IIBROTHERS-IN-LAW
With the vision of an antique marble façade lingering in his memory he slowly walked up the Avenue, only stopping at Fiftieth Street to turn and as leisurely retrace his route. Vincent Serle was in the middle of his vigorous life, but this day, an early one in April, his forces seemed arrested; like the curling wave which crests before its ultimate recoil and crumble. He attributed his mood to the weather. It was not precisely spring-fever, but a general slackening of physical fibre. He felt almost immoral: he desired respite from toil; he longed for some place where his eyes would not encounter palette or print; and, a versatile man of uncertain purpose, he longed to write a novel, chiefly about himself.
The clock on the church-tower told him that he was farther down-town than he had planned. He had mechanically spoken to passing acquaintances. He had saluted Mrs. Larce, over whose portrait he was laboring, with a vacant regard and flamboyant hat. Then he emerged from his engulfing spleen and hastily ascended Delmonico’s steps. It was his day of disappointments. All the windows in the café wereoccupied; nothing remained except a large table in the centre of the room, decidedly an unpleasant spot, with people passing and repassing. He hesitated and would have gone away when he remembered that this hour always saw a mob of hungry folk at any establishment. And Benedict, his favorite waiter, whispered to him that he would assiduously attend to monsieur’s wants. The bored painter sank heavily into his chair.
The meal was not an enlivening one. Like most artists educated in Paris, Vincent never took anything save coffee and rolls before one o’clock. He was not an early riser; he deplored morning work, being lazy and indifferent; but he soon discovered that if he were to keep pace with the desperate pace of New York artistic life he dared not waste the first half of the day. Mrs. Larce, for example, insisted upon a ten-o’clock sitting. At that precise hour he wished himself a writer with liberty to work at midnight; then he might indulge in more tobacco, dreams, and later uprisings. In the meantime he was munching his fish without noting its flavor, a fact that Benedict witnessed with disappointed eyes.
He had achieved coffee and cognac and was about to light a black cigar when a man hurried in, and, after gazing at the coveted window-tables, sat himself opposite Serle with a short nod, though hardly looking at him. The match burned Serle’s fingers and he struck a freshone. Instinctively he stood up, searching the room for another place. The garçon asked if he desired his account. Vincent shook his head and fumingly demanded a newspaper; behind it he swallowed his brandy and puffed his cigar. The fine print melted into a blurred mass before his eyes and his hands trembled. He could feel the beating of blood at his wrists and temple. He did not peep over the paper rampart because of his discomposed features.
“Damn him!” he thought, “I wonder if he knows me yet?”
The newcomer calmly ate his omelette with the air of a man intent upon some problem. He was not so tall, so dark as Serle, but older, wirier and of a type familiar to Fifth Avenue after four o’clock on fine afternoons:—a lawyer, broker, an insurance officer, but never an artist. He did not glance at his table companion until the other had folded his newspaper, and then without a gleam of recognition.
“He doesn’t know me,” reflected Serle; “so much the better, I’ll not go away. I’ll watch him. It will be interesting.”
He sardonically hoped that the absorbed man would choke as he swallowed his chop. Then he smiled at his vindictive temper, smiled bitterly because of his childishness—after all the fellow was not to blame; he had been a mere accomplice of a stronger, a more unprincipled will. Yet, slowly studying the face, he could not call it a foolish one. Its owner showed byhis concentrated pose, the stern expression of his mask, that he was not a weakling.
“But,” mused the painter, “I’ve seen men with jaws as if modelled in granite, eyes that imperiously reminded you that they were your master, men whose bearing recalled that of a triumphant gladiator; well, these same individuals, artists, despots, brutes, bankers, were like whipped dogs in the presence of some woman. No. Hector Marden’s outward semblance is not an indication of the real man. We are all consummate actors in our daily lives, none more so than those who have much to conceal.”
Hector Marden—and had he not much to conceal—the beast! Vincent’s clinched fists were drumming on the table. “Come,” he pondered, “I’ll have to cease this baby game or I’ll end by making a scene and consequently an ass of myself.” He stared at Benedict just as Marden raised his finger. The waiter hurried to the table and presented his memoranda to the men. Serle frowned. He was in a nasty humor.
