Patricia Wharton stood a moment on the edge of the terrace after the dance, slipped her hand into Mortimer Crabb’s arm and came down upon the path, drawing a drapery across her white shoulders.
“What is it?” asked Crabb. “You are not cold?”
“Oh, no,” she said quietly. “I think I am a little tired.”
“Come,” he said. “There’s a beautiful spot—just here.” He led her across the lawn and through an opening in the trees to a garden-bench in the shadow, a spot which none of the other maskers had discovered. Through the leafy screen they could see the gay figures floating like will-o’-the-wisps across the golden lawn, but here they were quiet and unobserved. Patricia sank upon thebench with a sigh, while Crabb sat beside her.
“Are you happy?” he asked after awhile.
“Perfectly,” she murmured. “What a beautiful party!” She placed her hand in his and moved a little closer to him, then sat listlessly, her eyes seeking the spaces between the branches where the people were. “I don’t want to grow old too soon,” she was saying. “The whole world is in short clothes to-night. Wouldn’t it be good to be young forever?”
Crabb smiled indulgently.
“Yes,” he said. “It is good to be young. But isn’t it anything to take your place in the world? I want you to know all a man can do for the woman he loves. Won’t you let me? Soon?” He bent over her and took the rounded arm in his strong hand. She did not withdraw it, but something told him a link of sympathy was lacking in the chain. As she did not reply he straightened and sat moodily looking before him.
“Don’t think me capricious, please,” shebegan. “You’re everything I can hope for—and yet——”
“And yet?” he repeated.
She paused a moment, then broke in, “Forgive me, won’t you? I don’t know what it is. Something has affected me strangely.” She leaned against the back of the bench, rested her head in her hand, away from him, and Crabb turned jealously toward her.
“You were thinking—of him—of the other.”
“Why shouldn’t I be honest with you? I can’t help it. Something has suddenly brought him into my mind. I was wondering——”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering where he is now—to-night. It is so beautiful here. Everything has been done to make us happy. I was thinking that perhaps if I had written him a line I might have saved him some terrible trial. It was only a boy-and-girl affair, of course, but——”
Patricia suddenly stopped speaking, and both of them turned their heads toward the dark bank of bushes behind them.
“What was it?” she asked.
“A dead branch falling,” he replied.
They listened again, but all they heard was the sound of the orchestra and the voices of the dancers.
“You’re teaching me a lesson in patience,” Crabb began again soberly. “I can wait, of course. I’m not jealous ofhim,” he said. “I was only wondering how you could think of him at all.”
“I don’t think of him—not inthatway. I believe I haven’t thought of him at all—until to-night. To-night, I can’t help thinking of others less fortunate than ourselves. I suppose it’s only the natural thing that he should suffer. He never seemed to get things right, somehow; his point of view was always askew. He was a wild boy—but he was human.”
She paused and clasped her hands before her. Crabb sat silent beside her, but his browwas clouded. When he spoke it was in a voice low and constrained.
“Do you think it kind—wise to speak of this now?”
“I was thinking that perhaps if he’d had a little luck——”
“He might have come back to you?”
Patricia turned toward him and with a swift movement took one of his hands in both of hers.
“Don’t speak in that way,” she pleaded. “You mustn’t.”
But his fingers still refused to respond to her pressure.
“If I think of him at all, it is because I have learned how great a thing is love and how much the greater must be its loss. You know,” she whispered, timidly, “you know I—I love you.”
“God bless you for that,” he murmured.
They were so absorbed that they did not hear the sound behind them—a suppressed moan like that of an animal in pain.
“Will you forgive me?” asked the girl, at last. “It is all over now. I shall never speak of it again. I’ve spoiled your evening. You don’t regret?”
Crabb laughed happily.
“I’ll promise to be good,” she said, softly. “I’ll do whatever you ask me——”
“Will you marry me next month?”
“Yes,” she murmured, “whenever you wish.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her. They stood for some time deaf to all voices but those in their hearts. There was a breaking of tiny twigs under the trees behind them and a drab figure came out into the open on the other side and vanished into the darkness by the garden wall. And as they walked back into the house neither guessed just what had happened except that some new miracle, which, really, is very old, had happened to them.
As a matter of fact, when Patricia announced the miracle in the form of her engagementto Mortimer Crabb a prayer of thanksgiving went up from at least three young women of her acquaintance. And though these feminine petitioners were left as much to their own devices as before the announcement, there was a certain comfort in knowing that she was out of the way—at least, that she was as much out of the way as it was possible for Patricia to be, bound or untrammeled. Jack Masters went abroad, Steve Ventnor actually went to work, and various other swains sought pastures new.
Ross Burnett was best man and, when the ceremony and breakfast were over, saw the happy couple off upon theBlue Wing, for their long Southern cruise. They offered him conduct as far as Washington, whither he was bound, but he knew from the look in their eyes that he was not wanted, and with a promise to meet them in New York when they returned, he waved them a good-by from the pier and took up the thread of his Government business where it had been dropped. Itis not often that good comes out of villainy, and the memory of the adventure in which Crabb had involved him, often troubled his conscience. What if some day he should meet Baron Arnim or Baron Arnim’s man and be recognized? At the State Department Crowthers had asked him no questions and he had thought it wise not to offer explanations. But certain it was that to that adventure alone was his present prosperity directly due. His South American mission successfully concluded, he had returned to Washington with the assurance that other and even more important work awaited him. His point of view had changed. All he had needed was initiative, and, Crabb having supplied that deficiency, he had learned to face the world again with the squared shoulders of the man who had at last found himself. The world was his oyster and he would open it how and when he liked.
