is–yes, I’m willing to put it so!–how much safer to leave everything undisturbed . . . just as . . . as it has grown of itself . . . without trying to say: ‘It’s this or that’ . . . ? It’s what we each choose to call it to ourselves, after all, isn’t it? Don’t let us try to find a name that . . . that we should both agree upon . . . we probably shouldn’t succeed.” She laughed abruptly. “And ghosts vanish when one names them!” she ended with a break in her voice.
When she ceased her heart was beating so violently that there was a rush in her ears like the noise of the river after rain, and she did not immediately make out what he was answering. But as she recovered her lucidity she said to herself that, whatever he was saying, she must not hear it; and she began to speak again, half playfully, half appealingly, with an eloquence of entreaty, an ingenuity in argument, of which she had never dreamed herself capable. And then, suddenly, strangling hands seemed to reach up from her heart to her throat, and she had to stop.
Her companion remained motionless. He had not tried to regain her hand, and his eyes were away from her, on the river. But his nearness had become something formidable and exquisite–something she had never before imagined. A flush of guilt swept over her–vague reminiscences of French novels and of opera plots. This was what such women felt, then . . . this was “shame.” . . . Phrases of the newspaper and the pulpit danced before her. . . . She dared not speak, and his silence began to frighten her. Had ever a heart beat so wildly before in Wentworth?
He turned at last, and taking her two hands, quite simply, kissed them one after the other.
“I shall never forget–” he said in a confused voice, unlike his own.
A return of strength enabled her to rise, and even to let her eyes meet his for a moment.
“Thank you,” she said, simply also.
She turned away from the bench, regaining the path that led back to the college buildings, and he walked beside her in silence. When they reached the elm walk it was dotted with dispersing groups. The “speaking” was over, and Hamblin Hall had poured its audience out into the moonlight. Margaret felt a rush of relief, followed by a receding wave of regret. She had the distinct sensation that her hour–her one hour–was over.
One of the groups just ahead broke up as they approached, and projected Ransom’s solid bulk against the moonlight.
“My husband,” she said, hastening forward; and she never afterward forgot the look of his back–heavy, round-shouldered, yet a little pompous–in a badly fitting overcoat that stood out at the neck and hid his collar. She had never before noticed how he dressed.
IV
THEY met again, inevitably, before Dawnish left; but the thing she feared did not happen–he did not try to see her alone.
It even became clear to her, in looking back, that he had deliberately avoided doing so; and this seemed merely an added proof of his “understanding,” of that deep undefinable communion that set them alone in an empty world, as if on a peak above the clouds.
The five days passed in a flash; and when the last one came, it brought to Margaret Ransom an hour of weakness, of profound disorganization, when old barriers fell, old convictions faded–when to be alone with him for a moment became, after all, the one craving of her heart. She knew he was coming that afternoon to say “good-by”–and she knew also that Ransom was to be away at South Wentworth. She waited alone in her pale little drawing- room, with its scant kakemonos, its one or two chilly reproductions from the antique, its slippery Chippendale chairs. At length the bell rang, and her world became a rosy blur–through which she presently discerned the austere form of Mrs. Sperry, wife of the Professor of palaeontology, who had come to talk over with her the next winter’s programme for the Higher Thought Club. They debated the question for an hour, and when Mrs. Sperry departed Margaret had a confused impression that the course was to deal with the influence of the First Crusade on the development of European architecture–but the sentient part of her knew only that Dawnish had not come.
He “bobbed in,” as he would have put it, after dinner–having, it appeared, run across Ransom early in the day, and learned that the latter would be absent till evening. Margaret was in the study with her husband when the door opened and Dawnish stood there. Ransom–who had not had time to dress–was seated at his desk, a pile of shabby law books at his elbow, the light from a hanging lamp falling on his grayish stubble of hair, his sallow forehead and spectacled eyes. Dawnish, towering higher than usual against the shadows of the room, and refined by his unusual pallor, hung a moment on the threshold, then came in, explaining himself profusely–laughing, accepting a cigar, letting Ransom push an arm-chair forward–a Dawnish she had never seen, ill at ease, ejaculatory, yet somehow more mature, more obscurely in command of himself.
Margaret drew back, seating herself in the shade, in such a way that she saw her husband’s head first, and beyond it their visitor’s, relieved against the dusk of the book shelves. Her heart was still–she felt no throbbing in her throat or temples: all her life seemed concentrated in the hand that lay on her knee, the hand he would touch when they said good-by.
Afterward her heart rang all the changes, and there was a mood in which she reproached herself for cowardice–for having deliberately missed her one moment with him, the moment in which she might have sounded the depths of life, for joy or anguish. But that mood was fleeting and infrequent. In quieter hours she blushed for it–she even trembled to think that he might have guessed such a regret in her. It seemed to convict her of a lack of fineness that he should have had, in his youth and his power, a tenderer, surer sense of the peril of a rash touch–should have handled the case so much more delicately.
At first her days were fire and the nights long solemn vigils. Her thoughts were no longer vulgarized and defaced by any notion of “guilt,” of mental disloyalty. She was ashamed now of her shame. What had happened was as much outside the sphere of her marriage as some transaction in a star. It had simply given her a secret life of incommunicable joys, as if all the wasted springs of her youth had been stored in some hidden pool, and she could return there now to bathe in them.
After that there came a phase of loneliness, through which the life about her loomed phantasmal and remote. She thought the dead must feel thus, repeating the vain gestures of the living beside some Stygian shore. She wondered if any other woman had lived to whom _nothing had ever happened?_ And then his first letter came. . . .
It was a charming letter–a perfect letter. The little touch of awkwardness and constraint under its boyish spontaneity told her more than whole pages of eloquence. He spoke of their friendship–of their good days together. . . . Ransom, chancing to come in while she read, noticed the foreign stamps; and she was able to hand him the letter, saying gaily: “There’s a message for you,” and knowing all the while that _her_ message was safe in her heart.
On the days when the letters came the outlines of things grew indistinct, and she could never afterward remember what she had done or how the business of life had been carried on. It was always a surprise when she found dinner on the table as usual, and Ransom seated opposite to her, running over the evening paper.
But though Dawnish continued to write, with all the English loyalty to the outward observances of friendship, his communications came only at intervals of several weeks, and between them she had time to repossess herself, to regain some sort of normal contact with life. And the customary, the recurring, gradually reclaimed her, the net of habit tightened again–her daily life became real, and her one momentary escape from it an exquisite illusion. Not that she ceased to believe in the miracle that had befallen her: she still treasured the reality of her one moment beside the river. What reason was there for doubting it? She could hear the ring of truth in young Dawnish’s voice: “It’s not my fault if you’ve made me feel that you would understand everything. . . .” No! she believed in her miracle, and the belief sweetened and illumined her life; but she came to see that what was for her the transformation of her whole being might well have been, for her companion, a mere passing explosion of gratitude, of boyish good-fellowship touched with the pang of leave-taking. She even reached the point of telling herself that it was “better so”: this view of the episode so defended it from the alternating extremes of self-reproach and derision, so enshrined it in a pale immortality to which she could make her secret pilgrimages without reproach.
For a long time she had not been able to pass by the bench under the willows–she even avoided the elm walk till autumn had stripped its branches. But every day, now, she noted a step toward recovery; and at last a day came when, walking along the river, she said to herself, as she approached the bench: “I used not to be able to pass here without thinking of him; _and now I am not thinking of him at all!_”
This seemed such convincing proof of her recovery that she began, as spring returned, to permit herself, now and then, a quiet session on the bench–a dedicated hour from which she went back fortified to her task.
She had not heard from her friend for six weeks or more–the intervals between his letters were growing longer. But that was “best” too, and she was not anxious, for she knew he had obtained the post he had been preparing for, and that his active life in London had begun. The thought reminded her, one mild March day, that in leaving the house she had thrust in her reticule a letter from a Wentworth friend who was abroad on a holiday. The envelope bore the London post mark, a fact showing that the lady’s face was turned toward home. Margaret seated herself on her bench, and drawing out the letter began to read it.
The London described was that of shops and museums–as remote as possible from the setting of Guy Dawnish’s existence. But suddenly Margaret’s eye fell on his name, and the page began to tremble in her hands.
“I heard such a funny thing yesterday about your friend Mr. Dawnish. We went to a tea at Professor Bunce’s (I do wish you knew the Bunces–their atmosphere is so _uplifting_), and there I met that Miss Bruce-Pringle who came out last year to take a course in histology at the Annex. Of course she asked about you and Mr. Ransom, and then she told me she had just seen Mr. Dawnish’s aunt–the clever one he was always talking about, Lady Caroline something–and that they were all in a dreadful state about him. I wonder if you knew he was engaged when he went to America? He never mentioned it to _us_. She said it was not a positive engagement, but an understanding with a girl he has always been devoted to, who lives near their place in Wiltshire; and both families expected the marriage to take place as soon as he got back. It seems the girl is an heiress (you know _how low_ the English ideals are compared with ours), and Miss Bruce-Pringle said his relations were perfectly delighted at his ‘being provided for,’ as she called it. Well, when he got back he asked the girl to release him; and she and her family were furious, and so were his people; but he holds out, and won’t marry her, and won’t give a reason, except that he has ‘formed an unfortunate attachment.’ Did you ever hear anything so peculiar? His aunt, who is quite wild about it, says it must have happened at Wentworth, because he didn’t go anywhere else in America. Do you suppose it _could_ have been the Brant girl? But why ‘unfortunate’ when everybody knows she would have jumped at him?”
Margaret folded the letter and looked out across the river. It was not the same river, but a mystic current shot with moonlight. The bare willows wove a leafy veil above her head, and beside her she felt the nearness of youth and tempestuous tenderness. It had all happened just here, on this very seat by the river–it had come to her, and passed her by, and she had not held out a hand to detain it. . . .
Well! Was it not, by that very abstention, made more deeply and ineffaceably hers? She could argue thus while she had thought the episode, on his side, a mere transient effect of propinquity; but now that she knew it had altered the whole course of his life, now that it took on substance and reality, asserted a separate existence outside of her own troubled consciousness–now it seemed almost cowardly to have missed her share in it.