“What’s this, Benedict?” He tendered the embarrassed garçon his slip of paper.
“Pardon, a thousand times pardon, monsieur! I made a mistake.” Marden looked up smiling.
“I fear I have the bill intended for you,” he said, in a conciliating tone.
“It’s nothing,” murmured Serle. Both men bowed. The accounts were soon settled andBenedict nervously retreated to the background. But neither one stirred. Vincent, without pausing to analyze his action, offered Marden the newspaper. It was politely refused. Possibly because of the mellowness of the moment, or the ample repose that follows luncheon, Marden was not averse from entering into conversation, one of hazy indirectness, equally suggestive and non-committal. He made a few commonplace remarks about the unseasonable heat, the deplorable twilight of New York’s tower-begirt highways, and soon, against the prompting of his inner spirit, Serle chimed an accordance. They chatted. Benedict discreetly moved nearer. Presently Serle asked his neighbor if he would have a cigar or perhaps a liqueur.
“I don’t mind,” rejoined Marden. “The fact is I feel lazy this afternoon. I had expected to meet a friend here—a client of mine—but I fancy he is off somewhere wondering if New York shall ever boast a decent sky-line. He is an architect and enthusiastic over French Gothic.” Serle’s ears began to burn.
“Architecture in New York? That’s a tall joke. Curiously enough, though, this very morning I was admiring the new library. It has a stunning façade. If I were Emperor of America I’d raze every building within the radius of ten blocks so as to give the building a chance. Only think of the Cathedral without a house near it!”
“You are an artist, evidently,” Marden saidwithout the faintest trace of curiosity in his voice. Serle nodded. Benedict with clasped hands hinted that the two gentlemen might prefer a window. There were empty tables upon which the sun no longer shone, since the formidable walls across the street blocked its rays. The painter shuddered. They would surely be seen by impertinent passers-by. He sent the man away, sharply adding that he would be called when needed. As for Marden, he was languidly drifting on the current of his fancy. Was it pleasant or unpleasant? The watcher could not decide. But he had made up his mind that he would draw Marden up to the danger-line, and if discovered, if discovered? He would at least tell him what he thought of the mean scoundrel who had——
“I’ve noticed,” Marden broke in on Serle’s ugly revery, “that painters seem to have lots of time on their hands. I beg your pardon. You have quite as much reason for advancing a similar remark about a professional man. Here I am lounging as if I had no office or desk loaded with unanswered correspondence. But I assure you I don’t often dissipate this way, and I take it you are of the same opinion regarding yourself.” He paused.
“You spoke of painters loafing. What made you single out that particular profession? I believe it may be called a profession,” Vincent laughed.
“Oh! You said you were a painter——”
“Yes, but you were not thinking of me, I’ll wager. You’ve only seen me half an hour.”
“You’re right; I was not thinking of painters, or of you in general, but of a particular case that came under my personal observation.”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly responded Serle, as he mentally abused the lawyer for his measured, pedantic delivery. “Your story interests.”
Marden glanced at the other’s flaming cheeks and replied, rather abruptly:
“But you haven’t heard it yet. However, it’s not much of a yarn. It happened—several years ago. A lady, a client, came to me for advice. She was married, married, I say, to an artist, a painter—a big, good-for-nothing fellow, who was lazy, who drank, ran after his models and spent her money.” Marden was interrupted.
“Excuse me, you said the lady was rich?”
“Did I?”
“Certainly, spent her money was your last phrase.”
“Oh!—Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have said her money. She had no money. I meant that her husband had money and didn’t spend it on her. A mere slip of the tongue.”
“Good. I’m a regular cross-examiner, you see.”
“True. You might prove a difficult witness in the chair. My friend—my client, informed me that her husband was so lazy that he remained in bed until one or two o’clock in theafternoon; then he would slowly dress and saunter for a walk, and often she did not see him until the next morning.”
“How did he make a living?”
“Oh, I suppose he painted a portrait or two and managed to get on.”
“A portrait or two? That would hardly pay household expenses—that is, unless your friend—I mean your client’s husband, was a Sargent or a Boldini. Then they could have struggled along at the rate of one portrait every year.” Serle laughed so harshly that Marden looked at him wonderingly.