It was this new attitude perhaps which enabled him to take note of the taming of MortimerCrabb, for when he visited the bride and groom in their sumptuous house in New York, he discovered that Crabb had formed the habit of the easy-chair after dinner, and that the married life, which all his days he had professed to abhor, was the life for him. It took the combined efforts of Burnett and Patricia to dislodge him.
“He’s absolutely impossible,” said Patricia. “He says that he has solved the problem of happiness—that he has done with the world. It’s so like a man,” and she stamped her small foot, “to think that marriage is the end of everything when—as everyone knows—it’s only the beginning. He’s getting stout already, and I know, I’m positive that he is going to be bald. Won’t you help me, Mr. Burnett?”
“That’s a dreadful prospect—Benedick, the married man. You only need carpet slippers and a cribbage-board, Mort, to make the picture complete. Have you stopped seeking opportunities?”
“Ah, yes,” drawled Crabb, “Patty is the only opportunity I ever had—at least—er—the only one worth embracing——”
“Mortimer!”
“And don’t you ever go to the Club?” laughed Ross.
“Oh, no. I’m taboo there since I lived in Philadelphia. Besides, I’m not a bachelor any more, you know. If Patty only wouldn’t insist on dragging me out——”
Patricia laughed.
“Twice, Ross, already this winter,” Crabb continued. “It’s cruelty, nothing less.” But the perpetrator of the outrage was smiling, and she leaned forward just then and laid her hand in that of her husband, saying with a laugh, “Mort, you know we’ll have to get Ross married at once.”
“Me?” said Burnett, in alarm.
“Of course. A bachelor only sneers at a Benedick when he has given up hoping——”
“Oh, I say now—I’m not so old.”
“Then you do hope?”
“Oh, no, I only wait—for a miracle.”
“This isn’t the age of miracles,” remarked Patty thoughtfully, “at least not miracles of that kind. How can you expect anyone to fall in love with you if you go on leaping from one end of the earth to the other. No girl wants to marry a kangaroo—even a diplomatic kangaroo.” She paused and examined him with her head on one side. “And yet you know you’re passably decent looking——”
“Oh, thanks!”
“Even distinguished—that foreign way of wearing your mustache is really quite fetching. You’ll do, I think, with some coaching.”
“Will you coach me?”
“I object,” interrupted Crabb, lazily.
“I will. You’re quite worth marrying—I’m at least sure you wouldn’t condemn your wife to her own lares and penates.”
“Not I. She’d get the wanderlust—or a divorce.”
“Don’t boast, worse vagabonds than youhave been tamed—come now, what shall she be—blonde or brunette?”
Burnett shrugged his shoulders. “I’m quite indifferent—pigment is cheap nowadays.”
“Now you’re scoffing.”
Ross Burnett leaned back in his chair and smiled at the chandelier. Women had long ago been omitted from his list of possibilities. But Patricia was not to be denied.
“Married you shall be,” she said with the air of an oracle, “and before the year is out. I swear it.”
“But why do you want me to——”
“Revenge!” she said tragically. “You helped marry me to Mort.”
And the young matron was as good as her word, though her method may have been unusual.
It came about in the following manner, and Burnett’s brother and Miss Millicent Darrow were her unconscious agents. Miss Darrow had gone to the Academy Exhibit. The rooms were comfortably crowded. Sheentered conscious of a certain dignity and repose in the character of her surroundings. She brought forth her catalogue, resolutely opened it to the first page and in a moment was oblivious to the people about her. She did not belong to the great army “who know what they like.” She had an instinctive perception of the good, and found herself not a little amazed at the amount of masterly work by younger men whose names she had never heard. It was an unpleasant commentary upon the mentality and taste of the set in which she moved, and she was conscious of a sense of guilt; for was she not a reflection of the shortcomings of those she was so ready to condemn? “The Plain—Evening—William Hazelton”—a direct rendering of an upland field at dusk, between portraits by well-known men; “Sylvia—Henry Marlow”—a girl in a green bodice painted with knowledge and assurance.
In another room were the things in a higher key—she knew them at a glance; and onthe opposite wall a full-length portrait that looked like a Sargent. She was puzzled at the color, which was different from that of any man she remembered. The Sargents she knew were grouped in another room—and yet there was here the force and breadth of the master. She experienced the same perplexity—“Agatha—Philip Burnett,” said the catalogue. She sank upon a bench before it and gave herself up to quiet rapture.
“If I were a man,” she said at last, “that is how I should wish to paint, the drawing of Sargent, the poetry of Whistler, the grace of Alexander, the color of Benson. Philip Burnett,” she apostrophized, “I’m a Philistine. Forgive me.”
It was very pleasant under the subdued lights from above. She followed the sweep of the drapery with delighted eye, taking an almost sensuous pleasure in the relation of color and the grace of the arms and throat—the simplicity of the modeling and the admirable characterization.
She found herself repeating:
“‘And those that were good shall be happy,They shall sit in a golden chair;They shall splash at a ten-league canvasWith brushes of comet’s hair.’
“‘And those that were good shall be happy,They shall sit in a golden chair;They shall splash at a ten-league canvasWith brushes of comet’s hair.’
