild_ and _La France_, and copper-coloured with _Beauté
inconstante_, and the _Richardson_ rose. Then, nearer at hand, was the
green trellis foaming with purple. He was sitting there, hardly looking, but unconsciously drinking in this
great festival of colour, when his eye was arrested by a dark slinking
form that appeared among the roses, and suddenly turned two shining
luminous orbs on him. At this he started up, but his movement caused no
perturbation in the animal, which continued with back arched for
stroking, and poker-like tail, to advance towards him, purring. As it
came closer Dick felt that shuddering faintness, which often affected
him in the presence of cats, come over him, and he stamped and clapped
his hands. At this it turned tail quickly: a sort of dark shadow
streaked the garden-wall for a moment, and it vanished. But its
appearance had spoiled for him the sweet spell of the evening, and he
went indoors. The next morning was pellucid summer: a faint north wind blew, and a sun
worthy to illumine the isles of Greece flooded the sky. Dick’s dreamless
and (for him) long sleep had banished from his mind that rather
disquieting incident of the cat, and he set up his canvas facing the
trellis-work and purple clematis with a huge sense of imminent ecstasy. Also the garden, which at present he had only seen in the magic of
sunset, was gloriously rewarding, and glowed with colour, and though
life--this was present to his mind for the first time for months--in
the shape of Lady Madingley had not been very propitious, yet a man, he
argued to himself, must be a very poor hand at living if, with a passion
for plants and a passion for art, he cannot fashion a life that shall be
full of content. So breakfast being finished, and his model ready and
glowing with beauty, he quickly sketched in the broad lines of flowers
and foliage and began to paint. Purple and green, green and purple: was there ever such a feast for the
eye? Gourmet like and greedy as well, he was utterly absorbed in it.