VIIMR. RICHMOND CALLS
Rogerwas working in the studio, with doors and windows wide. It was fiercely hot. He had reduced his costume to outing shirt and old flannel trousers—the kind they make in the Latin Quarter—baggy at the hips, tapering to a close fit at the ankles and hanging with a careless, comfortable, yet not ungraceful looseness. He was working atthepicture. He had not decided on a name for it. Should he call it April?—or Dawn?—or The Water Witch? Or should he give it its proper name—Rix? That title would mean nothing to anyone save himself. But to him the picture meant nothing else. True, there was landscape in it; the play of early morning light on foliage, on leaping water, on placid water made it the best landscape he had ever done—incomparably the best. The canoe, too, was a marvel in its way. But the girl—therewas the picture! He made another infinitesimal change—it would have been impossible to count the number of those changes he had made. Then he stood off at a little distance to look again.
“Is it in the canvas—or is it in my mind?” said he aloud.
He could not tell. He rather feared he was largely imagining the wonders he thought he saw in that pictured face and form.
“It may be rotten, and I a fool hypnotized by her and by my own vanity, for all I know. But—what do I care? I am getting the pleasure.”
Pleasure? Never before had he taken such deep, utter joy in his work. Not merely joy in the doing—that was his invariable experience—but joy in the completed work. Never before had he brought anything so near to the finish without a feeling of dissatisfaction, sense of failure, of having just missed his aim. He viewed the picture from a dozen points. And each time he beheld in it something new, something yet more wonderful.
“I’m damned if it’s there! It simply can’t be. Not the greatest genius who ever lived could produce what I imagine I see.”
He took a dozen new positions, standing long at each view point. But the illusion—it must be illusion!—refused to vanish. The work—the figure part of it—persisted in appealing to him as a product of transcendent genius.
“That business didn’t stop a minute too soon—nota minute! For it’s evident I was on the verge of falling in love.”
“On the verge?”... What was the meaning of the illusion of a picture greater than ever artist made?... On the verge?
“Why, hang it all, I’ve done nothing but think about her since we kissed. I’m bewitched! I’m in love!”
The kiss was a week old now—ought to have lost its power long ago; for there is power in a kiss from a pretty woman, even though a man does not love her. But this kiss had an extraordinary, an unprecedented quality. Other kisses—in days gone by—had given their little sensation and had straightway drifted into the crowd of impressions about the woman or about the general joyousness of life when the senses are normal and responsive. But this kiss—it had individuality, a body and soul of its own, a Jack’s bean-stalk kind of vitality. It was more vigorous day by day. He could feel it much more potently to-day than on the day it was given. Really, it did not make a very powerful impression then. He had experienced much better kisses. He had felt awkward—a little ridiculous—rather uneasy and anxious to escape. Now——
“Not a minute too soon—not a minute! As it is, I’m going to have the devil’s own time forgetting her.”
What had become of all his projects for a career, for rapid striding into fame? Gone—quite gone. He simply wanted to stay at the studio and work on and on and yet on at the one picture—at the one figure in that picture. He had vaguely decided on a scheme for another picture when this should be done. What was it? Why, a picture of a woman sitting under a tree, her hands listless, her whole body relaxed and inert—except her eyes. Her eyes were to be winging into the depths of the infinite. He had planned out the contrast between the eyes, so intensely, so swiftly alive, and the passive rest of her. And who was this woman? Rix! He had still more vaguely planned a third picture. Of what? Rix again.
“Not a minute too soon? By Heaven, a minute too late!”
“Well, what of it?” demanded he gloomily of his gloomy self. Why, pay the bill. Pay like a man. “I couldn’t marry her if I would. I wouldn’t marry her if I could. But I can pay the bill for making a fool of myself.” He glowered savagely around. “The next time a good-looking woman comes here,” he muttered, “I’ll take to my heels and hide in the woods till she’s gone. I see I’m no longer to be trusted in female society. At my age—with my plans—after all I’ve been through—to make such an easy ass of myself!” Hesat down despondently on the bench—sprang up—for was it not there—lying there—just where he had seated himself—that he had first seen her? He glanced round the studio. He groaned. Everything in it reminded him of her; and there, in the center, in the most favorable light, on the easel—was she herself!