“Philip Burnett, I wonder if you’re good? You ought to be. I’d be good if I could paint like that. I’d work for an age at a sitting, too. How could one ever be tired making adagios in color? Oh!” she sighed, “how good it must be to amount to something!”
A procession of agreeable, vacuous faces passed before the canvas, creatures of a common fate, garbed in the uniform of convention, carrying the polite weapons of Vanity Fair, each like the others and as uninteresting. The few who wore the bright chevrons of distinction had marched with the throng for a time, but had gone back to their own. She wondered if it would really matter if she never saw them again; of course, the women—but the men. Would she care?
Was there not another life? It beckoned to her. What was Philip Burnett like? Could he be young and handsome as well as gifted? The vacuous faces vanished and in their place she could see this young genius—Antinous and Hercules combined—standing before this canvas living for the mere joy of work. Here was her answer. Was she to flit through enchanted gardens other people had planted, sipping only at the perfumed petals while the honey to be garnered was in plain sight?
A voice broke in just beside her:
“It’s convincing, but I tell you, Burnett, the arm’s too long.”
“Perhaps. Not bad, though, for a new man. You know we Burnetts are an exceptional race.”
The men moved away and the other’s reply was lost in the murmur of the crowd. Miss Darrow turned to follow them with her eyes—what a big fellow he was! with an admirable profile, a straight nose, a waxed mustache, and a chin like the one on the mask of Brutus. Conceited, of course! All artists were conceited. And who was that with him—Mortimer Crabb? Yes, and there was the bride talking to the Pendergasts.
“Why, Milly, dear!” Mrs. Pendergast passed an incurious but observant eye over her acquaintance. “I thought you were in Aiken. What a lovely hat! Are you going to the Inghams? What will you wear? Isn’t it restful here?”
Miss Darrow politely acquiesced and attemptedreplies, but her eyes strayed toward the Burnett portrait.
“Stunning,” continued Mrs. Pendergast. “A new man just over. Quite too clever. Wonderful color, isn’t it? Like a ripe pomegranate.”
“Have you met him?”
“No. He belongs to the Westchester Burnetts, though. Mrs. Hopkinson. So glad. Is Frederick here?”
The agreeable lady had made of the portion of the galleries in the neighborhood of the Burnett portrait a semblance of her own busy drawing-room. Other acquaintances came up and Miss Darrow was soon lost in the maze of small talk. A broad pair of shoulders were thrust forward into her group, and Miss Darrow found herself looking into a pair of quizzical gray eyes which were beaming a rather frank admiration into hers. “Miss Darrow—Mr. Burnett,” Patricia Crabb was saying; and Millicent Darrow was conscious that in a moment the new arrivalhad quietly and cleverly appropriated her and was taking her to the opposite side of the room where he found for her a Winslow Homer of rocks and stormy splendor.
“Why is it,” she asked, after her first enthusiasm, “that the work of the artist so seldom suggests its creator’s personality?”
“The perversity of the human animal,” he laughed. “That’s the system of justice of the great Republic of Art, Miss Darrow. If we lose a characteristic here, we gain it somewhere else. Rather a nice balance, don’t you think?”
“You hardly look the poet, Mr. Burnett—you don’t mind my saying so?” she laughed. “And if you do dream, you do it with your eyes very wide open.”
Mr. Burnett’s brows were tangled in bewilderment. “I’m really not much given to dreaming. I’m rather busy, you know.”
“It’s splendid of you. You’ve worked long?”
“Er—yes—since I left college,” he said,the tangle in his brows suddenly unraveling. A smile now illuminated his rather whimsical eyes. Miss Darrow found herself laughing frankly into them.
“Art is long—you must be at least—thirty.”
“Less,” he corrected. “Youth is my compensation for not being a lawyer—or a broker.”
She was conscious of the personal note in their conversation, but she made no effort to avoid it. This genius of less than thirty gave every token of sanity and good fellowship.
“Who is Agatha?” she asked suddenly.
“A—er—a friend of mine in Paris.”
“Oh!” she said, in confusion.
And then:
“The face is of the East—the Slav—did you choose her for that character?”
“Not at all. She was—er—just—just a sitter—a commission, you know.”
“How interesting!”
They had made the rounds of the room and were now facing the portrait again.
“It was lucky to have so good a model,” he continued. “One doesn’t always. Have you ever posed, Miss Darrow?”
“I? No, never. Father has been trying to get me painted this winter. But I’ve been so busy—and then we’re going South in two weeks—so we haven’t been able to manage it.”
“What a pity!” The subtle sparkle had died in his eyes, which from the shadow of their heavy lashes were regarding hers intently.
“You’re very kind. Would you really like to paint me?” said Miss Darrow. “Suppose I said you should. I want my portrait done. If you make me half as wonderful as Agatha, I shall die happy. Won’t you come in to-morrow at five? We can talk it over. I must be going now. No, not now, to-morrow. Au revoir.” She gave him her hand with a friendly nod, and threaded her way throughthe crowd, leaving Burnett staring at the card she had left in his hand.
On the way up-town in the machine Patricia examined him, smiling curiously.
“What a delusion you are, Ross Burnett! Railing in one moment at matrimony and in the next, tagging around like a tame bear at the heels of the first pretty girl that crosses your path.”
“Sheispretty, isn’t she?” he admitted, promptly.