“I see you are acquainted with the artistic temperament, as they call it in the newspapers,” observed the lawyer.
“Not as they call it, but as it is. My dear sir, an artist is not built to put in a ton of coal every day. A man whose brain is delicately adjusted, whose whole soul is in his eyes——”
“When he sees a pretty girl?” The sly tone of Marden angered the painter.
“No, hang it! For a painter there are no pretty, no ugly girls; no pretty, no ugly landscapes; no agreeable, no disagreeable subjects. Only a surface to be transferred to canvas, to be truthfully rendered. And that’s what business men, with their lack of imagination, will never understand.” He spoke hotly.
“I confess I have a lack of imagination when it comes to an appreciation of the artistic temperament.”Marden said this so slyly that Serle at once begged his pardon.
“After all, we are not at Delmonico’s just to thrash out a stale question. Pray go on—your story interests me strangely.”
“It’s not very interesting—that’s all I know. The woman left the man——”
“For another?” calmly interjected Vincent.
“Not at all, not at all—that is, not at the time.” The lawyer fumbled his glass, his expression overcast.
“You know what strange creatures women are. I had the greatest difficulty in persuading my client to make up her mind. She suffered, yet she cared for the fellow——”
Serle impatiently asked: “But you haven’t revealed what the fellow did to her—what his special crime! Didn’t he give her a good home?”
“My dear sir! A good home when he turned night into day! A good home when he seldom put brush to canvas! A good home—why, I thought I told you he was too friendly with his models.”
“His models! A portraitist! Do you mean his sitters? Did he flirt with them? If he did so he was a fool, for he was killing the goose that laid the—No, I’ll not be so impolite. I meant to say he would endanger his reputation.” Marden dryly laughed.
“That’s good—reputation is good. My client informed me, and she is a serious woman, thatshe never met an artist who could be relied upon. And she knew, for she was one herself.”
Serle’s jaw dropped. “How odd! What did she do?”
“Oh, she painted a little, just enough to make pin-money and to annoy her husband. You see, it was this way. She did not care to take money from a man she loathed.”
“Loathed!”
“I said—loathed. She literally loathed him. She told me so.”
“Why didn’t she leave him sooner? Besides, a few moments ago you said he never offered her money. Now, she loathed him so she wouldn’t take any——”
“Ah! That’s not in my fable,” tartly answered Marden. Again he turned gloomy and tapped nervously on the table.
The afternoon waned. A soft light slipped through the high curtained windows and modulated into glancing semitones over the richly decorated apartment. Several men entered—the vanguard of the five-o’clock brigade of absintheurs. Serle became nervous. What if!—But he determined to take the chance of seeing some imbecile who might salute him by name. He leaned forward on his folded arms and asked with a show of concern:
“And what became of your charming client?”
“My charming—Oh! Why, she married and settled down.”
“At last! Is she happy?”
“How can I tell?” The response betrayed an irritable nuance.
“I didn’t mean to put the question so bluntly. The reason I ask is a simple one. I studied a case not unlike the one you narrated. It is just as sordid and commonplace. My artist, also a painter, had married a pupil whom he taught—as much as she could absorb. She hadn’t much talent; it was the sort you see expressed on fans and bon-bon boxes.
“She might have been all right if her admiring friends had not told her that she had more talent than her husband—really, there wasn’t enough between them both to set the river on fire. However, she devilled him so effectually that he took a separate studio to get away from the sound of her voice and from their home. Like your painter, he turned day into night, but with a difference; he made illustrations for the magazines and newspapers, painted cheap portraits, demeaned himself generally to get money enough to run the house. She enjoyed herself, flirted, went into society of some sort, a cheap compromise between Bohemia and the frayed fringe of Fifth Avenue—you may not know the variety, as you are a member of another profession. It is diverting, this society, because it is as false as the hair on the head of its women. The bohemian side largely consists of bad claret, worse music, and ghastly studio teas; its fashionable side, poverty-stricken grand ladies with tarnished reputations. I’ve seen it all. One ofthe sights of greater Gotham is this glittering set of fakirs. The woman I speak of was whirled off her feet by the cheap show. She was a fresh, pretty little girl when she came here from a small town up State. Her friends were ambitious fools, she was green—and very vain. So vain! Then her name crept into the newspapers; it’s hard work keeping out of them nowadays. She was called ‘The beautiful Mrs. Somebody, who painted exquisite miniatures of socially prominent ladies’; you know the style of such rot? The horror of it! Rather you don’t, for you have never lived in this particular set——”
“But, I do, I do!” cried Marden. “My client told me something of it.” Serle sneered.