He rushed outdoors. Sunshine shimmering and sparkling on the foliage—he could see her, the yellow hair aflame with sunbeams, flitting gracefully through the aisles of the forest! A heavy bill it was to be! But he set his teeth. “She is not for me, nor I for her. If she were here now I’d talk to her just as I did. But, thank God, I didn’t realize until I had done the only thing that’s sane and honorable. I wonder how long it will be before I can begin to forget?”
Every morning he awoke vowing he would not touch or look at her picture that day. Every morning he cut short his walk that he might get to the studio earlier and busy himself at the picture. He partially consoled himself with the reflection that at least he was improving it, was not altogether wasting his time. And he found evidence of real strength of purpose in the fact that he kept away from the waterfall. For two weeks he daily feared—or hoped—whether fear or hope or both he was not sure—that she would come to the studio. As the days passed and she did not appear hefelt that she was getting over her infatuation; to stay away thus long unless her enthusiasm had cooled was wholly unlike her impetuous and brave nature. This thought did not make him happier exactly, but athwart its gloom shot one sincerely generous gleam: “Anyhow, I’m paying alone,” said he to himself. “And that’s as it should be. It was altogether my fault. I am older, more experienced. I ought to have seen that the strangeness and novelty of our meetings were appealing to her young imagination—and I ought to have broken off at the very outset. If she had been a poor girl leading a quiet, dull life the consequences might have been serious. Yes, and I might have been weak enough to marry her out of regret—and that would have been misery for us both.”
He tried fighting against the desire to spend his days with that picture. He tried yielding to the desire. But neither abstinence nor excess availed. He tried savage, sneering criticism—found that he loved her for her defects and her weaknesses. He tried absurd extravagance of romancing—found that he had quite lost his sense of humor where adulation of her was concerned. The kiss flamed on. He decided to leave—to fly. But he discovered that if he went he would surely take the picture; and of what use to go, if he lugged his curse along with him?
One afternoon late he went to the door to get the full benefit of a cool breeze that had sprung up. He saw, a few hundred yards away, Rix and a man climbing up through the dense woods toward his workshop. He wheeled round, rushed in and put the picture away—far back in the depths of the closet, behind a lot of other pictures. In its place on the easel he set a barely begun sketch—one of his attempts to distract his mind. Then, with no alteration in his appearance—his hair was mussed this way and that, and his negligee shirt was open at the neck and rolled up to the elbows—he lit a cigarette and sauntered to the door again. His not making any effort to improve upon his appearance was characteristic and significant; rarely indeed has there been a human being habitually less self-conscious than he. It would take a very vain person to continue to think of himself or herself on becoming suddenly a spectator at some scene of tremendous interest. Roger was in that state of mind all the time. His senses were so eager, his mind so inquisitive, his powers of observation so acute that his thoughts were like bees on a bright, summer day—always roving, and returning home only to unload what had been gathered and quickly depart again in quest of more from the outside.
As the ascent was steep he had ample time to compose his thoughts and his expression. She must not seeor feel anything that would make it, however little, harder to pursue the road Fate had marked out for her. The man beside her was obviously her father—obviously, though there was no similarity of face or manner or figure. The relationship was revealed in that evasive similarity called family favor—a similarity which startlingly asserts itself even in dissimilarities, as if the soul and the body had a faint aureole which appeared only at certain angles and in certain lights. He was a little, thin man—dry and dyspeptic—with one of those deceptive retreating chins of insignificant size that indicate cunning instead of weakness. He had a big, sharp nose, a rough skin and scraggly mustache, with restless, gray-green eyes. He was very slouchily dressed in dusty gray. When he took off his straw hat to wipe his brow Roger was astonished by the sudden view of a really superb upper head which transformed his aspect from merely sly to dangerously crafty—the man with the nature of a fox and the intelligence to make that nature not simply a local nuisance but a general scourge. “I’d like to paint him,” thought Roger—and compliment could no further go in an artist who detested portrait work.
As the two drew near Rix waved her sunshade at him and nodded. He advanced, holding to his cigarette. When she extended her hand—a gloved hand, forshe was in a fashionable, white, walking costume—her eyes did not lift and her color wavered and her short, sensitive, upper lip trembled slightly. “Mr. Wade, I want you and father to know each other,” said she. As her voice came the thrill that shot through him dropped his cigarette from between the fingers of his left hand. He and Richmond gave each other a penetrating, seeing glance, followed by a smile of immediate appreciation.