“And quite the rage—this is her third season you know. You seemed to be getting on very rapidly——”
“Oh, it was all a mistake,” Burnett laughed. “She thought I was an artist.”
“An artist? What in the world——”
“I’m going to do her portrait——”
“You!” Patricia leaned forward eagerly. “What do you mean?”
“That I’m brother Philip—the chap that did the Agatha. She mistook me for him,and she was so nice about it that I didn’t like to interfere.”
Crabb was lighting a cigarette.
“I’m afraid, my dear Ross, that the East has sapped some of your moral fiber,” he said.
“It’s perfectly delightful,” laughed Patricia.
“But Ross can’t paint——”
“I’d like to try,” said Burnett.
“Fiddlesticks!”
Patricia said no more, but all the way home her face wore a smile which would not come off. The miracle had happened. Had she searched New York she could not have found a girl more eminently suited to Ross Burnett. That night Mortimer had some writing to do, but Patricia and her guest sat for a long while talking earnestly in the library. They didn’t take Mortimer into their confidence, for Patricia had now gleefully donned the mantle her husband had so carelessly thrown aside. Here was an opportunity to make, and Patricia became the goddess in the machine.
Several days passed. Ross Burnett moved about the studio adjusting a canvas upon an easel, bringing out draperies, raising and lowering curtains, and peering into drawers and chests in a manner which betrayed an uncertain state of mind. At last he seemed to find what he was looking for—a drapery of soft gray material. This he cast over the back of the easel, walked back from it to the far side of the room where he put his head on one side and looked with half-closed eyes.
There was a clatter of the old French knocker. Burnett dropped his paint tubes and cigarette and opened the door.
“Am I late?” laughed Miss Darrow.
“You couldn’t come too early,” said Burnett. But he dubiously eyed the French maid who had entered bearing a huge portmanteau.
“I was so afraid to keep you waiting. You’re not very angry?”
“I’m sure I’ve been here since dawn,” he replied.
“Then let’s not waste any time. Oh, isn’t it charming! Where shall I go?”
He pushed open the door of the dressing room.
“I think you’ll find the mirror fair,” he said. “If there’s anything——”
“How exciting! No. And I’ll be out in a jiffy.”
When the door was closed Burnett eyed the model-throne, the draperies, the chair, and the canvas, seeking a last inspiration before the imminent moment. He put a Japanese screen behind the chair and threw a scarlet drapery over one end of it, knocking at the rebellious folds to make them fall as he wished.
“Will I do?” asked the girl, radiantly emerging. She wore a black evening dress. The maid had thrown a filmy drapery overher which brought out the dull whiteness of the shoulders. “It is so different in the daytime,” she said, coloring; “but father has always wanted it so. You know I haven’t told him. It’s to be a surprise.”
Burnett’s color responded to hers. He bowed his head. “You are charming,” he murmured gallantly with a seriousness she could not fail to notice.
When Julie was dismissed to return at luncheon-time, Mr. Burnett conducted Miss Darrow to her throne and took his place before the canvas. She stood leaning easily upon the back of the chair, the lines of her slender figure sweeping down from the radiant head and shoulders into the dusky shadows behind her. She watched him curiously as he stood away from the easel to study the pose.
“If I only could—it’s splendid so,” he was murmuring, “but I wish you to sit.”
She acquiesced without question. “I feel like a specimen,” she sighed. “It’s a terribleordeal. I’m all arms and hands.Mustyou squint?”
In Burnett’s laugh all restraint was liberated to the winds.
“Of course. All artists squint. It’s like the circular sweep of the thumb—a symbol of the craft.”
He walked behind her and adjusted the screen, taking away the crimson drapery and putting a greyish-green one in its place.
“There,” he cried, “just as you are. It’s stunning.”
She was leaning forward with an elbow on the chair arm, her hands clasped, one slender wrist at her chin.
“Really! You’re awfully easy to please—I wonder if I shall do as well as Agatha.”
He took up a charcoal—looked at its end, and made a slight adjustment of the easel. “Before we begin—there’s one thing I forgot.” He paused. “All painters are sensitive, you know. I’m rather queerer than most. Ihope you won’t care.” The charcoal was now making rapid gyrations upon the surface of the canvas. “I’m awfully sensitive to criticism—in the early stages. I usually manage to pull out somehow—but in the beginning—when I’m drawing, laying in the figure—I don’t like my canvas seen. Sometimes it lasts even longer. You won’t mind not looking, will you?”
“I see. That’s what the grey thing is for. I don’t mind in the least; only I hope it will come soon. I’m wild to see. And please smoke. I know you want to.”
The grateful Burnett drew forth his cigarette-case and while his model rested busied himself among his tubes of paint, squeezing the colors out upon the palette.
“If you only knew,” he sighed, “how very difficult it seems.” But the large brush dipped into the paint and Burnett worked vigorously, a fine light glowing in his eyes. Miss Darrow watched the generous flow from the oil cup mingling with the colors.
“What a lot of vermilion you use!”
“‘What a lot of vermilion you use.’”“‘What a lot of vermilion you use.’”
“Hair,” he replied. He seemed so absorbed that she said no more, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. Later she ventured:
“If it’s carroty I’ll never speak to you again. Please make it auburn, Mr. Burnett.”
He only worked the more rapidly. He seemed to be dipping into every color upon the palette, in the center of which had grown a brown of the color of walnut-juice. This he was applying vigorously to the lower part of the canvas. When the palette was cleared he put it aside and sank back in a chair with a sigh.