She walked home in a dream. Now and then, when she passed an acquaintance, she wondered if the pain and glory were written on her face. But Mrs. Sperry, who stopped her at the corner of Maverick Street to say a word about the next meeting of the Higher Thought Club, seemed to remark no change in her.
When she reached home Ransom had not yet returned from the office, and she went straight to the library to tidy his writing-table. It was part of her daily duty to bring order out of the chaos of his papers, and of late she had fastened on such small recurring tasks as some one falling over a precipice might snatch at the weak bushes in its clefts.
When she had sorted the letters she took up some pamphlets and newspapers, glancing over them to see if they were to be kept. Among the papers was a page torn from a London _Times_ of the previous month. Her eye ran down its columns and suddenly a paragraph flamed out.
“We are requested to state that the marriage arranged between Mr. Guy Dawnish, son of the late Colonel the Hon. Roderick Dawnish, of Malby, Wilts, and Gwendolen, daughter of Samuel Matcher, Esq. of Armingham Towers, Wilts, will not take place.”
Margaret dropped the paper and sat down, hiding her face against the stained baize of the desk. She remembered the photograph of the tennis-court at Guise–she remembered the handsome girl at whom Guy Dawnish looked up, laughing. A gust of tears shook her, loosening the dry surface of conventional feeling, welling up from unsuspected depths. She was sorry–very sorry, yet so glad–so ineffably, impenitently glad.
V
THERE came a reaction in which she decided to write to him. She even sketched out a letter of sisterly, almost motherly, remonstrance, in which she reminded him that he “still had all his life before him.” But she reflected that so, after all, had she; and that seemed to weaken the argument.
In the end she decided not to send the letter. He had never spoken to her of his engagement to Gwendolen Matcher, and his letters had contained no allusion to any sentimental disturbance in his life. She had only his few broken words, that night by the river, on which to build her theory of the case. But illuminated by the phrase “an unfortunate attachment” the theory towered up, distinct and immovable, like some high landmark by which travellers shape their course. She had been loved–extraordinarily loved. But he had chosen that she should know of it by his silence rather than by his speech. He had understood that only on those terms could their transcendant communion continue–that he must lose her to keep her. To break that silence would be like spilling a cup of water in a waste of sand. There would be nothing left for her thirst.
Her life, thenceforward, was bathed in a tranquil beauty. The days flowed by like a river beneath the moon–each ripple caught the brightness and passed it on. She began to take a renewed interest in her familiar round of duties. The tasks which had once seemed colourless and irksome had now a kind of sacrificial sweetness, a symbolic meaning into which she alone was initiated. She had been restless–had longed to travel; now she felt that she should never again care to leave Wentworth. But if her desire to wander had ceased, she travelled in spirit, performing invisible pilgrimages in the footsteps of her friend. She regretted that her one short visit to England had taken her so little out of London–that her acquaintance with the landscape had been formed chiefly through the windows of a railway carriage. She threw herself into the architectural studies of the Higher Thought Club, and distinguished herself, at the spring meetings, by her fluency, her competence, her inexhaustible curiosity on the subject of the growth of English Gothic. She ransacked the shelves of the college library, she borrowed photographs of the cathedrals, she pored over the folio pages of “The Seats of Noblemen and Gentlemen.” She was like some banished princess who learns that she has inherited a domain in her own country, who knows that she will never see it, yet feels, wherever she walks, its soil beneath her feet.
May was half over, and the Higher Thought Club was to hold its last meeting, previous to the college festivities which, in early June, agreeably disorganized the social routine of Wentworth. The meeting was to take place in Margaret Ransom’s drawing-room, and on the day before she sat upstairs preparing for her dual duties as hostess and orator–for she had been invited to read the final paper of the course. In order to sum up with precision her conclusions on the subject of English Gothic she had been rereading an analysis of the structural features of the principal English cathedrals; and she was murmuring over to herself the phrase: “The longitudinal arches of Lincoln have an approximately elliptical form,” when there came a knock on the door, and Maria’s voice announced: “There’s a lady down in the parlour.”
Margaret’s soul dropped from the heights of the shadowy vaulting to the dead level of an afternoon call at Wentworth.
“A lady? Did she give no name?”
Maria became confused. “She only said she was a lady–” and in reply to her mistress’s look of mild surprise: “Well, ma’am, she told me so three or four times over.”
Margaret laid her book down, leaving it open at the description of Lincoln, and slowly descended the stairs. As she did so, she repeated to herself: “The longitudinal arches are elliptical.”
On the threshold below, she had the odd impression that her bare and inanimate drawing-room was brimming with life and noise–an impression produced, as she presently perceived, by the resolute forward dash–it was almost a pounce–of the one small figure restlessly measuring its length.
The dash checked itself within a yard of Margaret, and the lady–a stranger–held back long enough to stamp on her hostess a sharp impression of sallowness, leanness, keenness, before she said, in a voice that might have been addressing an unruly committee meeting: “I am Lady Caroline Duckett–a fact I found it impossible to make clear to the young woman who let me in.”
A warm wave rushed up from Margaret’s heart to her throat and forehead. She held out both hands impulsively. “Oh, I’m so glad–I’d no idea–“
Her voice sank under her visitor’s impartial scrutiny.
“I don’t wonder,” said the latter drily. “I suppose she didn’t mention, either, that my object in calling here was to see Mrs. Ransom?”
“Oh, yes–won’t you sit down?” Margaret pushed a chair forward. She seated herself at a little distance, brain and heart humming with a confused interchange of signals. This dark sharp woman was his aunt–the “clever aunt” who had had such a hard life, but had always managed to keep her head above water. Margaret remembered that Guy had spoken of her kindness–perhaps she would seem kinder when they had talked together a little. Meanwhile the first impression she produced was of an amplitude out of all proportion to her somewhat scant exterior. With her small flat figure, her shabby heterogeneous dress, she was as dowdy as any Professor’s wife at Wentworth; but her dowdiness (Margaret borrowed a literary analogy to define it), her dowdiness was somehow “of the centre.” Like the insignificant emissary of a great power, she was to be judged rather by her passports than her person.
While Margaret was receiving these impressions, Lady Caroline, with quick bird-like twists of her head, was gathering others from the pale void spaces of the drawing-room. Her eyes, divided by a sharp nose like a bill, seemed to be set far enough apart to see at separate angles; but suddenly she bent both of them on Margaret.
“This _is_ Mrs. Ransom’s house?” she asked, with an emphasis on the verb that gave a distinct hint of unfulfilled expectations.
Margaret assented.
“Because your American houses, especially in the provincial towns, all look so remarkably alike, that I thought I might have been mistaken; and as my time is extremely limited–in fact I’m sailing on Wednesday–“
She paused long enough to let Margaret say: “I had no idea you were in this country.”
Lady Caroline made no attempt to take this up. “And so much of it,” she carried on her sentence, “has been wasted in talking to people I really hadn’t the slightest desire to see, that you must excuse me if I go straight to the point.”
Margaret felt a sudden tension of the heart. “Of course,” she said while a voice within her cried: “He is dead–he has left me a message.”
There was another pause; then Lady Caroline went on, with increasing asperity: “So that–in short–if I _could_ see Mrs. Ransom at once–“
Margaret looked up in surprise. “I am Mrs. Ransom,” she said.
The other stared a moment, with much the same look of cautious incredulity that had marked her inspection of the drawing-room. Then light came to her.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I should have said that I wished to see Mrs. _Robert_ Ransom, not Mrs. Ransom. But I understood that in the States you don’t make those distinctions.” She paused a moment, and then went on, before Margaret could answer: “Perhaps, after all, it’s as well that I should see you instead, since you’re evidently one of the household–your son and his wife live with you, I suppose? Yes, on the whole, then, it’s better–I shall be able to talk so much more frankly.” She spoke as if, as a rule, circumstances prevented her giving rein to this propensity. “And frankness, of course, is the only way out of this–this extremely tiresome complication. You know, I suppose, that my nephew thinks he’s in love with your daughter-in-law?”
Margaret made a slight movement, but her visitor pressed on without heeding it. “Oh, don’t fancy, please, that I’m pretending to take a high moral ground–though his mother does, poor dear! I can perfectly imagine that in a place like this–I’ve just been driving about it for two hours–a young man of Guy’s age would _have_ to provide himself with some sort of distraction, and he’s not the kind to go in for anything objectionable. Oh, we quite allow for that–we should allow for the whole affair, if it hadn’t so preposterously ended in his throwing over the girl he was engaged to, and upsetting an arrangement that affected a number of people besides himself. I understand that in the States it’s different–the young people have only themselves to consider. In England–in our class, I mean–a great deal may depend on a young man’s making a good match; and in Guy’s case I may say that his mother and sisters (I won’t include myself, though I might) have been simply stranded–thrown overboard–by his freak. You can understand how serious it is when I tell you that it’s that and nothing else that has brought me all the way to America. And my first idea was to go straight to your daughter-in-law, since her influence is the only thing we can count on now, and put it to her fairly, as I’m putting it to you. But, on the whole, I dare say it’s better to see you first–you might give me an idea of the line to take with her. I’m prepared to throw myself on her mercy!”
Margaret rose from her chair, outwardly rigid in proportion to her inward tremor.
“You don’t understand–” she began.
Lady Caroline brushed the interruption aside. “Oh, but I do–completely! I cast no reflection on your daughter-in-law. Guy has made it quite clear to us that his attachment is–has, in short, not been rewarded. But don’t you see that that’s the worst part of it? There’d be much more hope of his recovering if Mrs. Robert Ransom had–had–“
Margaret’s voice broke from her in a cry. “I am Mrs. Robert Ransom,” she said.
If Lady Caroline Duckett had hitherto given her hostess the impression of a person not easily silenced, this fact added sensibly to the effect produced by the intense stillness which now fell on her.
She sat quite motionless, her large bangled hands clasped about the meagre fur boa she had unwound from her neck on entering, her rusty black veil pushed up to the edge of a “fringe” of doubtful authenticity, her thin lips parted on a gasp that seemed to sharpen itself on the edges of her teeth. So overwhelming and helpless was her silence that Margaret began to feel a motion of pity beneath her indignation–a desire at least to facilitate the excuses which must terminate their disastrous colloquy. But when Lady Caroline found voice she did not use it to excuse herself.
