And so the picture was begun.And so the picture was begun.
Nor did the supervision stop here. Under Olivia’s instructions and with Bundy’s help, the big dining-room table, with the Judge’s seat at one end, hers at the other, and little Phil in his high chair in the middle, was given up and moved out as being altogether too formal and the seats too far apart, and a small one, sprinkled daily with fresh damask roses that she herself had culled from the garden, was substituted. The great window in the library, which had always been kept closed by reason of a draught which carromed on the door of the study and struck the Judge somewhere between his neck and his shoulders, was now thrown wide and kept wide, and the porch chairs, three of them, which had precise positions fixed for them betweenthe low windows, were dragged out under the big apple-tree shading the lawn and moved up to another table that Bundy had carried down from one of the spare rooms.
And then the joy of being for the first time the real head of the house when “company” was present—free to pour out her hospitality in her own way—free to fix the hours of breakfast, dinner, and supper, and what should be cooked, and how served; free to roam the rooms at her pleasure, in and out of the silent study without the never-infringed formality of a knock.
And the long talks in the improvised studio, she sitting under the big north window in the softened light of the sheet; the joy she took in his work; the charm of his sympathetic companionship. Then the long rides on horseback when the morning’s work was over, she on Black Bess, he on his own mare; the rompings and laughter in the cool woods; the delight over the bursting of new blossoms; the budding of new leaves and tendrils, and the ceaseless song of the birds! Were there ever days like these!
And the swing and dash and freedom of it all! The perfect trust, each in the other. The absence of all coquetry and allurement, of all pretence or sham. Just chums, good fellows, born comrades; joining in the same laugh, stilled by the same thoughts; absorbed in the same incidents, no matter how trivial: the hiving of a swarm of bees, the antics of a pair of squirrels, or the unfolding of a new rose. He twenty-five, clean-souled, happy-hearted; lithe as a sapling and as gracefuland full of spring. She twenty-two, soft-cheeked as a summer rose and as sweet and wholesome and as innocent of all guile as a fawn, drinking in for the first time, in unknown pastures, the fresh dew of the morning of life.
And the little comedy in the garret was played to the very end.
Each day my lady would dress herself with the greatest care in the flowered satin and coax the stray curl into position, and each day Adam would go through the ceremony of receiving her at the door with his mahlstick held before him like a staff of state. Then, bowing like a courtier, he would lead her past the yellow satin screen and big jar of blossoms and place her in the high-back chair, little Phil acting as page, carrying her train.
And so the picture was finished!
On that last day, as he stood in front of it, the light softened by the screening sheet falling full upon it, his heart swelled with pride. He knew what his brush had wrought. Not only had he given the exact pose he had labored for—the bent head, the full throat, the slope of the gently falling line from the ear to the edge of the corsage, the round of the white shoulders relieved by the caressing curl; but he had caught a certain joyous light in the eyes—a light which he had often seen in her face when, with a sudden burst of affection, she had strained little Phil to her breast and kissed him passionately.
“I’m not so beautiful as that,” she had said to Adam with a deprecatory tone in her voice, as the two stood before it. “It’s only because you think I am, and because you’ve kept on saying it over and over until you believe it. It’s the gown and the peach blossoms in the jar behind my chair—not me.”
The servants were none the less enthusiastic. Bundy screwed up his toad eyes and expressed the opinion that it was “de ’spress image,” and fat old Aunt Dinah, who had stumbled up the garret stairs from the kitchen, the first time in years—her quarters being on the ground floor of one of the cabins—put on her spectacles, and lifting up her hands, exclaimed in a camp-meeting voice:
“De Lawd wouldn’t know t’other from which if both on ye went to heaben dis minute! Dat’s you, sho’ nuff, young mist’ess.”
Only one thing troubled the young painter: What would the Judge say when he returned in the morning? What alterations would he insist upon? He had been compelled so many times to ruin a successful picture, just to please the taste of the inexperienced, that he trembled lest this, the best work of his brush, should share their fate. Should the Judge disapprove Olivia’s heart would well nigh be broken, for she loved the picture as much as he did himself.
The night before Judge Colton’s return the two sat out on the porch in the moonlight. The air was soft and full of the coming summer. Fire-flies dartedabout; the croaking of tree-toads could be heard. From the quarters of the negroes came the refrain of an old song:
“Corn top’s ripe and de meadow’s in de bloom,“Weep no mo’ me lady.”
“I feel as if I had been dreaming and had just waked up,” sighed Olivia. “Is it all over?”
“Yes, I can’t make it any better,” he answered in a positive tone, his thoughts on his picture.
“Must you go away after you finish Phil’s?” Her mind was not on the portrait.
“Yes, unless the Judge wants his own painted. I wish he would. I’d love to stay with you—you’ve been so kind to me. Nobody has ever been so good.”
“And you’ve been very kind to me,” Olivia sighed. “Oh, so kind!”
“And just think how beautiful it is here,” he rejoined; “and the wonderful weather; and the lovely life we have led. You ought to be very contented in so beautiful a home, with everybody so good to you.”
“It’s all been very, very happy, hasn’t it?” She had not listened, nor had she answered him. It was the refrain of the old song that filled her ears.
“Yes, the happiest of my life. If you’d been my own sister you couldn’t have been lovelier to me.”