“Rest,” said the artist.
“I’m not in the least tired,” she replied.
“ButIam. It takes it out of me to be so interested.”
“Does it?” She leaned back in her chair, regarding him with a new curiosity. “Do you know,” she added, “you are full of surprises——”
She ignored the inquiry of his upraised brows.
“——and paint,” she finished with a laugh.
He ruefully eyed a discolored thumb. “I’m awfully untidy, I know. I’ve always been. In Paris they called me Slovenly Peter.”
“I shouldn’t say that—only——”
“What?”
“Only——” she indicated several streaks of black on his grey walking-suit. “Must one always pay such a price to inspiration?”
“Jove! Thatwasstupid. I always do, though, Miss Darrow.” He examined the spots and touched them with the tips of his fingers. “It’s paint,” he finished, examining it with a placidity almost impersonal. “It doesn’t matter in the least.”
“And do you always smudge your face?” she asked sweetly. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was a broad streak of red across his forehead. He wiped it off with a handkerchief.
“Oh, please don’t laugh.”
He sank upon the edge of the throne, and then they both laughed joyously, naturally, like two children.
“I’m an awfully lucky fellow,” he said, at last. “I feel like a feudal baron with a captured princess. Here are you, that most inaccessible of persons, the Woman of Society, doomed every morning for two weeks to play Darby and Joan with a man you’ve known only three days. How on earth can a fellow survive seeing a girl he likes behind cups of tea! It’s rough, I think. Society seems to accomplish every purpose but its avowed one. Instead of which everybody plays puss-in-the-corner. A fellow might have a chance if the corners weren’t so far apart. And I, just back from abroad with all the skeins of old friendship at a loose end, walk into your circle and quietly appropriate you for a fortnight—while your other friends go a-begging.”
“They haven’t begged very hard,” she laughed. “If they had, perhaps they might be playing Darby and Joan, too. I’ve nevertried it before. But I think it’s rather nice——” She broke off suddenly.
“Do you know, I’ve restedquitetwenty minutes,” she said after a moment. “Come, time is precious.”
“That depends——”
She waited a moment for him to finish, but he said no more.
“How extraordinary!” she said with a prettymouë. “I don’t know whether I should be pleased or not.”
“Can you blame me? The Forelock of Time hangs too temptingly,” he laughed. “Of course, if you’d rather pose——” He took up his dripping brushes with a sigh.
“Oh, indeed, I don’t care,” she sank back in the chair. “Only don’t you think—isn’t that really what I’m here for?”
“It is time to pose, Miss Darrow,” he said determinately.
But she made no move to get into the position.
“I haven’t complained,” and she smiled athim. “Your muse is difficult, and I’m the gainer. Really, I think I’d rather talk.”
“And I’m waiting to go on with the portrait.”
“I’ll pose again on one condition——”
“Yes.”
“That you put on overalls.”
The brushes and palette dropped to his side. “That’s rough on Slovenly Peter,” he laughed. He set about squeezing the paint tubes, wiping the brush handles and edge of the palette. When the pose was over Julie appeared. The artist drew the grey drapery over the easel and helped Miss Darrow to descend.
These mornings in the studio were full of subtleties. Miss Darrow discovered that Burnett could talk upon many subjects. He had traveled much in Europe, and could even draw a bold outline for her of the East, which she had never seen. He talked little of art, and then only when the subject was introduced by his model. In the rests, which were long, he led Miss Darrow, often without her being aware of it, down pleasant lanes of thought, all of which seemed to end abruptly in the garish sunshine of personality. She did not find it unpleasant; only it seemed rather surprising the way all formality between them had been banished.
One morning there was a diversion. A clatter on the knocker and Burnett, frowning, went to the door. Miss Darrow heard a feminine voice and an exclamation. Burnett wentrather hurriedly and stood outside, his hand upon the door knob. There was a murmur of conversation and a feminine laugh. She tried not to hear what was said. The hand fidgeted on the knob, but the murmur of voices continued. Miss Darrow got down from the throne and moved to the window, adjusting a stray curl as she passed.
She looked away from the mirror, then stopped suddenly and looked again. When Burnett entered she was sitting in the window-seat, looking out over the roof-tops. He was profuse in apology. She resumed the pose and the artist painted silently. “They say there’s a pleasure in painting that only a painter knows,” she began.
“Of course.”
“Then why do we rest so often? I’m not easily deceived. The fine frenzy is lacking, Mr. Burnett—isn’t it so?”
For reply he held out his paint-smudged hands.
“No—no,” she went on. “You’re paintingtimidly with the tips of your fingers—not in the least like the ‘Agatha.’ I’m sure you’re doing me early-Victorian.”
Burnett stopped painting, looked at his canvas and laughed. “Oh, it’s hardly that,” he said.
“Won’t you prove it?”
“How?”
“By letting me look.” She rose from her chair, got down from the throne and took a rapid step or two towards the easel. But Burnett’s broad shoulders barred the way.
“Please,” she urged.
“I can’t, really.”
“Why not?” She stood her ground firmly, looking up into his face, but Burnett did not move or reply.
She settled into the pose again and Burnett went mechanically to his place before the canvas. Once it seemed as if he were about to speak—but he thought better of it. He looked down at the mass of color mingled on the palette. His brush moved slowly on the canvas.At last it stopped and dropped to his side.