“You _can’t_ be,” she said, quite simply.
“Can’t be?” Margaret stammered, with a flushing cheek.
“I mean, it’s some mistake. Are there _two_ Mrs. Robert Ransoms in the same town? Your family arrangements are so extremely puzzling.” She had a farther rush of enlightenment. “Oh, I _see!_ I ought of course to have asked for Mrs. Robert Ransom ‘Junior’!”
The idea sent her to her feet with a haste which showed her impatience to make up for lost time.
“There is no other Mrs. Robert Ransom at Wentworth,” said Margaret.
“No other–no ‘Junior’? Are you _sure?_” Lady Caroline fell back into her seat again. “Then I simply don’t see,” she murmured helplessly.
Margaret’s blush had fixed itself on her throbbing forehead. She remained standing, while her strange visitor continued to gaze at her with a perturbation in which the consciousness of indiscretion had evidently as yet no part.
“I simply don’t see,” she repeated.
Suddenly she sprang up, and advancing to Margaret laid an inspired hand on her arm. “But, my dear woman, you can help us out all the same; you can help us to find out _who it is_–and you will, won’t you? Because, as it’s not you, you can’t in the least mind what I’ve been saying–“
Margaret, freeing her arm from her visitor’s hold, drew back a step; but Lady Caroline instantly rejoined her.
“Of course, I can see that if it _had_ been, you might have been annoyed: I dare say I put the case stupidly–but I’m so bewildered by this new development–by his using you all this time as a pretext–that I really don’t know where to turn for light on the mystery–“
She had Margaret in her imperious grasp again, but the latter broke from her with a more resolute gesture.
“I’m afraid I have no light to give you,” she began; but once more Lady Caroline caught her up.
“Oh, but do please understand me! I condemn Guy most strongly for using your name–when we all know you’d been so amazingly kind to him! I haven’t a word to say in his defence–but of course the important thing now is: _who is the woman, since you’re not?_”
The question rang out loudly, as if all the pale puritan corners of the room flung it back with a shudder at the speaker. In the silence that ensued Margaret felt the blood ebbing back to her heart; then she said, in a distinct and level voice: “I know nothing of the history of Mr. Dawnish.”
Lady Caroline gave a stare and a gasp. Her distracted hand groped for her boa and she began to wind it mechanically about her long neck.
“It would really be an enormous help to us–and to poor Gwendolen Matcher,” she persisted pleadingly. “And you’d be doing Guy himself a good turn.”
Margaret remained silent and motionless while her visitor drew on one of the worn gloves she had pulled off to adjust her veil. Lady Caroline gave the veil a final twitch.
“I’ve come a tremendously long way,” she said, “and, since it isn’t you, I can’t think why you won’t help me. . . .”
When the door had closed on her visitor Margaret Ransom went slowly up the stairs to her room. As she dragged her feet from one step to another, she remembered how she had sprung up the same steep flight after that visit of Guy Dawnish’s when she had looked in the glass and seen on her face the blush of youth.
When she reached her room she bolted the door as she had done that day, and again looked at herself in the narrow mirror above her dressing-table. It was just a year since then–the elms were budding again, the willows hanging their green veil above the bench by the river. But there was no trace of youth left in her face–she saw it now as others had doubtless always seen it. If it seemed as it did to Lady Caroline Duckett, what look must it have worn to the fresh gaze of young Guy Dawnish?
A pretext–she had been a pretext. He had used her name to screen some one else–or perhaps merely to escape from a situation of which he was weary. She did not care to conjecture what his motive had been–everything connected with him had grown so remote and alien. She felt no anger–only an unspeakable sadness, a sadness which she knew would never be appeased.
She looked at herself long and steadily; she wished to clear her eyes of all illusions. Then she turned away and took her usual seat beside her work-table. From where she sat she could look down the empty elm-shaded street, up which, at this hour every day, she was sure to see her husband’s figure advancing. She would see it presently–she would see it for many years to come. She had a sudden aching sense of the length of the years that stretched before her. Strange that one who was not young should still, in all likelihood, have so long to live!
Nothing was changed in the setting of her life, perhaps nothing would ever change in it. She would certainly live and die in Wentworth. And meanwhile the days would go on as usual, bringing the usual obligations. As the word flitted through her brain she remembered that she had still to put the finishing touches to the paper she was to read the next afternoon at the meeting of the Higher Thought Club.
The book she had been reading lay face downward beside her, where she had left it an hour ago. She took it up, and slowly and painfully, like a child laboriously spelling out the syllables, she went on with the rest of the sentence:
–“and they spring from a level not much above that of the springing of the transverse and diagonal ribs, which are so arranged as to give a convex curve to the surface of the vaulting conoid.”
THE VERDICT
I HAD always thought Jack Gisburn rather a cheap genius–though a good fellow enough–so it was no great surprise to me to hear that, in the height of his glory, he had dropped his painting, married a rich widow, and established himself in a villa on the Riviera. (Though I rather thought it would have been Rome or Florence.)
“The height of his glory”–that was what the women called it. I can hear Mrs. Gideon Thwing–his last Chicago sitter–deploring his unaccountable abdication. “Of course it’s going to send the value of my picture ‘way up; but I don’t think of that, Mr. Rickham–the loss to Arrt is all I think of.” The word, on Mrs. Thwing’s lips, multiplied its _rs_ as though they were reflected in an endless vista of mirrors. And it was not only the Mrs. Thwings who mourned. Had not the exquisite Hermia Croft, at the last Grafton Gallery show, stopped me before Gisburn’s “Moon-dancers” to say, with tears in her eyes: “We shall not look upon its like again”?
Well!–even through the prism of Hermia’s tears I felt able to face the fact with equanimity. Poor Jack Gisburn! The women had made him–it was fitting that they should mourn him. Among his own sex fewer regrets were heard, and in his own trade hardly a murmur. Professional jealousy? Perhaps. If it were, the honour of the craft was vindicated by little Claude Nutley, who, in all good faith, brought out in the Burlington a very handsome “obituary” on Jack–one of those showy articles stocked with random technicalities that I have heard (I won’t say by whom) compared to Gisburn’s painting. And so–his resolve being apparently irrevocable–the discussion gradually died out, and, as Mrs. Thwing had predicted, the price of “Gisburns” went up.
It was not till three years later that, in the course of a few weeks’ idling on the Riviera, it suddenly occurred to me to wonder why Gisburn had given up his painting. On reflection, it really was a tempting problem. To accuse his wife would have been too easy–his fair sitters had been denied the solace of saying that Mrs. Gisburn had “dragged him down.” For Mrs. Gisburn–as such–had not existed till nearly a year after Jack’s resolve had been taken. It might be that he had married her–since he liked his ease–because he didn’t want to go on painting; but it would have been hard to prove that he had given up his painting because he had married her.
Of course, if she had not dragged him down, she had equally, as Miss Croft contended, failed to “lift him up”–she had not led him back to the easel. To put the brush into his hand again–what a vocation for a wife! But Mrs. Gisburn appeared to have disdained it–and I felt it might be interesting to find out why.
The desultory life of the Riviera lends itself to such purely academic speculations; and having, on my way to Monte Carlo, caught a glimpse of Jack’s balustraded terraces between the pines, I had myself borne thither the next day.
I found the couple at tea beneath their palm-trees; and Mrs. Gisburn’s welcome was so genial that, in the ensuing weeks, I claimed it frequently. It was not that my hostess was “interesting”: on that point I could have given Miss Croft the fullest reassurance. It was just because she was _not_ interesting–if I may be pardoned the bull–that I found her so. For Jack, all his life, had been surrounded by interesting women: they had fostered his art, it had been reared in the hot-house of their adulation. And it was therefore instructive to note what effect the “deadening atmosphere of mediocrity” (I quote Miss Croft) was having on him.
I have mentioned that Mrs. Gisburn was rich; and it was immediately perceptible that her husband was extracting from this circumstance a delicate but substantial satisfaction. It is, as a rule, the people who scorn money who get most out of it; and Jack’s elegant disdain of his wife’s big balance enabled him, with an appearance of perfect good-breeding, to transmute it into objects of art and luxury. To the latter, I must add, he remained relatively indifferent; but he was buying Renaissance bronzes and eighteenth-century pictures with a discrimination that bespoke the amplest resources.
“Money’s only excuse is to put beauty into circulation,” was one of the axioms he laid down across the Sevres and silver of an exquisitely appointed luncheon-table, when, on a later day, I had again run over from Monte Carlo; and Mrs. Gisburn, beaming on him, added for my enlightenment: “Jack is so morbidly sensitive to every form of beauty.”
Poor Jack! It had always been his fate to have women say such things of him: the fact should be set down in extenuation. What struck me now was that, for the first time, he resented the tone. I had seen him, so often, basking under similar tributes–was it the conjugal note that robbed them of their savour? No–for, oddly enough, it became apparent that he was fond of Mrs. Gisburn–fond enough not to see her absurdity. It was his own absurdity he seemed to be wincing under–his own attitude as an object for garlands and incense.
“My dear, since I’ve chucked painting people don’t say that stuff about me–they say it about Victor Grindle,” was his only protest, as he rose from the table and strolled out onto the sunlit terrace.
I glanced after him, struck by his last word. Victor Grindle was, in fact, becoming the man of the moment–as Jack himself, one might put it, had been the man of the hour. The younger artist was said to have formed himself at my friend’s feet, and I wondered if a tinge of jealousy underlay the latter’s mysterious abdication. But no–for it was not till after that event that the _rose Dubarry_ drawing-rooms had begun to display their “Grindles.”
I turned to Mrs. Gisburn, who had lingered to give a lump of sugar to her spaniel in the dining-room.
“Why _has_ he chucked painting?” I asked abruptly.
She raised her eyebrows with a hint of good-humoured surprise.
“Oh, he doesn’t _have_ to now, you know; and I want him to enjoy himself,” she said quite simply.
I looked about the spacious white-panelled room, with its _famille-verte_ vases repeating the tones of the pale damask curtains, and its eighteenth-century pastels in delicate faded frames.
“Has he chucked his pictures too? I haven’t seen a single one in the house.”