“Where shall you go?” She was not looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the group of trees breaking the sky line.
“Home, to my people,” he answered slowly.
“How far away is it?”
“Oh, a long distance! It takes me three days’ constant riding to get home.”
“And you love them?”
“Yes.”
“Do they love you?”
“Yes.”
Again the song rolled out:
“Few mo’ days to tote de weary load,“Weep no mo’ me lady.”
The home-coming of the master brought everybody on the run to the porch: the men in the neighboring field; the gardener, who came bounding over his flower-beds; Aunt Dinah, drying her fat hands on her apron, to grasp her master’s; Bundy, who helped him to alight; half a dozen pickaninnies and twice as many dogs, and last Adam and Olivia, who came flying down the front stairs, followed by little Phil.
The Judge alighted from the gig with some difficulty, Bundy guiding his foot so that it rested on the iron step, and helped him to the ground. The ride had been a trying one, and the heat and dust had left their marks on his face.
“And how about the portrait?” were his first words after kissing his wife and child and shaking hands with Gregg. “Is it finished, and are you pleased, my dear?”
“Yes, and it’s lovely, only it’s not me, I tell him.”
“Not you? Who is it, then?”
“Oh, somebody twice as pretty!”
“No. It’s not one-quarter, not one-tenth as beautiful!” There was a ring in Adam’s voice that showed the tribute came from his heart.
“But that’s the dress and the background; and the lovely blossoms. Oh, you’d never believe that old jar could look so well!”
“Background! Jar! Where did you sit?” He had changed his coat now, and Bundy was brushing the dust from his trousers and shoes.
“Oh, up in the garret. You wouldn’t know the place. Mr. Gregg pulled everything round until it is the cosiest room you ever saw.”
The Judge shot a quick, searching glance at Adam. Then his eye took in the lithe, graceful figure of the young man, so buoyant with health and strength.
“Up in the garret! Why didn’t you paint it here, or in the front room?”
“I needed a north light, sir.”
“And you could only find that in a garret? I should have thought the parlor was the place for a lady. And are you satisfied with the result?” he asked in a more formal tone, as he dropped into a chair and turned to Adam. The long ride had fatigued him more than he had thought possible.
“Well, it certainly is the best thing I have ever done. The flesh tones are purer, and the——”
The Judge looked up: “Of the face?”
“All the flesh tones—especially the tones around the curl where it lies on the bare shoulder.”
He was putting his best foot forward, arguing his side of the case. Half of Olivia’s happiness would be gone if her husband were disappointed in the portrait.
“Let us go up and look at it,” the Judge said, as if impelled by some sudden resolve.
When he reached the garret—Adam and Olivia andlittle Phil had gone ahead—he stopped and looked about him.
“Well, upon my soul! Youhaveturned things upside down,” he remarked in a graver tone. “And here’s where you two have spent all these days, is it?” Again his eye rested on Adam’s graceful figure, whose cheeks were flushed with his run upstairs. With the glance came a certain feeling of revolt, as if the lad’s very youth were an affront.
“Only in the morning, sir, while the light lasted,” explained Adam, noticing the implied criticism in the coldness of the Judge’s tones.
“Turn the picture, please, Mr. Gregg.”
For a brief moment the Judge, with folded arms, gazed into the canvas; then the straight lips closed, the brow tightened, and an angry glow mounted to the very roots of his gray hair.
“Mr. Gregg,” said the Judge in the same measured tone with which he would have sentenced a criminal, “if I did not know you to be a gentleman, and incapable of dishonor, I should ask you to leave my house. You may not have intended it, sir, but you have abused my hospitality and insulted my home. My wife is but a child, and easily influenced, and you should have protected her in my absence, as I would have protected yours. The whole thing is most disturbing, sir—and I——”
“Why—why—what is the matter?” gasped Adam. The suddenness of the attack had robbed him of his breath.
“Matter!” thundered the Judge. “Bad taste is the matter, if not worse! No woman should ever uncover her neck to any man but her husband! You have imposed upon her, sir, with your foreign notions. The picture shall never be hung!”
“But it is your own mother’s dress,” pleaded Olivia, a sudden flush of indignation rising in her face. “We found it in the trunk. It’s on my bed now—I’ll go and get it——”
“I don’t want to see it! What my mother wore at her table in the presence of my father and his guests is not what she would have worn in her garret day after day for a month with her husband away. You should have remembered your blood, Olivia, and my name and position.”
“Judge Colton!” cried Adam, stepping nearer and looking the Judge square in the eyes—all the forces of his soul were up in arms now—“your criticisms and your words are an insult! Your wife is as unconscious as a child of any wrong-doing, and so am I. I found the dress in the trunk and made her put it on. Mrs. Colton has been as safe here with me as if she had been my sister, and she has been my sister every hour of the day, and I love her dearly. I have told her so, and I tell you so!”
The Judge was accustomed to read the souls of men, and he saw that this one was without a stain.
“I believe you, Gregg,” he said, extending his hand. “I have been hasty and have done you a wrong. Forgiveme! And you, too, Olivia. I am over-sensitive about these things: perhaps, too, I am a little tired. We will say no more about it.”