Richmond gave and took back his hand quickly—the hand shake of the man who is impatient of meaningless formalities. “I’ve come to look at the picture,” said he, in his voice the note of one who neither wastes his own time nor suffers others to waste it.
Roger froze instantly. “I’m sorry you’ve had your journey for nothing,” said he.
Richmond looked at him aggressively. Roger’s tone of the large, free spirit that does as it wills was to Richmond, the autocrat, like a challenging trumpet. “It’s here—isn’t it?” said he.
“But it’s not finished,” replied the big artist, gentle as the voice of a great river flowing inevitably on its way.
“No matter,” said Richmond graciously. “We’ll take a look at it, anyhow.”
“Oh, no, we shan’t,” said Beatrice, laughing. “Hehas a rule against it, father. And he’s like iron where his rules are concerned. But you’ll give us some chocolate, won’t you, Mr. Wade?”
“Delighted,” said Roger, with a gesture inviting them to precede him into the studio.
Richmond looked round him scrutinizingly. “Nothing to distract your mind from your work, I see. That’s the way my office is fitted up. I’m always suspicious of chaps surrounded by elegant fittings.” And he gave Roger an approving look that was flattering, if a trifle suggestive of superiority.
“It’s not wise to judge a man by any exteriors,” said Roger. “What he does—that is the only safe standard.”
Richmond reflected, nodded. “Yes,” said he. “Yes. Is that the picture?” He pointed one brown, bony hand at the sketch on the easel.
“No,” said Roger curtly, and he flung a drape over the sketch. Turning to Beatrice with rather formal friendliness, he inquired, “How is your mother?”
“Well—always well,” said Beatrice. “She sent you her best. But she’s cross with you for not coming to call.”
Richmond grinned sardonically. “From what I’ve heard of Wade,” said he, “he’s not the kind you find nestled among the petticoats with a little cup in hishand.” He smiled upon Roger. “In America, at least, you never see men who amount to anything at these social goings-on. In five years I’ve been to only one party in my own house, and to none in anybody else’s house.”
“May I help with the chocolate—Mr. Wade?” asked Beatrice.
“No. You two will sit quietly. I don’t mind being watched.”
While he made the closet give up the necessary utensils and concocted the chocolate with the aid of spirit-lamp stove the three talked in rambling fashion. Several times Richmond brought up the subject of the picture; every time Roger abruptly led away from it, Beatrice with increasing nervousness helping him. But Richmond was not discouraged. It became evident that he had made up his mind to see that picture and was only the more resolved because the artist had his will set against it. Finally he said:
“It’s really necessary, Mr. Wade, that I see the picture. Your friend, Count d’Artois, speaks highly of your work. But I always judge everything for myself. And I must see before I decide about giving you a commission—a dozen panels for an outing-club house I and some of my friends are going to put something like half a million into.”
“Why, father, you didn’t tell me anything about it!” exclaimed Beatrice, flushed and agitated. And Roger understood that she, nervous about his sensibilities, was letting him know that she had not arranged this.
Her father’s amused laugh confirmed Roger’s impression that Beatrice was telling the truth. “No, my dear, I did forget to ask your permission,” said Richmond ironically. “I apologize. Now, Wade, you see I’m not asking out of idle curiosity or merely because I’m anxious to see what you’ve made of this girl of mine. So, don’t bother with bashfulness. Trot out the picture.”
But Roger smilingly shook his head. “I couldn’t undertake any work at present.”
“Honestly, Chang, I didn’t know a thing about this,” cried the girl. Then, to her father: “He’s so peculiar that he wouldn’t——”
“Oh, no, I’m not such an ass as that,” interrupted Roger good-naturedly. “Sugar in your chocolate, Mr. Richmond? No? When are you sailing, Miss Richmond?”
Beatrice understood—abandoned the subject. “Perhaps we shan’t go,” she replied.
And she went on to detail at length and with much vivacity the merits and demerits of several plans for thesummer she and her mother were considering. Richmond’s frown deepened. After five minutes he set down his empty cup and cut squarely across her stream of lively talk.
“The panels will be a good thing—from the financial standpoint,” said he, a note in his voice like a rap for undivided attention.
Beatrice glanced anxiously at Roger, said to her father: “Oh papa, don’t let us talk business. This is a party.”