A slight shade of constraint crossed Mrs. Gisburn’s open countenance. “It’s his ridiculous modesty, you know. He says they’re not fit to have about; he’s sent them all away except one–my portrait–and that I have to keep upstairs.”
His ridiculous modesty–Jack’s modesty about his pictures? My curiosity was growing like the bean-stalk. I said persuasively to my hostess: “I must really see your portrait, you know.”
She glanced out almost timorously at the terrace where her husband, lounging in a hooded chair, had lit a cigar and drawn the Russian deerhound’s head between his knees.
“Well, come while he’s not looking,” she said, with a laugh that tried to hide her nervousness; and I followed her between the marble Emperors of the hall, and up the wide stairs with terra-cotta nymphs poised among flowers at each landing.
In the dimmest corner of her boudoir, amid a profusion of delicate and distinguished objects, hung one of the familiar oval canvases, in the inevitable garlanded frame. The mere outline of the frame called up all Gisburn’s past!
Mrs. Gisburn drew back the window-curtains, moved aside a _jardiniere_ full of pink azaleas, pushed an arm-chair away, and said: “If you stand here you can just manage to see it. I had it over the mantel-piece, but he wouldn’t let it stay.”
Yes–I could just manage to see it–the first portrait of Jack’s I had ever had to strain my eyes over! Usually they had the place of honour–say the central panel in a pale yellow or _rose Dubarry_ drawing-room, or a monumental easel placed so that it took the light through curtains of old Venetian point. The more modest place became the picture better; yet, as my eyes grew accustomed to the half-light, all the characteristic qualities came out–all the hesitations disguised as audacities, the tricks of prestidigitation by which, with such consummate skill, he managed to divert attention from the real business of the picture to some pretty irrelevance of detail. Mrs. Gisburn, presenting a neutral surface to work on–forming, as it were, so inevitably the background of her own picture–had lent herself in an unusual degree to the display of this false virtuosity. The picture was one of Jack’s “strongest,” as his admirers would have put it–it represented, on his part, a swelling of muscles, a congesting of veins, a balancing, straddling and straining, that reminded one of the circus-clown’s ironic efforts to lift a feather. It met, in short, at every point the demand of lovely woman to be painted “strongly” because she was tired of being painted “sweetly”–and yet not to lose an atom of the sweetness.
“It’s the last he painted, you know,” Mrs. Gisburn said with pardonable pride. “The last but one,” she corrected herself–“but the other doesn’t count, because he destroyed it.”
“Destroyed it?” I was about to follow up this clue when I heard a footstep and saw Jack himself on the threshold.
As he stood there, his hands in the pockets of his velveteen coat, the thin brown waves of hair pushed back from his white forehead, his lean sunburnt cheeks furrowed by a smile that lifted the tips of a self-confident moustache, I felt to what a degree he had the same quality as his pictures–the quality of looking cleverer than he was.
His wife glanced at him deprecatingly, but his eyes travelled past her to the portrait.
“Mr. Rickham wanted to see it,” she began, as if excusing herself. He shrugged his shoulders, still smiling.
“Oh, Rickham found me out long ago,” he said lightly; then, passing his arm through mine: “Come and see the rest of the house.”
He showed it to me with a kind of naive suburban pride: the bath-rooms, the speaking-tubes, the dress-closets, the trouser-presses–all the complex simplifications of the millionaire’s domestic economy. And whenever my wonder paid the expected tribute he said, throwing out his chest a little: “Yes, I really don’t see how people manage to live without that.”
Well–it was just the end one might have foreseen for him. Only he was, through it all and in spite of it all–as he had been through, and in spite of, his pictures–so handsome, so charming, so disarming, that one longed to cry out: “Be dissatisfied with your leisure!” as once one had longed to say: “Be dissatisfied with your work!”
But, with the cry on my lips, my diagnosis suffered an unexpected check.
“This is my own lair,” he said, leading me into a dark plain room at the end of the florid vista. It was square and brown and leathery: no “effects”; no bric-a-brac, none of the air of posing for reproduction in a picture weekly–above all, no least sign of ever having been used as a studio.
The fact brought home to me the absolute finality of Jack’s break with his old life.
“Don’t you ever dabble with paint any more?” I asked, still looking about for a trace of such activity.
“Never,” he said briefly.
“Or water-colour–or etching?”
His confident eyes grew dim, and his cheeks paled a little under their handsome sunburn.
“Never think of it, my dear fellow–any more than if I’d never touched a brush.”
And his tone told me in a flash that he never thought of anything else.
I moved away, instinctively embarrassed by my unexpected discovery; and as I turned, my eye fell on a small picture above the mantel-piece–the only object breaking the plain oak panelling of the room.
“Oh, by Jove!” I said.
It was a sketch of a donkey–an old tired donkey, standing in the rain under a wall.
“By Jove–a Stroud!” I cried.
He was silent; but I felt him close behind me, breathing a little quickly.
“What a wonder! Made with a dozen lines–but on everlasting foundations. You lucky chap, where did you get it?”
He answered slowly: “Mrs. Stroud gave it to me.”
“Ah–I didn’t know you even knew the Strouds. He was such an inflexible hermit.”
“I didn’t–till after. . . . She sent for me to paint him when he was dead.”
“When he was dead? You?”
I must have let a little too much amazement escape through my surprise, for he answered with a deprecating laugh: “Yes–she’s an awful simpleton, you know, Mrs. Stroud. Her only idea was to have him done by a fashionable painter–ah, poor Stroud! She thought it the surest way of proclaiming his greatness–of forcing it on a purblind public. And at the moment I was _the_ fashionable painter.”
“Ah, poor Stroud–as you say. Was _that_ his history?”
“That was his history. She believed in him, gloried in him–or thought she did. But she couldn’t bear not to have all the drawing-rooms with her. She couldn’t bear the fact that, on varnishing days, one could always get near enough to see his pictures. Poor woman! She’s just a fragment groping for other fragments. Stroud is the only whole I ever knew.”
“You ever knew? But you just said–“
Gisburn had a curious smile in his eyes.
“Oh, I knew him, and he knew me–only it happened after he was dead.”
I dropped my voice instinctively. “When she sent for you?”
“Yes–quite insensible to the irony. She wanted him vindicated–and by me!”
He laughed again, and threw back his head to look up at the sketch of the donkey. “There were days when I couldn’t look at that thing–couldn’t face it. But I forced myself to put it here; and now it’s cured me–cured me. That’s the reason why I don’t dabble any more, my dear Rickham; or rather Stroud himself is the reason.”
For the first time my idle curiosity about my companion turned into a serious desire to understand him better.
“I wish you’d tell me how it happened,” I said.
He stood looking up at the sketch, and twirling between his fingers a cigarette he had forgotten to light. Suddenly he turned toward me.
“I’d rather like to tell you–because I’ve always suspected you of loathing my work.”
I made a deprecating gesture, which he negatived with a good-humoured shrug.
“Oh, I didn’t care a straw when I believed in myself–and now it’s an added tie between us!”
He laughed slightly, without bitterness, and pushed one of the deep arm-chairs forward. “There: make yourself comfortable–and here are the cigars you like.”
He placed them at my elbow and continued to wander up and down the room, stopping now and then beneath the picture.
“How it happened? I can tell you in five minutes–and it didn’t take much longer to happen. . . . I can remember now how surprised and pleased I was when I got Mrs. Stroud’s note. Of course, deep down, I had always _felt_ there was no one like him–only I had gone with the stream, echoed the usual platitudes about him, till I half got to think he was a failure, one of the kind that are left behind. By Jove, and he _was_ left behind–because he had come to stay! The rest of us had to let ourselves be swept along or go under, but he was high above the current–on everlasting foundations, as you say.
“Well, I went off to the house in my most egregious mood–rather moved, Lord forgive me, at the pathos of poor Stroud’s career of failure being crowned by the glory of my painting him! Of course I meant to do the picture for nothing–I told Mrs. Stroud so when she began to stammer something about her poverty. I remember getting off a prodigious phrase about the honour being _mine_–oh, I was princely, my dear Rickham! I was posing to myself like one of my own sitters.
“Then I was taken up and left alone with him. I had sent all my traps in advance, and I had only to set up the easel and get to work. He had been dead only twenty-four hours, and he died suddenly, of heart disease, so that there had been no preliminary work of destruction–his face was clear and untouched. I had met him once or twice, years before, and thought him insignificant and dingy. Now I saw that he was superb.
“I was glad at first, with a merely aesthetic satisfaction: glad to have my hand on such a ‘subject.’ Then his strange life-likeness began to affect me queerly–as I blocked the head in I felt as if he were watching me do it. The sensation was followed by the thought: if he _were_ watching me, what would he say to my way of working? My strokes began to go a little wild–I felt nervous and uncertain.
“Once, when I looked up, I seemed to see a smile behind his close grayish beard–as if he had the secret, and were amusing himself by holding it back from me. That exasperated me still more. The secret? Why, I had a secret worth twenty of his! I dashed at the canvas furiously, and tried some of my bravura tricks. But they failed me, they crumbled. I saw that he wasn’t watching the showy bits–I couldn’t distract his attention; he just kept his eyes on the hard passages between. Those were the ones I had always shirked, or covered up with some lying paint. And how he saw through my lies!
“I looked up again, and caught sight of that sketch of the donkey hanging on the wall near his bed. His wife told me afterward it was the last thing he had done–just a note taken with a shaking hand, when he was down in Devonshire recovering from a previous heart attack. Just a note! But it tells his whole history. There are years of patient scornful persistence in every line. A man who had swum with the current could never have learned that mighty up-stream stroke. . . .
“I turned back to my work, and went on groping and muddling; then I looked at the donkey again. I saw that, when Stroud laid in the first stroke, he knew just what the end would be. He had possessed his subject, absorbed it, recreated it. When had I done that with any of my things? They hadn’t been born of me–I had just adopted them. . . .
“Hang it, Rickham, with that face watching me I couldn’t do another stroke. The plain truth was, I didn’t know where to put it–_I had never known_. Only, with my sitters and my public, a showy splash of colour covered up the fact–I just threw paint into their faces. . . . Well, paint was the one medium those dead eyes could see through–see straight to the tottering foundations underneath. Don’t you know how, in talking a foreign language, even fluently, one says half the time not what one wants to but what one can? Well–that was the way I painted; and as he lay there and watched me, the thing they called my ‘technique’ collapsed like a house of cards. He didn’t sneer, you understand, poor Stroud–he just lay there quietly watching, and on his lips, through the gray beard, I seemed to hear the question: ‘Are you sure you know where you’re coming out?’