That night when the Judge had shut himself up in his study with his work, and Olivia had gone to her room, Adam mounted the stairs and flung himself down on one of the old sofas. The garret was dark, except where the light of the waning moon filtering through the sheet, fell upon the portrait and patterned the floor in squares of silver. Olivia’s eyes still shone out from the easel. In the softened, half-ghostly light there seemed to struggle out from their depths a certain pleading look, as if she needed help and was appealing to him for sympathy. He knew it was only a trick the moonlight was playing with his colors—lowering the reds and graying the flesh tones—that when the morning came all the old joyousness would return; but it depressed him all the same.
The Judge’s words with their cruelty and injustice still rankled in his heart. The quixotic protest, he knew, about his mother’s faded old satin must have had some other basis than the one of immodesty—an absurd position, as any one could see who would examine the picture. Olivia could never be anything but modest. Had it really been the gown that had offended him? or had he seen something in his wife’s portrait which he had missed before in her face—something of the joy which a freer and more untrammelled life had given her, and which had, therefore, arousedhis jealousy. He would never forgive him for the outburst, despite the apology, nor would he ever forget Olivia cowering, when she listened, as if from a blow, hugging little Phil to her side. While the Judge’s words had cut deep into his own heart they had scorched Olivia’s like a flame. He had seen it in her tear-dried face seamed and crumpled like a crushed rose, when without a word to her husband or himself, except a simple—“Good-night, all,” she had left the room but an hour before.
Suddenly he raised his head and listened: A step was mounting the stairs. Then came a voice from the open door.
“Adam, are you in there?”
“Yes, Olivia.”
“May I come in?”
Like a wraith of mist afloat in the night she stole into the darkened room and settled slowly and noiselessly beside him. He tried to struggle to his feet in protest, but she clung to him, her fingers clutching his arm, her sobs choking her.
“Don’t—don’t go! I must talk to you—nobody else understands—nobody——”
“But you must not stay here! Think what——”
“No! Please—please—I can’t go; you must listen! I couldn’t sleep. Help me! Tell me what I must do! Oh, Adam, please—please! I shall die if I have to keep on as I have done.”
She slipped from the low cushion and lay crouching at his feet, her arms and face resting on his knees; herwonderful hair, like spun gold, falling about him, its faint perfume stirring his senses.
Then, with indrawn, stifling sobs she laid bare her innermost secrets; all her heartaches, misunderstandings, hidden sorrows, and last that unnamed pain which no human touch but his could heal. Only once, as she crouched beside him, did he try to stop the flow of her whispered talk; she pleading piteously while he held her from him, he looking into her eyes as if he were afraid to read their meaning.
When she had ended he lifted her to her feet, smoothed the dishevelled hair from her face, and kissed her on the forehead:
“Go now,” he said in a broken voice, as he led her to the door. “Go, and let me think it over.”
With the breaking of the dawn he rose from the lounge where he had lain all night with staring eyes, took the portrait from the easel, held it for a brief instant to the gray light, touched it reverently with his lips, turned it to the wall, and then, with noiseless steps, descended to his bedroom. Gathering his few belongings together he crept downstairs so as to wake no one, pushed open the front door, crossed the porch and made his way to the stable, where he saddled his mare. Then he rode slowly past the lilacs and out of the gate.
When he reached the top of the hill and looked back, the rising sun was gilding the chimneys andquaint dormers of Derwood Manor. Only the closed shutters of Olivia’s room were in shadow.
“It’s the only way,” he said with a sigh, and turned his horse’s head towards the North.
The few weeks Adam Gregg spent in his father’s home on his return from Derwood Manor were weeks of suffering such as he had never known in his short career. No word had come from Olivia, and none had gone from him in return. He dared not trust himself to write; he made no inquiries. He made no mention, even at home, of his visit, except to say that he had painted Judge Colton’s wife and had then retraced his steps. It was not a matter to be discussed with any one—not even with his mother, to whom he told almost every happening of his life. He had seen a vision of transcendent beauty which had filled his soul. Then the curtain had fallen, blotting out the light and leaving him in darkness and despair. What was left was the memory of a tear-stained face and two pleading eyes. These would haunt him all his days.
At the end of the year he found himself in London: Gainsborough, Romney and Lawrence beckoned to him. He must master their technique, study their color. The next year was spent in Madrid studying Velasquez and Goya. It was the full brush that enthralled him now—the sweep and directness of virile methods. Then he wandered over to Granada, and so on to the coast and Barcelona, and at last to Paris.
When his first salon picture was exhibited it could only be properly seen when the crowd opened, so great was the throng about it. It was called “A Memory,” and showed the figure of a young girl standing in the sunlight with wreaths of blossoms arched above her head. On her golden hair was a wide hat which half shaded her face; one beautiful arm, exquisitely modelled and painted, rested on the neck of a black horse. A marvellous scheme of color, the critics said, the blossoms and flesh tones being wonderfully managed. No one knew the model—English, some suggested; others concluded that it was the portrait of some lady of the court in a costume of the thirties.
The day after the opening of the salon Clairin called and left his card, and the day following Fortuny mounted the stairs to shake his hand, although he had never met Gregg before. When, later on, Honorable Mention was awarded him by the jury, Boisseau, the art dealer, rang his bell and at once began to inquire about the price of portraits. Madame X. and the Countess M. had been captivated, he said, by “A Memory,” and wanted sittings. If the commissions were sufficient the dealer could arrange for very many orders, not only for many women of fashion, but of members of the Government.