“She didn’t tell you much or you might have asked her whether there wasn’t another side to her case. The girl I am talking about went the pace; and, as an old philosopher on the police force remarks: ‘When a woman is heading for hell, don’t try to stop her; it’s a waste of time.’ Her husband saw it and he did try. Her friends knew it and helped her on her merry way. The painter even sent her to Europe, and with her some of her friends to keep her company, if they couldn’t keep her straight. Well—Paris is worse than poison for such women. She was soon back in New York, leaving behind her a sweet record, many unpaid bills and with a half a dozen fools, picked up, God knows where, at her heels. And then he went away. It was toomuch. However, being a woman, she won all the sympathy. Her story was believed, not his, and——”
“Singular coincidence. But wasn’t the husband to blame a little?”
“Oh!” said Vincent. “Men are always to blame.”
“Could he have forgiven her?”
“He did better, he forgot her.”
“Did she go to the bad?” sympathetically inquired Marden.
“On the contrary. She married well—a professional man of some sort.” He smiled with good-humored malice.
“And is she—is she—right now? I mean is she happy?”
“She will be happy always, a selfish little soul. You mean is her present husband happy?”
“Yes.” Marden leaned back nonchalantly and his hands, lean-fingered, traversed the corner of the table. To Serle the air became as dense as a vapor-bath. He continued, mercilessly:
“Of course he is happy—her husband. Why shouldn’t he be? He doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t know what? Really, you set me on edge,” exclaimed Marden. He tried to smile, but his upper lip lifted, displaying white eye-teeth. Vincent lighted a fresh cigar. His arm did not tremble now. Then, swallowing the last of his cold coffee, he continued:
“Her husband doesn’t dream the truth of herlife in New York and Paris. She is, as I said, very pretty and can pull the wool over any man’s eyes. She is so interesting, so poetic, you know. She plays that little trick of the abused wife with the artistic temperament; plays it off on all the men she meets, on my friends——”
“Your friends?”
“My friends know her as a capricious vixen, masquerading as a delicate oversoul. I knew her once.” (Serle was cool; he had himself well in hand.) “And she always wins and still plays the game. At this moment she is probably fooling her husband, taking tea with some soft-head. She gets her wealthy male friends——”
“How does she get them? Tell me.” Marden’s voice was subdued. “Does she say to her husband that she must secure orders for miniatures by dining with rich fellows? Doesn’t she——”
“Really, my dear sir, I don’t know everything about this clever lady’s method. You seem quite taken with her story. It is, I pride myself, more exciting than your narrative of the artistic temperament.” Vincent’s intonations were markedly sarcastic. The older man’s face was afire.
“Who the devil——”
Benedict came to the table and placatingly asked:
“Is this Mr. Marden?”
“I’m Mr. Marden. What do you want?”
“Madame, your wife, has just arrived. Sheis in the large salon with a gentleman, and she desires me to ask you to join her.” The men arose.
“It was quite a pleasant afternoon, was it not?” In his most charming manner Serle put out his hand and Marden took it, grudgingly, his shrewd face surly, his little eyes suspiciously fastened on the smiling countenance of his companion. Then he followed the obsequious garçon, and Serle went into the street, first looking after the pair. He discerned Marden at a table on the Fifth Avenue side; with him was a fresh-colored, graceful woman, in elaborate afternoon toilette; a big, overdressed man sat beside her.
Once in a taxi Vincent Serle gave the order to cross over to Madison Avenue.
“I’ll not risk passing that window,” he muttered. “It was a mean trick, but it served the meddling fool right. I wonder which one of us lied the more? And I never saw Amy look so bewitching!”