“If I could have painted that face, with that question on it, I should have done a great thing. The next greatest thing was to see that I couldn’t–and that grace was given me. But, oh, at that minute, Rickham, was there anything on earth I wouldn’t have given to have Stroud alive before me, and to hear him say: ‘It’s not too late–I’ll show you how’?
“It _was_ too late–it would have been, even if he’d been alive. I packed up my traps, and went down and told Mrs. Stroud. Of course I didn’t tell her _that_–it would have been Greek to her. I simply said I couldn’t paint him, that I was too moved. She rather liked the idea–she’s so romantic! It was that that made her give me the donkey. But she was terribly upset at not getting the portrait–she did so want him ‘done’ by some one showy! At first I was afraid she wouldn’t let me off–and at my wits’ end I suggested Grindle. Yes, it was I who started Grindle: I told Mrs. Stroud he was the ‘coming’ man, and she told somebody else, and so it got to be true. . . . And he painted Stroud without wincing; and she hung the picture among her husband’s things. . . .”
He flung himself down in the arm-chair near mine, laid back his head, and clasping his arms beneath it, looked up at the picture above the chimney-piece.
“I like to fancy that Stroud himself would have given it to me, if he’d been able to say what he thought that day.”
And, in answer to a question I put half-mechanically–“Begin again?” he flashed out. “When the one thing that brings me anywhere near him is that I knew enough to leave off?”
He stood up and laid his hand on my shoulder with a laugh. “Only the irony of it is that I _am_ still painting–since Grindle’s doing it for me! The Strouds stand alone, and happen once–but there’s no exterminating our kind of art.”
THE POT-BOILER
I
The studio faced north, looking out over a dismal reach of roofs and chimneys, and rusty fire-escapes hung with heterogeneous garments. A crust of dirty snow covered the level surfaces, and a December sky with more snow in it lowered over them.
The room was bare and gaunt, with blotched walls and a stained uneven floor. On a divan lay a pile of “properties”–limp draperies, an Algerian scarf, a moth-eaten fan of peacock feathers. The janitor had forgotten to fill the coal-scuttle over-night, and the cast-iron stove projected its cold flanks into the room like a black iceberg. Ned Stanwell, who had just added his hat and great-coat to the miscellaneous heap on the divan, turned from the empty stove with a shiver.
“By Jove, this is a little too much like the last act of _Boheme_,” he said, slipping into his coat again after a vain glance at the coal-scuttle. Much solitude, and a lively habit of mind, had bred in him the habit of audible soliloquy, and having flung a shout for the janitor down the seven flights dividing the studio from the basement, he turned back, picking up the thread of his monologue. “Exactly like _Boheme_, really–that crack in the wall is much more like a stage-crack than a real one–just the sort of crack Mungold would paint if he were doing a Humble Interior.”
Mungold, the fashionable portrait-painter of the hour, was the favourite object of the younger men’s irony.
“It only needs Kate Arran to be borne in dying,” Stanwell continued with a laugh. “Much more likely to be poor little Caspar, though,” he concluded.
His neighbour across the landing–the little sculptor, Caspar Arran, humorously called “Gasper” on account of his bronchial asthma–had lately been joined by a sister, Kate Arran, a strapping girl, fresh from the country, who had installed herself in the little room off her brother’s studio, keeping house for him with a chafing-dish and a coffee-machine, to the mirth and envy of the other young men in the building.
Poor little Gasper had been very bad all the autumn, and it was surmised that his sister’s presence, which he spoke of growlingly, as a troublesome necessity devolved on him by the inopportune death of an aunt, was really an indication of his failing ability to take care of himself. Kate Arran took his complaints with unfailing good-humour, darned his socks, brushed his clothes, fed him with steaming broths and foaming milk-punches, and listened with reverential assent to his interminable disquisitions on art. Every one in the house was sorry for little Gasper, and the other fellows liked him all the more because it was so impossible to like his sculpture; but his talk was a bore, and when his colleagues ran in to see him they were apt to keep a hand on the door-knob and to plead a pressing engagement. At least they had been till Kate came; but now they began to show a disposition to enter and sit down. Caspar, who was no fool, perceived the change, and perhaps detected its cause; at any rate, he showed no special gratification at the increased cordiality of his friends, and Kate, who followed him in everything, took this as a sign that guests were to be discouraged.
There was one exception, however: Ned Stanwell, who was deplorably good-natured, had always lent a patient ear to Caspar, and he now reaped his reward by being taken into Kate’s favour. Before she had been a month in the building they were on confidential terms as to Caspar’s health, and lately Stanwell had penetrated farther, even to the inmost recesses of her anxiety about her brother’s career. Caspar had recently had a bad blow in the refusal of his _magnum opus_–a vast allegorical group–by the Commissioners of the Minneapolis Exhibition. He took the rejection with Promethean irony, proclaimed it as the clinching proof of his ability, and abounded in reasons why, even in an age of such crass artistic ignorance, a refusal so egregious must react to the advantage of its object. But his sister’s indignation, if as glowing, was a shade less hopeful. Of course Caspar was going to succeed–she knew it was only a question of time–but she paled at the word and turned imploring eyes on Stanwell. _Was there time enough?_ It was the one element in the combination that she could not count on; and Stanwell, reddening under her look of interrogation, and cursing his own glaring robustness, would affirm that of course, of course, of course, by everything that was holy there was time enough–with the mental reservation that there wouldn’t be, even if poor Caspar lived to be a hundred.
“Vos that you yelling for the shanitor, Mr. Sdanwell?” inquired an affable voice through the doorway; and Stanwell, turning with a laugh, confronted the squat figure of a middle-aged man in an expensive fur coat, who looked as if his face secreted the oil which he used on his hair.
“Hullo, Shepson–I should say I was yelling. Did you ever feel such an atmosphere? That fool has forgotten to light the stove. Come in, but for heaven’s sake don’t take off your coat.”
Mr. Shepson glanced about the studio with a look which seemed to say that, where so much else was lacking, the absence of a fire hardly added to the general sense of destitution.
“Vell, you ain’t as vell fixed as Mr. Mungold–ever been to his studio, Mr. Sdanwell? De most ex_ quis_ite blush hangings, and a gas-fire, choost as natural–“
“Oh, hang it, Shepson, do you call _that_ a studio? It’s like a manicure’s parlour–or a beauty-doctor’s. By George,” broke off Stanwell, “and that’s just what he is!”
“A peauty-doctor?”
“Yes–oh, well, you wouldn’t see,” murmured Stanwell, mentally storing his epigram for more appreciative ears. “But you didn’t come just to make me envious of Mungold’s studio, did you?” And he pushed forward a chair for his visitor.
The latter, however, declined it with an affable motion. “Of gourse not, of gourse not–but Mr. Mungold is a sensible man. He makes a lot of money, you know.”
“Is that what you came to tell me?” said Stanwell, still humorously.
“My gootness, no–I was downstairs looking at Holbrook’s sdained class, and I shoost thought I’d sdep up a minute and take a beep at your vork.”
“Much obliged, I’m sure–especially as I assume that you don’t want any of it.” Try as he would, Stanwell could not keep a note of eagerness from his voice. Mr. Shepson caught the note, and eyed him shrewdly through gold-rimmed glasses.
“Vell, vell, vell–I’m not prepared to commit myself. Shoost let me take a look round, vill you?”
“With the greatest pleasure–and I’ll give another shout for the coal.”
Stanwell went out on the landing, and Mr. Shepson, left to himself, began a meditative progress about the room. On an easel facing the improvised dais stood a canvas on which a young woman’s head had been blocked in. It was just in that happy state of semi-evocation when a picture seems to detach itself from the grossness of its medium and live a wondrous moment in the actual; and the quality of the head in question–a vigorous dusky youthfulness, a kind of virgin majesty–lent itself to this illusion of vitality. Stanwell, who had re-entered the studio, could not help drawing a sharp breath as he saw the picture-dealer pausing with tilted head before this portrait: it seemed, at one moment, so impossible that he should not be struck with it, at the next so incredible that he should be.
Shepson cocked his parrot-eye at the canvas with a desultory “Vat’s dat?” which sent a twinge through the young man.
“That? Oh–a sketch of a young lady,” stammered Stanwell, flushing at the imbecility of his reply. “It’s Miss Arran, you know,” he added, “the sister of my neighbour here, the sculptor.”
“Sgulpture? There’s no market for modern sgulpture except tombstones,” said Shepson disparagingly, passing on as if he included the sister’s portrait in his condemnation of her brother’s trade.
Stanwell smiled, but more at himself than Shepson. How could he ever have supposed that the gross fool would see anything in his sketch of Kate Arran? He stood aside, straining after detachment, while the dealer continued his round of exploration, waddling up to the canvases on the walls, prodding with his stick at those stacked in corners, prying and peering sideways like a great bird rummaging for seed. He seemed to find little nutriment in the course of his search, for the sounds he emitted expressed a weary distaste for misdirected effort, and he completed his round without having thought it worth while to draw a single canvas from its obscurity.
As his visits always had the same result, Stanwell was reduced to wondering why he had come again; but Shepson was not the man to indulge in vague roamings through the field of art, and it was safe to conclude that his purpose would in due course reveal itself. His tour brought him at length face to face with the painter, where he paused, clasping his plump gloved hands behind his back, and shaking an admonitory head.
“Gleffer–very gleffer, of course–I suppose you’ll let me know when you want to sell anything?”
“Let you know?” gasped Stanwell, to whom the room grew so glowingly hot that he thought for a moment the janitor must have made up the fire.
Shepson gave a dry laugh. “Vell, it doesn’t sdrike me that you want to now–doing this kind of thing, you know!” And he swept a comprehensive hand about the studio.
“Ah,” said Stanwell, who could not keep a note of flatness out of his laugh.