The following year his portrait of Baron Chevrail received the Gold Medal and he himself a red ribbon, and a few months later his picture of “Columbus before the Council” took the highest honors at Genoa, and was bought by the Government.
During almost all the years of his triumphal progress he lived alone. So seldom was he seen outside of his studio that many of his brother painters were convinced that he never spent more than a few days at a time in Paris. They would knock, and knock again, only to be told by the concierge that monsieur was out, or in London, or on the Riviera. His studio in London and his occasional visits to Vienna, where he shared Makart’s atelier while painting a portrait of one of the Austrian grand dukes, helped in this delusion. The truth was that he had no thought for things outside of his art. The rewards of fame and money never appealed to him. What enthralled him was his love of color, of harmony, of the mastering of subtleties in composition and mass. That the public approved of his efforts, and that juries awarded him honors, caused him no thrill of exultation. He knew how far short his brush had come. He was glad they liked the picture. Next time he would do better. These triumphs ruffled his surface—as a passing wind ruffles a deep pool.
As he grew in years there came a certain dignity of carriage, a certain poise of bearing. The old-time courtliness of manner was strengthened; but the sweetness of nature was still the same—a nature that won for him friends among the best about him. Not many—only three or four who had the privilege of knocking with three light taps and one loud one at his door, a signal to which he always responded—but friends whose proudest boast was their intimacy with Adam Gregg.
The women smiled at him behind their lorgnons as they passed him riding in the Bois, for he had never given up this form of out-door exercise, his erect military figure, fine head and upturned mustache lending him a distinction which attracted attention at once; but he seldom did more than return their salutations. Sometimes he would accept an invitation to dinner, but only on rare occasions. When he did it was invariably heralded in advance that “Gregg was coming,” a fact which always decided uncertain guests to say “Yes” to their hostess’s invitation.
And yet he was not a recluse in the accepted sense of the word, nor did he lead a sad life. He only preferred to enjoy it alone, or with one or two men who understood him.
While casual acquaintances—especially those in carriages—were denied access when he was absorbed on some work of importance, the younger painters—those who were struggling up the ladder—were always welcome. For these the concierge was given special instructions. Then everything would be laid aside; their sketches gone over and their points settled, no matter how long it took or how many hours of his precious time were given to their service. Many of these lads—not alone his own countrymen, but many who could not speak his language—often found a crisp, clean bank-note in their hands when the painter’s fingers pressed their own in parting. Of only one thing was he intolerant, and that was sham. The insincere, the presuming and the fraudulent always irritated him;so did the slightest betrayal of a trust. Then his dark-brown eyes would flash, his shoulders straighten, and there would roll from his lips a denunciation which those who heard never forgot—an outburst all the more startling because coming from one of so gentle and equable a temperament.
During all the years of his exile no word had come from Olivia. He had once seen Judge Colton’s name in one of the Paris papers in connection with a railroad case in which some French investors were interested, but nothing more had met his eye.
Had he been of a different temperament he would have forgotten her and that night in the improvised studio, but he was not constituted to forget. He was constituted to remember, and to remember with all his soul. Every day of his life he had missed her; never was there a night that she was not in his thoughts before he dropped to sleep. What would have been his career had fate brought them together before the blight fell upon her? What intimacies, what enjoyment, what ideals nurtured and made real. And the companionship, the instant sympathy, the sureness of an echo in her heart, no matter how low and soft his whisper! These thoughts were never absent from his mind.
Moreover, his life had been one of standards: the greatest painter, the greatest picture, the finest piece of bronze. It was so when he looked over curios at the dealer’s: it was the choicest of its kind that he must have; anything of trifling value, or anything commonplace—heignored. Olivia had also fixed for him a standard. Compared to her, all other women were trite and incomplete. No matter how beautiful they might be, a certain simplicity of manner was lacking, or the coloring was bad, or the curve of the neck ungraceful. All of these perfections, and countless more, made up Olivia’s personality, and unless the woman before him possessed these several charms she failed to interest him. The inspection over and the mental comparison at an end, a straightening of the shoulders and a knitting of the brow would follow, ending in a far-away look in his brown eyes and an unchecked sigh—as if the very hopelessness of the comparison brought with it a certain pain. As to much of the life of the Quartier about him, he shrank from it as he would from a pestilence. Certain men never crossed his threshold—never dared.
One morning there came to him the crowning honor of his career. A new hotel de ville was about to be erected in a neighboring city, and the authorities had selected him to paint the great panel at the right of the main entrance. As he threw the letter containing the proposition on his desk and leaned back in his chair a smile of supreme satisfaction lighted up his face. He could now carry out a scheme of color and massing of figures which had been in his mind for years, but which had heretofore been impossible owing to the limited area covered by the canvases of his former orders. This space would give him all the room he needed. The subject was to be an incident in the life of Rochambeau,just before the siege of Yorktown. Gregg had been selected on account of his nationality. Every latitude was given him, and the treatment was to be distinctly his own.