“I can’t go on.”
She dropped out of the pose. “Are you ill?”
“Oh, no,” he laughed. With the setting aside of the brushes and palette, Burnett seemed to put away the shadow that had been hanging over his thoughts all the morning. He stood beside her and was looking frankly into her eyes. She saw something in his that had not been there before, for she looked away, past the chimneys and apartment houses, past the clouds, and into the void that was beyond the blue. She had forgotten his presence, and one of her hands which he held in both of his.
“Perhaps you understand,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you know.”
The fingers moved slightly, but on the brows a tiny frown was gathering. He relinquished her hand with a sigh and stood looking rather helplessly in the direction ofthe mute and pitiless easel. They were so deep in thought that neither of them heard the turning of a skeleton key in the latch and the opening of the door. The Japanese screen for a moment concealed them from the view of a gentleman who emerged into the room. Ross Burnett looked up helplessly. It was Mortimer Crabb, horror-stricken at this violation of his sanctum.
“Ross!” he said, “what on earth——”
Miss Darrow started from her chair, the crimson rushing to her cheeks, and stood drawing the lace across her shoulders.
Burnett was cool. “Miss Darrow,” he asked, “you know Mr. Crabb? He’s studying painting, and—er—sometimes uses this place. Perhaps——”
The words hung on his lips as he realized that Miss Darrow with an inclination of the head toward the visitor, had vanished into the dressing-room.
As the door closed words less polite came forth.
But Crabb broke in: “Oh, I say, Ross, you don’t mean you’ve had the nerve——”
Ross Burnett’s brows drew together and his large frame seemed to grow compact.
“Hush, Mort,” he whispered. “You don’t understand. You’ve made an awful mess of things. Won’t you go?”
“But, my dear chap——”
“I’ll explain later. But go—please!”
With a glance toward the easel Mortimer Crabb went out.
Ross Burnett closed the door, shot its bolt and put his back against it. As the clatter of Crabb’s boots on the wooden stairs died away on the lower floor, he gave a sigh, folded his arms and waited.
When Miss Darrow emerged from the dressing-room ready for the street, she found him there.
“My things are in the portmanteau,” she said, icily. “My maid will call for them. If you will permit me——”
But Burnett did not move.
“Miss Darrow——” he began.
“Will you let me pass?”
“I can’t, Miss Darrow—until you hear. I wouldn’t have had it happen for anything in the world.”
“I cannot listen. Won’t you open the door?”
He bowed his head as though better to receive her reproaches, but he did not move.
“Oh!” she cried, “how could you!” Her chin was raised, and she glanced scornfully at him from under her narrowed lids.
“Please,” he pleaded, quietly. “If you’ll only listen——”
She turned and walked towards the window. “Isn’t it punishment enough for it all to end like this,” he went on, “without making it seem as though I were worse than I am? Really, I’m not as bad as I’m painted.”
It was an unfortunate phrase. An awkward silence followed it, in which he was conscious that Miss Darrow had turned suddenlyfrom the window and was facing the Thing upon the easel, which was now revealed to them both in all its uncompromising ugliness. From the center of a myriad of streaks of paint something emerged. Something in dull tones, staring like a Gorgon from its muddy illusiveness. To Burnett it had been only a canvas daubed with infelicitous paint. Now from across the room it seemed to have put on a smug and scurrilous personality and odiously leered at him from its unlovely background.
“Don’t,” cried Burnett. “Don’t look at the thing like that.”
But the girl did not move. She stood before the easel, her head a little on one side, her eyes upon the canvas.
“It’s really not Victorian, is it?” she asked calmly.
“Youmustlisten!” cried Burnett, leaving his post at the door. “I insist. You know why I did this mad thing. I’ve told you. I’d do it again——”
“I’ve no doubt you will,” she put in scornfully. “It doesn’t seem to have been so difficult.”
“It was. The hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. You gave me the chance. I took it. I won’t regret it. It was selfish—brutal—anything you like. But I don’t regret—nine wonderful mornings, twenty-seven precious hours—more, I hope, than you’ve given any man in your life.” He made one rapid stride and took her in his arms. “I love you, Millicent, dear. I’ve loved you from the first moment—there in the picture gallery. Yes, I’d do it again. Every moment I’ve blessed the luck that made it possible. Don’t turn away from me. You don’t hate me. I know it. You couldn’t help feeling a response to a love like mine.” He held her close to him, raising her head at last until her lips were level with his own. But he did not touch them. She still struggled faintly, but she would not open her eyes and look at him.
“No, no, you mustn’t,” was all that she found strength to say.
“You can’t deny it. You do—care for me. Look up at me and tell me so.”
She would not look at him and at last struggled away and stood, her cheeks flaming.
“You are masterful!” she stammered. “A girl is not to be won in this fashion.”
“I love you,” he said. “And you——”
“I despise you,” she gasped. She turned to the mirror, and rearranged her disordered hair.
“Don’t say that. Won’t you forgive me?”
She sank on the model stand and buried her face in her hands. “It was cruel of you—cruel.”
The sight of her distress unnerved him and gave him for the first time a new view of the enormity of his offense. It was her pride that was wounded. It was the thought of what Mortimer Crabb might think of her that had wrought the damage. He bent over her, his fingers nearly touching her, yet restrainedby a delicacy and a new tenderness begotten by the thought that it was he alone who had caused her unhappiness.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
And she only repeated. “What can he think of me? What can he think?”