“See here, Mr. Sdanwell, vot do you do it for? If you do it for yourself and the other fellows, vell and good–only don’t ask me round. I sell pictures, I don’t theorize about them. Ven you vant to sell, gome to me with what my gustomers vant. You can do it–you’re smart enough. You can do most anything. Vere’s dat bortrait of Gladys Glyde dat you showed at the Fake Club last autumn? Dat little thing in de Romney sdyle? Dat vas a little shem, now,” exclaimed Mr. Shepson, whose pronunciation became increasingly Semitic in moments of excitement.
Stanwell stared. Called upon a few months previously to contribute to an exhibition of skits on well-known artists, he had used the photograph of a favourite music-hall “star” as the basis of a picture in the pseudo-historical style affected by the popular portrait-painters of the day.
“That thing?” he said contemptuously. “How on earth did you happen to see it?”
“I see everything,” returned the dealer with an oracular smile. “If you’ve got it here let me look at it, please.”
It cost Stanwell a few minutes’ search to unearth his skit–a clever blending of dash and sentimentality, in just the right proportion to create the impression of a powerful brush subdued to mildness by the charms of the sitter. Stanwell had thrown it off in a burst of imitative frenzy, beginning for the mere joy of the satire, but gradually fascinated by the problem of producing the requisite mingling of attributes. He was surprised now to see how well he had caught the note, and Shepson’s face reflected his approval.
“By George! Dat’s something like,” the dealer ejaculated.
“Like what? Like Mungold?” Stanwell laughed.
“Like business! Like a big order for a bortrait, Mr. Sdanwell–dat’s what it’s like!” cried Shepson, swinging round on him.
Stanwell’s stare widened. “An order for me?”
“Vy not? Accidents _vill_ happen,” said Shepson jocosely. “De fact is, Mrs. Archer Millington wants to be bainted–you know her sdyle? Well, she prides herself on her likeness to little Gladys. And so ven she saw dat bicture of yours at de Fake Show she made a note of your name, and de udder day she sent for me and she says: ‘Mr. Shepson, I’m tired of Mungold–all my friends are done by Mungold. I vant to break away and be orishinal–I vant to be done by the bainter that did Gladys Glyde.”
Shepson waited to observe the result of this overwhelming announcement, and Stanwell, after a momentary halt of surprise, brought out laughingly: “But this _is_ a Mungold. Is this what she calls being original?”
“Shoost exactly,” said Shepson, with unexpected acuteness. “That’s vat dey all want–something different from what all deir friends have got, but shoost like it all de same. Dat’s de public all over! Mrs. Millington don’t want a Mungold, because everybody’s got a Mungold, but she wants a picture that’s in the same sdyle, because dat’s _de_ sdyle, and she’s afraid of any oder!”
Stanwell was listening with real enjoyment. “Ah, you know your public,” he murmured.
“Vell, you do, too, or you couldn’t have painted dat,” the dealer retorted. “And I don’t say dey’re wrong–mind dat. I like a bretty picture myself. And I understand the way dey feel. Dey’re villing to let Sargent take liberties vid them, because it’s like being punched in de ribs by a King; but if anybody else baints them, they vant to look as sweet as an obituary.” He turned earnestly to Stanwell. “The thing is to attract their notice. Vonce you got it they von’t gif you dime to sleep. And dat’s why I’m here to-day–you’ve attracted Mrs. Millington’s notice, and vonce you’re hung in dat new ball-room–dat’s vere she vants you, in a big gold panel–vonce you’re dere, vy, you’ll be like the Pianola–no home gompleat without you. And I ain’t going to charge you any commission on the first job!”
He stood before the painter, exuding a mixture of deference and patronage in which either element might predominate as events developed; but Stanwell could see in the incident only the stuff for a good story.
“My dear Shepson,” he said, “what are you talking about? This is no picture of mine. Why don’t you ask me to do you a Corot at once? I hear there’s a great demand for them still in the West. Or an Arthur Schracker–I can do Schracker as well as Mungold,” he added, turning around a small canvas at which a paint-pot seemed to have been hurled with violence from a considerable distance.
Shepson ignored the allusion to Corot, but screwed his eyes at the picture. “Ah, Schracker–vell, the Schracker sdyle would take first rate if you were a foreigner–but, for goodness sake, don’t try it on Mrs. Millington!”
Stanwell pushed the two skits aside. “Oh, you can trust me,” he cried humorously. “The pearls and the eyes very large–the extremities very small. Isn’t that about the size of it?”
Dat’s it–dat’s it. And the cheque as big as you vant to make it! Mrs. Millington vants the picture finished in time for her first barty in the new ball-room, and if you rush the job she won’t sdickle at an extra thousand. Vill you come along with me now and arrange for your first sitting?”
He stood before the young man, urgent, paternal, and so imbued with the importance of his mission that his face stretched to a ludicrous length of dismay when Stanwell, administering a good-humoured push to his shoulder, cried gaily: “My dear fellow, it will make my price rise still higher when the lady hears I’m too busy to take any orders at present–and that I’m actually obliged to turn you out now because I’m expecting a sitter!”
It was part of Shepson’s business to have a quick ear for the note of finality, and he offered no resistance to Stanwell’s friendly impulsion; but on the threshold he paused to murmur, with a regretful glance at the denuded studio: “You could haf done it, Mr. Sdanwell–you could haf done it!”
II
KATE ARRAN was Stanwell’s sitter; but the janitor had hardly filled the stove when she came in to say that she could not sit. Caspar had had a bad night: he was depressed and feverish, and in spite of his protests she had resolved to fetch the doctor. Care sat on her usually tranquil features, and Stanwell, as he offered to go for the doctor, wished he could have caught in his picture the wide gloom of her brow. There was always a kind of Biblical breadth in the expression of her emotions, and today she suggested a text from Isaiah.
“But you’re not busy?” she hesitated; in the full voice which seemed tuned to a solemn rhetoric.
“I meant to be–with you. But since that’s off I’m quite unemployed.”
She smiled interrogatively. “I thought perhaps you had an order. I met Mr. Shepson rubbing his hands on the landing.”
“Was he rubbing his hands? Well, it was not over me. He says that from the style of my pictures he doesn’t suppose I want to sell.”
She looked at him superbly. “Well, do you?”
He embraced his bleak walls in a circular gesture. “Judge for yourself!”
“Ah, but it’s splendidly furnished!”
“With rejected pictures, you mean?”
“With ideals!” she exclaimed in a tone caught from her brother, and which would have been irritating to Stanwell if it had not been moving.
He gave a slight shrug and took up his hat; but she interposed to say that if it didn’t make any difference she would prefer to have him go and sit with poor Caspar, while she ran for the doctor and did some household errands by the way. Stanwell divined in her request the need for a brief respite from Caspar, and though he shivered at the thought of her facing the cold in the scant jacket which had been her only wear since he had known her, he let her go without a protest, and betook himself to Arran’s studio.
He found the little sculptor dressed and roaming fretfully about the melancholy room in which he and his plastic off-spring lodged together. In one corner, where Kate’s chair and work-table stood, a scrupulous order prevailed; but the rest of the apartment had the dreary untidiness, the damp grey look, which the worker in clay usually creates about him. In the centre of this desert stood the shrouded image of Caspar’s disappointment: the colossal rejected group as to which his friends could seldom remember whether it represented Jove hurling a Titan from Olympus or Science Subjugating Religion. Caspar was the sworn foe of religion, which he appeared to regard as indirectly connected with his inability to sell his statues.
The sculptor was too ill to work, and Stanwell’s appearance loosed the pent-up springs of his talk.
“Hullo! What are you doing here? I thought Kate had gone over to sit to you. She wanted a little fresh air? I should say enough of it came in through these windows. How like a woman, when she’s agreed to do a certain thing, to make up her mind at once that she’s got to do another! They don’t call it caprice–it’s always duty: that’s the humour of it. I’ll be bound Kate alleged a pressing engagement. Sorry she should waste your time so, my dear fellow. Here am I with plenty of it to burn–look at my hand shake; I can’t do a thing! Well, luckily nobody wants me to–posterity may suffer, but the present generation isn’t worrying. The present generation wants to be carved in sugar-candy, or painted in maple syrup. It doesn’t want to be told the truth about itself or about anything in the universe. The prophets have always lived in a garret, my dear fellow–only the ravens don’t always find out their address! Speaking of ravens, though, Kate told me she saw old Shepson coming out of your place–I say, old man, you’re not meditating an apostasy? You’re not doing the kind of thing that Shepson would look at?”
Stanwell laughed. “Oh, he looked at them–but only to confirm his reasons for rejecting them.”
“Ha! ha! That’s right–he wanted to refresh his memory with their badness. But how on earth did he happen to have any doubts on the subject? I should as soon have thought of his coming in here!”
Stanwell winced at the analogy, but replied in Caspar’s key: “Oh, he’s not as sure of any of us as he is of you!”
The sculptor received this tribute with a joyous expletive. “By God, no, he’s sure of me, as you say! He and his tribe know that I’ll starve in my tracks sooner than make a concession–a single concession. A fellow came after me once to do an angel on a tombstone–an angel leaning against a broken column, and looking as if it was waiting for the elevator and wondering why in hell it didn’t come. He said he wanted me to show that the deceased was pining to get to heaven. As she was his wife I didn’t dispute the proposition, but when I asked him what he understood by _heaven_ he grabbed his hat and walked out of the studio. _He_ didn’t wait for the elevator.”
Stanwell listened with a practised smile. The story of the man who had come to order the angel was so familiar to Arran’s friends that its only interest consisted in waiting to see what variation he would give to the retort which had put the mourner to flight. It was generally supposed that this visit represented the sculptor’s nearest approach to an order, and one of his fellow-craftsmen had been heard to remark that if Caspar _had_ made the tombstone, the lady under it would have tried harder than ever to get to heaven. To Stanwell’s present mood, however, there was something more than usually irritating in the gratuitous assumption that Arran had only to derogate from his altitude to have a press of purchasers at his door.
“Well–what did you gain by kicking your widower out?” he objected. “Why can’t a man do two kinds of work–one to please himself and the other to boil the pot?”
Caspar stopped in his jerky walk–the stride of a tall man attempted with short legs (it sometimes appeared to Stanwell to symbolize his artistic endeavour).
“Why can’t a man–why can’t he? You ask me that, Stanwell?” he blazed out.