It was while searching about the streets and cafés of Paris for types to be used in the preliminary sketches for this, the supreme work so far of his life, that he took a seat one afternoon in the early autumn at a table outside one of the cheap cafés along the Seine. He could study the faces of those passing, from a position of this kind. In his coming picture there must necessarily be depicted a group of the great Frenchman’s followers, and a certain differentiation of feature would be necessary. On this afternoon, then, he had taken his sketch-book from his breast pocket and was about to make a memorandum of some type that had just attracted him, when a young man in a student’s cap twisted his head to get a closer view of the work of Gregg’s pencil.
An intrusion of this kind from any one but a student would have been instantly resented by Adam. Not so, however, with the young fellow at his elbow; these were his wards, no matter where he met them.
“Come closer, my boy,” said Gregg in a low voice. “You belong to the Quartier, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Are you English?”
“No, an American. I am from Maryland.”
“From Maryland, you say!” exclaimed Adam with a sudden start, closing his sketch-book and slipping itinto his pocket. The name always brought with it a certain rush of blood to his cheek—why, he could never tell. “How long have you been in Paris, my lad?” He had moved back now so that the stranger could find a seat beside him.
“Only a few months, sir. I was in London for a time and then came over here. I’m working at Julian’s”—and the young fellow squeezed himself into the chair Adam had pulled out for him.
“Are you from one of the cities?”
“No, from Montgomery County, sir.”
“That’s next to Frederick, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Both question and answer set his pulses to beating. Instantly there rushed into his mind the picture he never forgot—the figure in white standing at the head of the porch steps. He recalled the long curl that lay next her throat, the light in her eyes, the warm pressure of her hand; the wealth of bursting blossoms, their perfume filling the spring air. How many years had passed since he had ridden through those Maryland orchards!
For some minutes Adam sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the line of trees fringing the parapet of the Seine. The boy kept silent; it was for the older man to speak first again. Soon an overwhelming, irresistible desire to break through the reserve of years surged over the painter. He could ask this lad questions he had never asked any one before—not that he had ever had an opportunity, for he had seen no onewho knew, and he had determined never to write. Here was his chance.
“Perhaps you can tell me about some of the old residents. I visited your part of the State many years ago—in the spring, I remember—and met a few of the people. What has become of Major Dorsey, Mr. Talbot and”—there was a slight pause—“and Judge Colton?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ve heard my father speak of them, but I never saw any of them except Judge Colton. He used to stay at our house when he held court. He lived up in Frederick County—a thin, solemn-looking man, with white hair. He’s dead now.”
Gregg’s fingers tightened convulsively. “Judge Colton dead! Are you sure?”
“Yes—died the week I left home. Father went up to his funeral. He rode in the carriage with Mrs. Colton, he told us when he came home. They’re pretty poor up there, too; the Judge lost all his money, I heard.”
Gregg paid for his coffee, rose from his seat, shook hands with the boy, gave him his name and address in case he ever wanted advice or help and continued his walk under the trees overlooking the river. The news had come to him out of the sky, and in a way that partook almost of the supernatural. There was no doubt in his mind of the truth. The boy’s Southern accent and his description of the man who ten years before had denounced Olivia and himself, was confirmation enough.
As he forged along, elbowing his way among the throng that crowded the sidewalk, the scene in the garret the night he parted from Olivia took possession of him—the one scene in all their past relation on which he never allowed himself to dwell. He recalled the tones of her voice, the outline of her figure crouching at his knees, the squares of moonlight illumining the floor and the room, and now once again he listened to the story she had poured into his ears that fatal night.
By the time he had reached his studio his mind was made up. Olivia was in trouble, perhaps in want. In the conditions about her she must be threatened by many dangers and must suffer many privations. The old ungovernable longing again gripped him, and with renewed force.
What was there in life but love? he said to himself. What else counted? What were his triumphs, his honors, his position among his brother painters, his welcome among his equals, compared to the love of this woman? What happiness had they brought him? Then his mind reverted to his past life. How hungry had he been for the touch of a hand, the caress of a cheek, the whispered talk into responsive ears. No! there was nothing—nothing but love! Everything else was but the ashes of a bitter fruit.
He must see Olivia, and at once; the long wait was over now. What her attitude of mind might be made no difference, or what her feeling towards him for deserting her on that terrible night. To-day she wasunprotected, perhaps in want. To help her was a matter of honor.
With these thoughts crowding out every other, and with the impetus of the resolve hot upon him, he opened his portfolio and wrote a note, informing the committee in charge of the Rochambeau picture of his sudden departure for America and the consequent impossibility of executing the commission with which they had honored him.
Three days later, with a new joy surging through his veins, he set sail for home.
Again Adam drew rein and looked over the brown hills of Maryland. No wealth of bursting blossoms greeted him; the trees were bare of leaves, their naked branches shivering in the keen November wind; in the dips of the uneven roads the water lay in pools; above hung a dull, gray sky telling of the coming cold; long lines of crows were flying southward, while here and there a deserted cabin showed the havoc the years of war had wrought—a havoc which had spared neither friend nor foe.
None of these things disturbed Adam nor checked the flow of his spirits. The cold would not reach his heart; there was a welcome ahead—of eye and hand and heart. No word of him had reached her ears. If she had forgiven him, thought of him at all, it was as across the sea in some unknown land. Doubtless she still believed he had forgotten her and their early days. This would make the surprise he held in store for her all the more joyous.