“Icame on business,” retorted Richmond. “And I know Wade wouldn’t thank us for coming if we were here just to fool away his time.”
“I usually knock off for chocolate at this hour,” said Roger. “About the panels, thank you very much, but I can’t do them.”
“Why not?” inquired Richmond, so much irritation in his tone that it was scarcely polite.
Roger looked amused. “I haven’t thought of the reason yet,” said he courteously. “If I change my mind later I’ll let you know.”
Richmond did not conceal his disgust with what seemed to him an exhibition of youthful egotism bordering on impertinence. Beatrice, eager for her father to get a favorable impression, looked woefully depressed. “You misunderstood me, Mr. Wade,” said he, resumingthe Mr. to indicate his disapproval. “I did not offer you the commission.”
“And I didn’t accept it,” said Roger, laughing. “So, there’s no harm done. Let me give you some chocolate.”
“Thanks, no. We are going.” And the financier rose. “Come along, Beatrice.”
The girl, pale, crestfallen, half rose, and reseated herself, looked appealingly at Roger, who seemed not to see, then stood. “When can we see the picture?” she asked, casting desperately about for an excuse for lingering.
“We don’t want to see it at all,” her father put in, with a jovial, sardonic laugh that revealed unpleasantly his strong, sallow, crowded teeth. “Mr. Wade needn’t bother to complete it. I’ll send him a check for whatever you settled as the price——”
“Father!” gasped Beatrice despairingly. Then, to Roger, with a nervous attempt at a lively smile: “He doesn’t mean it. He’s simply joking.”
“Your father and I understand each other,” said Roger tranquilly. “The picture’ll be done in a few days. I’ll send it to Red Hill immediately. I always like to get a finished job out of the place. I’ve got a terrible habit of tinkering as long as a thing’s within reach. As for the check”—he smiled pleasantly atRichmond, who looked—and felt—small and shriveled before the large candor of the artist’s expression—“your daughter is a poor business woman. She forgot to make a bargain. So it lies between your generosity and mine.” Roger made a courtly bow, with enough mockery in it to take away affectation. “I’m sure mine will come nearer the value of the picture. I’ll make you a present of it—with my compliments.”
“Can’t permit it!” said Richmond angrily.
But Roger remained suave. “I don’t see how you’re going to help yourself,” said he. “I can send it back to you as often as you return it to me, and if you can refuse to take it in, why, so can I. You can’t make me ridiculous without my making you ridiculous also. You see, you’re in my power, Mr. Richmond.” All this with the utmost good humor and friendliness.
Richmond could think of nothing to say but a repetition of his curt “Can’t permit it!” He glanced in the direction of his daughter, jerked his head toward the door. “Come along, child. Good day, sir.” Roger’s expression, from the height of his tall figure, was so compelling that he put out his hand, which Roger took and shook with the cordiality of a host to whom any guest is inviolable.
Beatrice and Roger shook hands—that is, Beatrice let her hand rest lifelessly in Roger’s until he droppedit. He bowed them out into the sunshine and stood in the doorway, watching them. At the edge of the forest Beatrice turned suddenly and started back. Roger saw her father wheel round—heard his sharp “Beatrice!”—saw his look of furious amazement. The girl came almost running. Roger braced himself, through his whole body a gripping sensation that might be either terror or delight.
When she stood before him, her eyes down, her cheeks pale, her bosom heaving, she said: “The other day you asked me whether I’d give up everything for you. I didn’t know then. I do know now.”
“Pardon me, but I did not,” said Roger, calm and cold.
“However it was,” she rushed on, “that question came up. And I didn’t know then whether I would or would not. Well, I know now.”
“Your father is impatient.”
“I’m sure I would,” she said, a fascinating haughty humility in her face, in her voice. And she looked so brilliantly young and ardent.
Roger’s glance fled before hers. A brief electric silence, then he laughed pleasantly. “AndI’msure you wouldn’t. And it doesn’t matter whether you would or wouldn’t. Good-by, Rix. Your father’s look is aimed to kill.”
“How cruel you are—and how blind!” she cried, eyes and cheeks aflame. And as quickly as she had come she sped away to rejoin her father.
Roger heaved a great sigh. “Now,” said he aloud, “I’ve seen the last of her. I can resume.”