“Yes; and what’s more, I’ll answer you: it isn’t everybody who can adapt his art as he wants to!”
Caspar stood before him, gasping with incredulous scorn. “Adapt his art? As he wants to? Unhappy wretch, what lingo are you talking? If you mean that it isn’t every honest man who can be a renegade–“
“That’s just what I do mean: he can’t unless he’s clever enough to see the other side.”
The deep groan with which Caspar met this casuistry was cut short by a knock at the studio door, which thereupon opened to admit a small dapperly-dressed man with a silky moustache and mildly-bulging eyes.
“Ah, Mungold,” exclaimed Stanwell, to cover the gloomy silence with which Arran received the new-comer; whereat the latter, with the air of a man who does not easily believe himself unwelcome, bestowed a sympathetic pressure on the sculptor’s hand.
“My dear chap, I’ve just met Miss Arran, and she told me you were laid up with a bad cold, so I thought I’d pop in and cheer you up a little.”
He looked about him with a smile evidently intended as the first act in his beneficent programme.
Mr. Mungold, freshly soaped and scented, with a neat glaze of gentility extending from his varnished boot-tips to his glossy hat, looked like the “flattered” portrait of a common man–just such an idealized presentment as his own brush might have produced. As a rule, however, he devoted himself to the portrayal of the other sex, painting ladies in syrup, as Arran said, with marsh-mallow children leaning against their knees. He was as quick as a dressmaker at catching new ideas, and the style of his pictures changed as rapidly as that of the fashion-plates. One year all his sitters were done on oval canvases, with gauzy draperies and a background of clouds; the next they were seated under an immemorial elm, caressing enormous dogs obviously constructed out of door-mats. Whatever their occupation they always looked straight out of the canvas, giving the impression that their eyes were fixed on an invisible camera. This gave rise to the rumour that Mungold “did” his portraits from photographs; it was even said that he had invented a way of transferring an enlarged photograph to the canvas, so that all that remained was to fill in the colours. If he heard of this charge he took it calmly, but probably it had not reached the high spheres in which he moved, and in which he was esteemed for painting pearls better, and making unsuggestive children look lovelier, than any of his fellow-craftsmen. Mr. Mungold, in fact, deemed it a part of his professional duty to study his sitters in their home-life; and as this life was chiefly led in the homes of others, he was too busy dining out and going to the opera to mingle much with his colleagues. But as no one is wholly consistent, Mr. Mungold had lately belied his ambitions by falling in love with Kate Arran; and with that gentle persistency which made him so wonderful in managing obstreperous infantile sitters, he had contrived to establish a precarious footing in her brother’s studio.
Part of his success was due to the fact that he could not easily think himself the object of a rebuff. If it seemed to hit him he regarded it as deflected from its aim, and brushed it aside with a discreet gesture. A touch of comedy was lent to the situation by the fact that, till Kate Arran’s coming, Mungold had always served as her brother’s Awful Example. It was a mark of Arran’s lack of humour that he persisted in regarding the little man as a conscious apostate, instead of perceiving that he painted as he could, in a world which really looked to him like a vast confectioner’s window. Stanwell had never quite divined how Mungold had won over the sister, to whom her brother’s prejudices were a religion; but he suspected the painter of having united a deep belief in Caspar’s gifts with the occasional offer of opportune delicacies–the port-wine or game which Kate had no other means of procuring for her patient.
Stanwell, persuaded that Mungold would stick to his post till Miss Arran’s return, felt himself freed from his promise to the latter and left the incongruous pair to themselves. There had been a time when it amused him to see Caspar submerge the painter in a torrent of turbid eloquence, and to watch poor Mungold sputtering under the rush of denunciation, yet emitting little bland phrases of assent, like a gentleman drowning correctly, in gloves and eye-glasses. But Stanwell was beginning to find less food for gaiety than for envy in the contemplation of his colleague. After all, Mungold held his ground, he did not go under. Spite of his manifest absurdity he had succeeded in propitiating the sister, in making himself tolerated by the brother; and the fact that his success was due to the ability to purchase port-wine and game was not in this case a mitigating circumstance. Stanwell knew that the Arrans really preferred him to Mungold, but the knowledge only sharpened his envy of the latter, whose friendship could command visible tokens of expression, while poor Stanwell’s remained gloomily inarticulate. As he returned to his over-populated studio and surveyed anew the pictures of which Shepson had not offered to relieve him, he found himself wishing, not for Mungold’s lack of scruples, for he believed him to be the most scrupulous of men, but for that happy mean of talent which so completely satisfied the artistic requirements of the inartistic. Mungold was not to be despised as an apostate–he was to be congratulated as a man whose aptitudes were exactly in line with the taste of the persons he liked to dine with.
At this point in his meditations, Stanwell’s eye fell on the portrait of Miss Gladys Glyde. It was really, as Shepson said, as good as a Mungold; yet it could never be made to serve the same purpose, because it was the work of a man who knew it was bad art. That at least would have been Caspar Arran’s contention–poor Caspar, who produced as bad art in the service of the loftiest convictions! The distinction began to look like mere casuistry to Stanwell. He had never been very proud of his own adaptability. It had seemed to him to indicate the lack of an individual stand-point, and he had tried to counteract it by the cultivation of an aggressively personal style. But the cursed knack was in his fingers–he was always at the mercy of some other man’s sensations, and there were moments when he blushed to remember that his grandfather had spent a laborious life-time in Rome, copying the Old Masters for a generation which lacked the facile resource of the camera. Now, however, it struck him that the ancestral versatility might be a useful inheritance. In art, after all, the greatest of them did what they could; and if a man could do several things instead of one, why should he not profit by the multiplicity of his gifts? If one had two talents why not serve two masters?
III
STANWELL, while seeing Caspar through the attack which had been the cause of his sister’s arrival, had struck up a friendship with the young doctor who climbed the patient’s seven flights with unremitting fidelity. The two, since then, had continued to exchange confidences regarding the sculptor’s health, and Stanwell, anxious to waylay the doctor after his visit, left the studio door ajar, and went out when he heard a sound of leave-taking across the landing. But it appeared that the doctor had just come, and that it was Mungold who was making his adieux.
The latter at once assumed that Stanwell had been on the alert for him, and met the supposed advance by affably inviting himself into the studio.
“May I come and take a look around, my dear fellow? I have been meaning to drop in for an age–” Mungold always spoke with a girlish emphasis and effusiveness–“but I have been so busy getting up Mrs. Van Orley’s tableaux–English eighteenth century portraits, you know–that really, what with that and my sittings, I’ve hardly had time to think. And then you know you owe me about a dozen visits! But you’re a savage–you don’t pay visits. You stay here and _piocher_–which is wiser, as the results prove. Ah, you’re very strong–immensely strong!” He paused in the middle of the studio, glancing about a little apprehensively, as though he thought the stored energy of the pictures might result in an explosion. “Very original–very striking–ah, Miss Arran! A powerful head; but–excuse the suggestion–isn’t there just the least little lack of sweetness? You don’t think she has the sweet type? Perhaps not–but could she be so lovely if she were not intensely feminine? Just at present, though, she is not looking her best–she is horribly tired. I am afraid there is very little money left–and poor dear Caspar is so impossible: he won’t hear of a loan. Otherwise I should be most happy–. But I came just now to propose a piece of work–in fact to give him an order. Mrs. Archer Millington has built a new ball-room, as I daresay you may have seen in the papers, and she has been kind enough to ask me for some hints–oh, merely as a friend: I don’t presume to do more than advise. But her decorator wants to do something with Cupids–something light and playful, you understand. And so I ventured to say that I knew a very clever sculptor–well, I _do_ believe Caspar has talent–latent talent, you know–and at any rate a job of that sort would be a big lift for him. At least I thought he would regard it so; but you should have heard him when I showed him the decorator’s sketch. He asked me what the Cupids were to be done in–lard? And if I thought he had had his training at a confectioner’s? And I don’t know what more besides–but he worked himself up to such a degree that he brought on a frightful fit of coughing, and Miss Arran, I’m afraid, was rather annoyed with me when she came in, though I’m sure an order from Mrs. Archer Millington is not a thing that would annoy most people!”
Mr. Mungold paused, breathless with the rehearsal of his wrongs, and Stanwell said with a smile: “You know poor Caspar is terribly stiff on the purity of the artist’s aim.”
“The artist’s aim?” Mr. Mungold stared. “What is the artist’s aim but to please–isn’t that the purpose of all true art? But his theories are so extravagant. I really don’t know what I shall say to Mrs. Millington–she is not used to being refused. I suppose I had better put it on the ground of ill-health.” The artist glanced at his handsome repeater. “Dear me, I promised to be at Mrs. Van Orley’s before twelve o’clock. We are to settle about the curtain before luncheon. My dear fellow, it has been a privilege to see your work. By the way, you have never done any modelling, I suppose? You’re so extraordinarily versatile–I didn’t know whether you might care to undertake the Cupids yourself.”
Stanwell had to wait a long time for the doctor; and when the latter came out he looked grave. Worse? No, he couldn’t say that Caspar was worse–but then he wasn’t any better. There was nothing mortal the matter, but the question was how long he could hold out. It was the kind of case where there is no use in drugs–he had just scribbled a prescription to quiet Miss Arran.
“It’s the cold, I suppose,” Stanwell groaned. “He ought to be shipped off to Florida.”
The doctor made a negative gesture. “Florida be hanged! What he wants is to sell his group. That would set him up quicker than sitting on the equator.”
“Sell his group?” Stanwell echoed. “But he’s so indifferent to recognition–he believes in himself so thoroughly. I thought at first he would be hard hit when the Exhibition Committee refused it, but he seems to regard that as another proof of its superiority.”
His visitor turned on him the penetrating eye of the confessor. “Indifferent to recognition? He’s eating his heart out for it. Can’t you see that all that talk is just so much whistling to keep his courage up? The name of his disease is failure–and I can’t write the prescription that will cure that complaint. But if somebody would come along and take a fancy to those two naked parties who are breaking each other’s heads, we’d have Mr. Caspar putting on a pound a day.”
The truth of this diagnosis became suddenly vivid to Stanwell. How dull of him not to have seen before that it was not cold or privation which was killing Caspar–not anxiety for his sister’s future, nor the ache of watching her daily struggle–but simply the cankering thought that he might die before he had made himself known! It was his vanity that was starving to death, and all Mungold’s hampers could not appease that hunger. Stanwell was not shocked by the discovery–he was only the more sorry for the little man, who was, after all, denied that solace of self-sufficiency which his talk so noisily pro- claimed. His lot seemed hard enough when Stanwell had pictured him as buoyed up by the scorn of public opinion–it became tragic if he was denied that support. The artist wondered if Kate had guessed her brother’s secret, or if she were still the dupe of his stoicism. Stanwell was sure that the sculptor would take no one into his confidence, and least of all his sister, whose faith in his artistic independence was the chief prop of that tottering pose. Kate’s penetration was not great, and Stanwell recalled the incredulous smile with which she had heard him defend poor Mungold’s “sincerity” against Caspar’s assaults; but she had the insight of the heart, and where her brother’s happiness was concerned she might have seen deeper than any of them. It was this last consideration which took the strongest hold on Stanwell–he felt Caspar’s sufferings chiefly through the thought of his sister’s possible disillusionment.
IV
WITHIN three months two events had set the studio building talking. Stanwell had painted a full-length portrait of Mrs. Archer Millington, and Caspar Arran had received an order to execute his group in marble.
The name of the sculptor’s patron had not been divulged. The order came through Shepson, who explained that an American customer living abroad, having seen a photograph of the group in one of the papers, had at once cabled home to secure it. He intended to bestow it on a public building in America, and not wishing to advertise his munificence, had preferred that even the sculptor should remain ignorant of his name. The group bought by an enlightened compatriot for the adornment of a civic building in his native land! There could hardly be a more complete vindication of unappreciated genius, and Caspar made the most of the argument. He was not exultant, he was sublimely magnanimous. He had always said that he could afford to await the Verdict of Posterity, and his unknown patron’s act clearly shadowed forth that impressive decision. Happily it also found expression in a cheque which it would have taken more philosophy to await. The group was paid for in advance, and Kate’s joy in her brother’s recognition was deliciously mingled with the thrill of ordering him some new clothes, and coaxing him out to dine succulently at a neighbouring restaurant. Caspar flourished insufferably on this regime: he began to strike the attitude of the recognized Great Master, who gives advice and encouragement to the struggling neophyte. He held himself up as an example of the reward of disinterestedness, of the triumph of the artist who clings obstinately to his convictions.
“A man must believe in his star–look at Napoleon! It’s the dogged trust in one’s convictions that tells–it always ends by forcing the public into line. Only be sure you make no concessions–don’t give in to any of their humbug! An artist who lis- tens to the critics is ruined–they never have any use for the poor devils who do what they tell them to. Run after fame and she’ll keep you running, but stay in your own corner and do your own work, and by George, sir, she’ll come crawling up to you and ask to have her likeness done!”
These exhortations were chiefly directed to Stanwell, partly because the inmates of the other studios were apt to elude them, partly also because the rumours concerning Stanwell’s portrait of Mrs. Millington had begun to disquiet the sculptor. At first he had taken a condescending interest in the fact of his friend’s receiving an order, and had admonished him not to lose the chance of “showing up” his sitter and her environment. It was a splendid opportunity for a fellow with a “message” to be introduced into the tents of the Philistine, and Stanwell was charged to drive a long sharp nail into the enemy’s skull. But presently Arran began to suspect that the portrait was not as comminatory as he could have wished. Mungold, the most kindly of rivals, let drop a word of injudicious praise: the picture, he said, promised to be delightfully “in keeping” with the decorations of the ball-room, and the lady’s gown harmonized exquisitely with the window-curtains. Stanwell, called to account by his monitor, reminded the latter that he himself had been selected by Mungold to do the Cupids for Mrs. Millington’s ball-room, and that the friendly artist’s praise could, therefore, not be taken as positive evidence of incapacity.
“Ah, but I didn’t do them–I kicked him out!” Caspar rejoined; and Stanwell could only plead that, even in the cause of art, one could hardly kick a lady.
“Ah, that’s the worst of it. If the women get at you you’re lost. You’re young, you’re impressionable, you won’t mind my saying that you’re not built for a stoic, and hang it, they’ll coddle you, they’ll enervate you, they’ll sentimentalize you, they’ll make a Mungold of you!”
“Ah, poor Mungold,” Stanwell laughed. “If he lived the life of an anchorite he couldn’t help painting pictures that would please Mrs. Millington.”
“Whereas you could,” Kate interjected, raising her head from the ironing-board where, Sphinx-like, magnificent, she swung a splendid arm above her brother’s shirts.
“Oh, well, perhaps I shan’t please her; perhaps I shall elevate her taste.”
Caspar directed a groan to his sister. “That’s what they all think at first–Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. But inside the Dark Tower there’s the Venusberg. Oh, I don’t mean that you’ll be taken with truffles and plush footmen, like Mungold. But praise, my poor Ned–praise is a deadly drug! It’s the absinthe of the artist–and they’ll stupefy you with it. You’ll wallow in the mire of success.”
Stanwell raised a protesting hand. “Really, for one order, you’re a little lurid!”
“One? Haven’t you already had a dozen others?”
“Only one other, so far–and I’m not sure I shall do that.”
“Not sure–wavering already! That’s the way the mischief begins. If the women get a fad for you they’ll work you like a galley-slave. You’ll have to do your round of ‘copy’ every morning. What becomes of inspiration then? How are you going to loaf and invite the soul? Don’t barter your birthright for a mess of pottage! Oh, I understand the temptation–I know the taste of money and success. But look at me, Stanwell. You know how long I had to wait for recognition. Well, now it’s come to me I don’t mean to let it knock me off my feet. I don’t mean to let myself be overworked; I have already made it known that I will not be bullied into taking more orders than I can do full justice to. And my sister is with me, God bless her; Kate would rather go on ironing my shirts in a garret than see me prostitute my art!”
Kate’s glance radiantly confirmed this declaration of independence, and Stanwell, with his evasive laugh, asked her if, meanwhile, she should object to his investing a part of his ill-gotten gains in theatre tickets for the party that evening.
It appeared that Stanwell had also been paid in advance, and well paid; for he began to permit himself various mild distractions, in which he generally contrived to have the Arrans share. It seemed perfectly natural to Kate that Caspar’s friends should spend their money for his recreation, and by one of the most touching sophistries of her sex she thus reconciled herself to the anomaly of taking a little pleasure on her own account. Mungold was less often in the way, for she had never been able to forgive him for proposing that Caspar should do Mrs. Millington’s Cupids; and for a few radiant weeks Stanwell had the undisputed enjoyment of her pride in her brother’s achievement.
Stanwell had “rushed through” Mrs. Millington’s portrait in time for the opening of her new ball-room; and it was perhaps in return for this favour that she consented to let the picture be exhibited at a big Portrait Show which was held in April for the benefit of a fashionable charity.
In Mrs. Millington’s ball-room the picture had been seen and approved only by the distinguished few who had access to that social sanctuary; but on the walls of the exhibition it became a centre of comment and discussion. One of the immediate results of this publicity was a visit from Shepson, with two or three orders in his pocket, as he put it. He surveyed the studio with fresh disgust, asked Stanwell why he did not move, and was impressed rather than downcast on learning that the painter had not decided whether he would take any more orders that spring.
“You might haf a studio at Newport,” he suggested. “It would be rather new to do your sitters out of doors, with the sea behind them–showing they had a blace on the gliffs!”
The picture produced a different and less flattering effect on the critics. They gave it, indeed, more space than they had ever before accorded to the artist’s efforts, but their estimate seemed to confirm Caspar Arran’s forebodings, and Stanwell had perhaps never despised them so little as when he read their comments on his work. On the whole, however, neither praise nor blame disquieted him greatly. He was engrossed in the contemplation of Kate Arran’s happiness, and basking in the refracted warmth it shed about her. The doctor’s prognostications had come true. Caspar was putting on a pound a week, and had plunged into a fresh “creation” more symbolic and encumbering than the monument of which he had been so opportunely relieved. If there was any cloud on Stanwell’s enjoyment of life, it was caused by the discovery that success had quadrupled Caspar’s artistic energies. Meanwhile it was delightful to see Kate’s joy in her brother’s recovered capacity for work, and to listen to the axioms which, for Stanwell’s guidance, she deduced from the example of Caspar’s heroic pursuit of the ideal. There was nothing repellent in Kate’s borrowed didacticism, and if it sometimes bored Stanwell to hear her quote her brother, he was sure it would never bore him to be quoted by her himself; and there were moments when he felt he had nearly achieved that distinction.
Caspar was not addicted to the visiting of art exhibitions. He took little interest in any productions save his own, and was moreover disposed to believe that good pictures, like clever criminals, are apt to go unhung. Stanwell therefore thought it unlikely that his portrait of Mrs. Millington would be seen by Kate, who was not given to independent explorations in the field of art; but one day, on entering the exhibition–which he had hitherto rather nervously shunned–he saw the Arrans at the end of the gallery in which the portrait hung. They were not looking at it, they were moving away from it, and to Stanwell’s quickened perceptions their attitude seemed almost that of flight. For a moment he thought of flying too; then a desperate resolve nerved him to meet them, and stemming the crowd, he made a circuit which brought him face to face with their retreat.
The room in which they met was momentarily empty, and there was nothing to intervene between the shock of their inter-changed glances. Caspar was flushed and bristling: his little body quivered like a machine from which the steam has just been turned off. Kate lifted a stricken glance. Stanwell read in it the reflexion of her brother’s tirade, but she held out her hand in silence.
For a moment Caspar was silent too; then, with a terrible smile: “My dear fellow, I congratulate you; Mungold will have to look to his laurels,” he said.
The shot delivered, he stalked away with his seven-league stride, and Kate moved tragically through the room in his wake.
V
SHEPSON took up his hat with a despairing gesture.
“Vell, I gif you up–I gif you up!” he said.
“Don’t–yet,” protested Stanwell from the divan.
It was winter again, and though the janitor had not forgotten the fire, the studio gave no other evidence of its master’s increasing prosperity. If Stanwell spent his money it was not upon himself.
He leaned back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, a