As he neared the brow of the hill he began to con over in his mind the exact words he would use when he was ushered into her presence. He would pretend at first to be a wayfarer and ask for a night’s lodging, or, perhaps, it might be best to inquire for young Phil, whomust now be a great strapping lad. Then he began thinking out other surprises. Of course she would know him—know him before he opened his lips. How foolish, then, the pretence of deceiving her. What was really more important was the way in which he would enter the house; some care must therefore be exercised. If he should approach by the rear and meet either Dinah or old Bundy, who must still be alive, of course they would recognize him at once before he could caution them, the back door being near the old kitchen. The best way would be to signal Bundy and call to him before the old man could fully identify him. He could then open the door softly and step in front of her.
Perhaps another good way would be to leave his horse in the stable, and wait until it grew quite dark—the twilight was already gathering—watch the lights being lit, and in this way discover in which room she was sitting. Then he would creep under the window and sing the old song they had listened to so often together, “Weep no mo’, me lady.” She would know then who had come all these miles to see her!
Soon his mind ran riot over the gown she would wear; how her hair would be dressed—would she still be the same slight, graceful woman, or had the years left their mark upon her? The eyes would be the same, he knew, and the lips and dazzling teeth; and she would greet him with that old fearless look in her face—courage and gentleness combined—but would there be any lines about the dear mouth and under theeyes? If so would she be willing to let him smooth them out? She was free now! Both were—free to come and go without restraint. What would he not do for her! All her future and his own would hereafter be linked together. His life, his triumphs, his honors—everything would be hers!
As these thoughts filled his mind something of the spring and buoyancy of his earlier youth came back to him. He could hardly restrain himself from shouting out in glee as he had done in the old days when they had scampered through the woods together. With each familiar spot his enthusiasm increased. There was the brook where they fished that morning for gudgeons, when little Phil came so near falling into the water; and there was the turn of the road that led to the school-house; and the little cabin near the spring. It would not be long now before he looked into her eyes!
The few friends who knew him as a grave and thoughtful man of purpose and achievement would never have recognized him could they have watched his face as he sat astride his horse, his whole body quivering with expectancy, the hope that had lain dormant so long awake once more. Now it was his turn to be glad.
He had reached the hill. Another moment and he would pass the mass of evergreens to the left, and then the quaint dormer-windows and chimneys of Derwood Manor would greet him.
At the bend of the road, on the very verge of the hill,he checked his horse so suddenly as almost to throw him back on his haunches. A sudden chill seized him, followed by a rush that sent the blood tingling to the roots of his hair. Then he stood up in his stirrups as if to see the better.
Below, against the background of ragged trees, stood two gaunt chimneys. All about was blackened grass and half-burned timbers.
Derwood Manor had been burned to the ground!
Staggered by the sight, almost reeling from the saddle, he drove the spurs into his horse, dashed through the ruined gate, and drew rein at the one unburned cabin. A young negro woman stood in the door.
For an instant he could hardly trust himself to speak.
“I am Mr. Gregg,” he said in a choking voice, “and was here ten years ago. When did this happen?” and he pointed to the blackened ruins. He had thrown himself from his saddle and stood looking into her face, the bridle in his hand.
“In de summer time—las’ August, I think.”
“Where’s your mistress? Was she here when the house was burned?”
“I ain’t got no mist’ess—not now. Oh, you mean de young mist’ess what used to lib here? Aunt Dinah cooked for ’em—she b’longed to ’em.”
“Yes, yes,” urged Gregg.
“She’s daid!”
“My God! Not when the house was burned?”
“No, she warn’t here. She was down in Baltimo’—she went dar after de Jedge died. But she’s daid,fo’ sho’, ’cause Aunt Dinah was wid her, and she tol’ me.”
Adam dropped upon a bench outside the door of the cabin and began passing his hand nervously over his forehead as if he would relieve a pain he could not locate. A cold sweat stood on his brow; his knees shook.
The woman kept her eyes on him. Such incidents were not uncommon. Almost every day strangers on their way South had passed her cabin, looking for friends they would never see again—a woman for her husband; a mother for her son; a father for his children. Unknown graves and burned homes could be found all the way to the Potomac and beyond. This strong man who seemed to be an officer, was like all the others.
For some minutes Adam sat with his head in his hand; his elbows on his knees, the bridle still hooked over his wrist. Hot tears trickled between his closed fingers and dropped into the dust at his feet. Then he raised his head, and with a strong effort pulled himself together.
“And the little boy—or rather the son—he must be grown now. Philip was his name—what has become of him?” He had regained something of his old poise—his voice and manner showed it.
“I ain’t never yeard what ’come ’o him. Went in de army, I reck’n. Daid, I spec’—mos’ ev’ybody’s daid dat was here when I growed up.”
Adam turned his head and looked once more at theblackened ruins. What further story was yet to come from their ashes?
“One more question, please. Were you here when the fire came?”
“Yes, suh, me and my husban’ was both here. He ain’t home to-day. We was takin’ care of de place when it ketched fire—dat’s how we come to save dis cabin. Dere warn’t no water and nobody to help, and dis was all we could do.”
Again Adam bowed his head. Was there nothing left?—nothing to recall even her smile? Then slowly, as if he feared the result:
“Was anything saved—any furniture, or—pictures—or——”
“Nothin’ but dem two chairs inside dar—and dat bench what you’s settin’ on. Dey was on de lawn and dat’s how we come to git ’em.”