Burnett straightened, a new thought coming to him. It seemed like an inspiration—a stroke of genius.
“Of course,” he said, calmly, “you’re hopelessly compromised. He must think what he pleases. There’s only one thing to do.”
She arose and breathlessly asked, “WhatcanI do? How can I——”
“Marry me—at once.”
“Oh!”
She spoke the word slowly—wonderingly—as if the idea had never occurred to her before. He had left the way to the door unguarded, but instead she walked toward the window, and looked out over the roof-tops. To Burnett the silence was burdened with meaning, and he broke it timorously.
“Won’t you—won’t you, Millicent, dear?”
Her voice trembled a little when she replied: “There is one thing more important than that—than anything else in the world to me.”
At her side his eyes questioned mutely.
“And that?” he asked at last.
“My reputation,” she whispered.
He stood a second studying her face, for his happiness grew upon him slowly. But behind the crooked smile which was half-hidden from him, he caught the dawn of a new light that he understood. He took her in his arms then, and wondered how it was that he had not kissed her when her lips had been so close before. But the new wonder that came to them both made them willing to forget that there had ever been anything else before.
Later, Ross, unable to credit his good fortune and marveling at the intricacies of the feminine mind, asked her a question. Her reply caused him more amazement:
“Poor, foolish, Slovenly Peter! I saw it by accident in the mirror a week ago.”
So it was Mortimer Crabb after all who made the opportunity; for Miss Darrow smilingly admitted that had it not been for his abrupt entrance at that precise psychological moment, she should now have been in Aiken and Ross on the way to the Antipodes. But Patricia was doubly happy; for had she not circumvented her own husband in opening the studio he had forsworn, the veritable chamber of Bluebeard which had been bolted against her? Had she not browsed away among the gods of his youth to her heart’s content and made that sacred apartment the vestibule of Paradise for at least two discontented mortals whose hearts were now beating as one?
After this first success, Patricia was filled with the spirit of altruism, and winter and summer went out upon the highways and byways seeking the raw material for her fateful loom. She was Puck, Portia and Patricia all rolled into one. There were Stephen Ventnor and Jack Masters, whom she still saw occasionally, but they only sighed and even refused to dine at the Castle of Enchantment. She thought sometimes of Heywood Pennington, too, and often found herself wondering how the world was faring with him, hoping that some day chance would throw him in her way. The old romance was dead, of course. But what an opportunity for regeneration!
Meantime she had much to do in keeping up her establishment, many friends to make in New York, many social duties to perform.She spent much time with her husband over the plans of the country place he was building on Long Island, which was to be ready for occupancy late in the following spring. Mortimer Crabb had formed a habit of going down town for a part of every day at least, and if he really did no work he created an impression of stability which was rather surprising to those who had known him longest. The Crabbs were desirable acquaintances in the married set, and before two years had passed, Patricia made for herself an enviable reputation as a hostess and dinner guest, to say nothing of that of a model wife. Not a cloud larger than a speck had risen upon the matrimonial horizon and their little bark sailed steadily forward propelled by the mildest of breezes upon an ocean that was all made up of ripples and sunshine. Mortimer Crabb loved abundantly, and Patricia was contented to watch him worship, while she shaped the course to her liking.
There were still times, however, when shesat and watched the flames of the library fire while she stirred up the embers of romance. Few women who have been adored as Patricia had been are willing too abruptly to shut the door upon the memory of the might-have-beens. The coquette in her was dying hard—as it sometimes does in childless women. She still liked the attentions to which she had been accustomed, and her husband saw that she was constantly amused—provided with clever men from his clubs as dance partners for the Philadelphia girls who visited them. Stephen Ventnor, who was selling bonds down-town, had been persuaded at last to forget his troubles and now came frequently to dinner. There was nothing Patricia wanted, it seemed, except something to want.
One day, quite by chance, she met another one of the might-have-beens upon the street. She did not know him at first, for he now wore a small moustache and the years had not passed as lightly over his head as they had over hers. She felt her way barred by a tallfigure, and before she knew it, was shaking hands with Heywood Pennington.
“Patty,” he was saying, “don’t you know me? Does four years make such a difference?” A warm tint rose and spread unbidden from Patricia’s neck to temples. It angered her that she could not control it, but she smiled at him and said that she was glad to see him.
Together they walked up the Avenue, and, as they went, she questioned and he told her his story. No recriminations passed. He made it plain to her that he was too glad to see her for that. He was in business, he said vaguely, and in the future was to make New York his home. So, when she took leave of him, Patricia asked the prodigal to call. It will be apparent to anyone that there was nothing else to do.
Mortimer Crabb received the information at the dinner table that night with a changeless expression.
“I’m sure if you want Mr. Penningtonhere, he’ll be welcome,” he said with a slow smile. “He’s a very, very old friend of yours, isn’t he, Patty?”
“Oh, yes—since school days,” she said, quietly. And she blushed again, but if Crabb noticed, it was not apparent, for he immediately busied himself with his soup.
“He used to be such a nice boy,” said Patricia. “But I’m afraid he got pretty wild and——”
“Yes,” put in her husband, a little dryly. “I’ve heard something about him.”
She glanced at him quickly, but he did not look up and she went on:
“I thought it would be nice if we could do a little something for him, give him a lift, introduce him to some influential people——”
“Make an opportunity for him, in short,” said Crabb.
“Er—yes. He has had a pretty hard time, I think.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Crabb, “most people do.”
Patricia foresaw an opportunity such as she had never had before, and a hundred plans at once flashed into her pretty head for the prodigal’s regeneration. First, of course, she must kill the fatted calf, and she therefore planned at once a dinner party, at which Mr. Pennington should meet some of her intimate friends, Dicky Bowles and his wife, the Burnetts, who were on from Washington, the Charlie Chisolms and her sister Penelope. For reasons of her own Stephen Ventnor was not invited.
Patricia presided skilfully with an air of matronly benevolence not to be denied and dextrously diverted the conversation into channels strictly impersonal. So that after dinner, while Charlie Chisolm was still talking rifle-bores with Mortimer, Patricia and Heywood Pennington went into the conservatory to see the new orchids.
That was the first of many dinners. Patricia invited all the eligible girls of her acquaintance, one after another, and sat themnext to Mr. Pennington in an apparent endeavor to supply the deficiency she had caused in that gentleman’s affections. But new orchids came continually to the conservatory, and Patricia was not loath to show them. Then followed rides in the motor car when Crabb was down-town, and shopping expeditions when Crabb was at the club, for which Patricia chose Heywood Pennington as her escort, and whatever Mortimer Crabb thought of it all, he said little and looked less.
But if her husband had been willing to worship blindly before he and Patricia had been engaged, marriage had cleared away some of the nebulæ. He had learned to look upon his wife as a dear, capricious being, and with the abounding faith and confidence of amply proportioned men he was willing to believe that Patricia, like Cæsar’s wife, was above suspicion. He was quite sure that she was foolish. But Patty’s little finger foolish was more important to Mortimer than a whole Minerva.
Mr. Pennington’s ways were not Crabb’sways, however, and the husband learned one day, quite by chance, of an incident that had happened in New York which confirmed a previous impression. He went home a little sombre, for that very night Mr. Pennington was to dine again at his house.
After dinner Patricia and Pennington vanished as usual into the conservatory and were seen no more until it was time for Patricia’s guests to go. The husband lingered moodily by the fire after the door had closed upon the last one, who happened to be the might-have-been.
“Patty,” he began, “don’t you think it a little—er—inhospitable——”
“Oh, Mort,” Patricia broke in, “don’t be tiresome.”
But Mortimer Crabb had taken out his watch and was examining it with a judicial air.
“Do you know,” he said, calmly, “that you’ve been out there since ten? I don’t think it’s quite decent.”
It was the first time her husband had used exactly this tone, and Patricia looked at him curiously, then pouted and laughed.
“Jealous!” she laughed, and blowing him a kiss flew upstairs, leaving her husband still looking into the fire. But he did not smile as he usually did when this was her mood, and in her last backward glance Patricia did not fail to notice it. Instead of following her, Mortimer Crabb lit a cigar and went over to his study. Perhaps he should have spoken more severely to Patricia before this. He had been on the point of it a dozen times. Gossip had dealt with Pennington none too kindly, but Crabb didn’t believe in gossip and he did believe in his wife.
He finished his cigar and then lit another while he tried to think the matter out, until, at last, Patricia, a pretty vision in braids and lace, came pattering down. He heard the footfalls and felt the soft hands upon his shoulders, but did not turn his head. He knew what was to come and had not the humoror the art to compromise. Patricia, with quick divination, took her hands away and went around by the fire where she could look at her husband.
“Well,” she said, half defiantly. Crabb replied without raising his eyes from the fire.
“Patty,” he said quietly, “you mustn’t ask Mr. Pennington to the house.” Patricia looked at him as though she had not heard aright. But she did not speak.
“You must know,” he went on, “that I’ve been thinking about you and Mr. Pennington for some time, but I haven’t spoken so plainly before. You mustn’t be seen with Mr. Pennington again.”
He rose and knocked his cigar ashes into the chimney and then turned to face his wife. Patricia’s foot was tapping rapidly upon the fender while her figure presented the picture of injured dignity.
“It is preposterous—impossible,” she gasped. “I’m going to ride with him to-morrow afternoon.”
And then after a pause in which she eagerly scanned her husband’s face, she broke forth into a nervous laugh: “Upon my word, Mort, I believe youarejealous.”
“Perhaps I am,” said Crabb, slowly, “but I’m in earnest, too. Do what I ask, Patricia. Don’t ride to-morrow——”
“And if I should refuse——”
Crabb shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away.
“It would be too bad,” he said, “that’s all.”
“But how can you do such a thing,” she cried, “without a reason—without any excuse? Why, Heywood has been here every day for——” and then broke off in confusion.
Crabb smiled rather grimly, but he generously passed the opportunity by.
“Every reason that I wish—every excuse that I need. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, it isn’t—I refuse to believe anything about him.” Crabb looked at his wife sombrely.
“Then we’d better say no more. Your attitudemakes it impossible for me to argue the question. Good-night.” He opened the door and stood waiting for her to go out. She hesitated a moment and then swept by him, her very ruffles breathing rebellion.
The next morning he kissed her good-bye when she was reading her mail.
“You’ll write him, Patty, won’t you?” he said, as he went out.
“Yes—yes,” she answered, quickly, “I will—I’ll write him.”
Patricia did write to him. But it was not at all the sort of a letter that Crabb would have cared to see.