For some minutes Adam sat looking into the ground at his feet, his eyes blurred with tears.
“Thank you,” was all he said.
And once more he turned his horse’s head towards the North.
A thin, shabby little man, with stooping shoulders, hooked nose and velvet tread, stood before the card rack in the lower corridor of the old studio building on Tenth Street. He was scanning the names, beginning at the top floor and going down to the basement. Suddenly his eyes glistened:
“Second floor,” he whispered to himself. “Yes, of course; I knew it all the time—second floor,” and “second floor” he kept repeating as he helped his small body up the steps by means of the hand-rail.
The little man earned his living by obtaining orders for portraits which he turned over to the several painters, fitting the price to their reputations, and by hunting up undoubted old masters, rare porcelains, curios and miniatures for collectors. He was reasonably honest, and his patrons followed his advice whenever it was backed by somebody they knew. He was also cunning—softly, persuasively cunning—with all the patience and philosophy of his race.
On this morning the little man had a Gilbert Stuart for sale, and what was more to the point he had a customer for the masterpiece: Morlon, the collector, of unlimited means and limited wall space, would buy it provided Adam Gregg, the distinguished portraitpainter, Member of the International Jury, Commander of the Legion of Honor, Hors Concours in Paris and Munich, etc., etc., would pronounce it genuine.
The distinguished painter never hesitated to give his services in settling such matters. He delighted in doing it. Just as he always delighted in criticising the work of any young student who came to him for counsel—a habit he had learned in his life abroad—and always with a hand on the boy’s shoulder and a twinkle in his brown eyes that robbed his words of any sting.
When dealers sought his help he was not so gracious. He disliked dealers—another of his foreign prejudices. Tender-hearted as he was he generally exploded with dynamic force—and he could explode when anything stirred him—whenever a dealer attempted to make him a party to anything that looked like fraud. He had once cut an assumed Corot into ribbons with his pocket-knife—and this since he had been home in New York, fifteen years now—and had then handed the strips back to the dealer with the remark:
“Down in the Treasury they brand counterfeits with a die; I do it with a knife. Send me the bill.”
The little man, with the cunning of his race, knew this peculiarity, and he also knew that ten chances to one the great painter would receive him with a frigid look, and perhaps bow him out of the door. So he had studied out and arranged a little game. Only the day before he had obtained an order for a portrait to be painted by the best man-painter of his time. Thepicture was to be full length and to hang in the directors’ room of a great corporation. This order he had in his pocket in writing, signed by the secretary of the board. Confirmations were sometimes valuable.
As the little man’s body neared the great painter’s door a certain pleasurable sensation trickled through him. To catch a painter on a hook baited with an order, and then catch a great collector like Morlon on another hook baited with a painter, was admirable fishing.
With these thoughts in his mind he rapped timidly on Adam Gregg’s door, and was answered by a strong, cheery voice calling:
“Come in!”
The door swung back, the velvet curtains parted, and the little man made a step into the great painter’s spacious studio.
“Oh, I have such a fine sitter for you!” he whispered, with his hand still grasping the curtain. “Such a distinguished-looking man he is—like a pope—like a doge. It will make a great Franz Hal; such a big spot of white hair and black coat and red face. He’s coming to-morrow and——”
“Who is coming to-morrow?” asked Gregg. His tone would have swamped any other man. He had recognized the dealer with a simple “Good-morning,” and had kept his place before his easel, the overhead light falling on his upturned mustache and crisp gray hair.
The little man rubbed his soft, flabby hands together,and tiptoed to where Gregg stood as noiseless as a detective approaching a burglar.
“The big banker,” he whispered. “Did you not get my letter? The price is no object. I can show you the order.” He had reached the easel now and was standing with bent head, an unctuous smile playing about his lips.
“No, I don’t want to see it,” remarked Gregg, squeezing a tube on his palette. “I can’t reach it for some time, you know.”
“Yes, I have told them so, but the young gentleman wants to have the entry made on the minutes and have the money appropriated. I had great confidence, you see, in your goodness,” and the little man touched his forehead with one skinny finger and bowed obsequiously.
“I thought you said he had white hair.”
“So he has. The portrait is to hang up in the directors’ room of one of the big copper companies. The young gentleman is a member of the banking firm that is to pay for the picture, and is quite a young man. He buys little curios of me now and then, and he asked me whom I would recommend to paint the director’s portrait, and, of course, there is but one painter—” and the dealer bowed to the floor. “He’s coming to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock and will stay but a moment, for he’s a very busy man. You will, I know, receive him.”
Gregg made no reply. Rich directors did not appeal to him; they were generally flabby and well fedand out of drawing. If this one had some color in him—and the dealer knew—some of the sort of vigor and snap that would have appealed to Franz Hal, the case might be different. The little man waited a moment, saw that Gregg was absorbed in some brush stroke, and stepped back a pace or two. Better wait until the master’s mind was free. Then again he could sweep his eyes around the interior without being detected—there was no telling what might happen: some day there might be a sale, and then it would be just as well to know where things like these could be found. Again he tiptoed across the spacious room, stopping to gaze at the rich tapestries lining the walls, examining with eye-glass held close the gold snuffboxes and rare bits of Sèvres and Dresden on the shelves of the cabinet, and testing with his nervous fingers the quality of the rich Utrecht velvet screening the door of an adjoining room.
Gregg kept at work, his square, strong shoulders, well-knit back and straight limbs—a fulfilment of the promise of his youth—in silhouette against the glare of the overhead light, its rays silvering his iron-gray hair and the tips of his upturned mustache.
The tour of the room complete, the little man again bowed to the floor and said in his softest voice:
“And you will receive him at four o’clock?”
“Yes, at four o’clock,” answered Gregg, his eyes still on the canvas.
Again the little man’s head bent low as he backed from the room. There was no need of further talk.What Adam Gregg meant he said, and what he said he meant. As he reached the velvet curtain through which he had entered, he stopped.
“And now will you do something for me?”
Gregg lifted his chin with the movement of a big mastiff throwing up his head when he scents danger. “I was waiting for that; then there is a string to it?” he laughed.
The little man reddened to his eyebrows. The fish had not only seen the hook under the bait, but knew who held the line.
“No, only that you come with me to Schenck’s to see a portrait by Gilbert Stuart,” he pleaded. “I quite forgot—it is not often I do forget; I must be getting old. It’s to be sold to-morrow; Mr. Morlon will buy it if you approve; he said so. I’m just from his house.”
“I have a sitter at three.”
“Yes, I know, but you always have a sitter. You must come—it means something to me. I’ll go and get a cab. It will not take half an hour. It is such a beautiful Stuart. There’s no doubt about it, not the slightest; only you know Mr. Morlon, he’s very exacting. He says, ‘If Mr. Gregg approves I will buy it.’ These were his very words.”
Gregg laid down his brushes. Little men like the one before him wasted his time and irritated him. It was always this way—some underhand business. Then the better side of him triumphed.
“All right!” he cried, the old sympathetic tone ringingout once more in his voice. “Never mind about the cab; I need the air and the walk will do me good; and then you know I can’t see Mr. Morlon swindled,” and he laughed merrily as he looked quizzically at the dealer.
The entrance of the distinguished painter into the gallery of the auctioneer with his quick, alert manner and erect, military bearing, the Legion of Honor in his lapel, soon attracted attention. Schenck came up and shook Gregg’s hands cordially, repeating his name aloud so that every one could hear it—especially the prospective buyers, some of whom gazed after him, remarking to their fellows, as they shielded their lips with their catalogues: “That’s Gregg!”—a name which needed no further explanation.
“I have come to look at a Stuart that Mr. Morlon wants to buy if it is genuine,” said Gregg. “Tell me what you know about it. Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know; it was left on storage and is to be sold for expenses.”
“Is it to be sold to the highest bidder?”
“No, at private sale.”
“Where is it?”
“There—behind you.”
Gregg turned and caught his breath.
Before him was a portrait of a young woman in an old-fashioned gown, her golden hair enshrining a face of marvellous beauty, one long curl straying down a shoulder of exquisite mould and finish, the whole relievedby a background of blossoms held together in a quaint earthen jar.
Strong man as he was, the shock almost overcame him. He reached out his hand and grasped the back of a chair. Tears welled up in his eyes.
The auctioneer had been watching him closely.
“You seem to like it, Mr. Gregg.”
“Yes,” answered Adam in restrained, measured tones. “Yes, very much. But you have been misinformed; it is not by Gilbert Stuart. It is by a man I know, I saw him paint it. Tell Mr. Morlon so. Send it to my studio, please, and credit this gentleman with the commission—I’ll buy it for old association’s sake.”
That night, when it grew quite dark, he took the portrait from where the cartman had left it in his studio with its face to the wall—never again would it suffer that indignity—and placed it under his skylight. He wanted to see what the fading light would do—whether the changed colors would once more unlock the secrets of a soul. Again, as in the dim shimmer of the dawn, there struggled out from the wonderful eyes that same pleading look—the look he had seen on its face the morning he had left Derwood Manor—as if she needed help and was appealing to him for sympathy. Then he flashed up the circle of gas jets, flooding the studio with light. Instantly all her joyousness returned. Once more there shone out the old happy smile and laughing eyes. Loosening the nails that held the canvas, he freed the portrait from its gaudy frame, andwith the remark—“It was unframed when I kissed it last,” placed it over the mantel moving some curios out of the way so it would rest the more firmly; then he dropped into a chair before it.
He was in the past again—twenty-five years before, living once more the long hours in the garret with its background of blossoms; roaming the woods; listening to the sound of her joyous laughter when she caught little Phil to her breast. Then there rang in his ear that terrible moan when Judge Colton denounced them both; and the sob in her voice as she sank at his feet that night. He could catch the very perfume of her hair and feel the hot tears on his hand. If only the lips would open and once more whisper his name! What had sent her back, to soothe him with her beauty?
His whole life passed in review—his hopes, his ambitions, his struggles; the years of loneliness, of misunderstanding, and the final triumph—a triumph made all the more bitter by a fate which had prevented her sharing it with him. With this there arose in his mind the picture of two gaunt chimneys outlined against a cold, gray sky; the trees bare of leaves, the grass shrivelled and brown—and then, like a refrain, came the long-forgotten song: