XIXROGER SORE BESET
Rogerstill seated on his front veranda behind the curtain of creepers, was not a little astonished to see that the solitary occupant of the runabout stopping at his gate was Beatrice’s father. His astonishment did not decrease when the little big financier, advancing briskly up the gravel walk edged by flowering plants, hailed the first clear view of his face with a smile of the utmost geniality—the greeting of an old and dear friend.
“I’ve come about that picture,” Richmond hastened to explain. “I wish—for my own sake—I’d seen it sooner. If you’ll pardon an old man—at least, a much older man than yourself—for being quite frank—it has given me an entirely different opinion of you. It has made me very proud of my acquaintance with you. I know that’s blunt—but it’s sincere.”
Roger was as fond of praise as the next human being. He had cultivated the philosophy of indifference only to uncritical censure. He blushed and stammered out some awkward words of thanks—certainlynot the less awkward for the uneasiness Richmond’s manner had raised within him.
“My wife and my daughter were quite right and I was wrong—stupidly wrong,” continued Richmond. They were seated now. “I’m not an art expert—and not imagining I was or pretending to be has saved me thousands of dollars and a lot of fake art stuff. But, at the same time, a man who amounts to anything in any line always appreciates good work in every other line—whether he likes it or not. So—I want that picture. Isn’t there anything I could say or do that would induce you to change your mind and let me have it?”
Roger’s brow clouded again; a strange, absent look was in his eyes—the eyes of an artist, sensitive, sympathetic, penetrating, yet devoid of the least suggestion of craft. “I’ve been thinking that matter over,” said he with an effort. “I have decided not to take the picture with me. So—you can have it—if you’ll accept it.”
“My dear Wade!” exclaimed Richmond, all enthusiasm. “But you must be generous with me. You must let me give you something in return. You know how burdensome a sense of unacquitted obligation is. All I have to give is money, unfortunately. You must let me give that. It is the right of you fellows to expectit from us fellows. It’s our privilege to give it.”
Roger, unaware of the many sides to the extraordinary man seated opposite him, was wholly unprepared for so adroit and graceful and sensible a speech. He could only make an impatient gesture and say with a decisiveness that seemed rude: “The picture has no money value. I’ll have to insist on your taking it on my terms—or I’ll give it to some one else. For I shall not carry it abroad with me.”
“That brings me to the main reason for my coming,” said Richmond, leaning forward, elbows on the broad arms of the chair.
Roger was all at sea again. With Richmond’s request for the picture he had jumped to the conclusion that it was really the sole cause of the two visits of that afternoon and the two exhibitions of sultry affability. Now—what new complication was Richmond about to disclose?—what new obstacle was about to appear in his path back to peace and whole-hearted work?
The financier did not keep him long in suspense. “I want to persuade you not to go abroad,” he proceeded. “Now—please hear me out! You are an American. Your proper place is here—your own country. It needs you, and you owe it the services of your genius.”
Roger eyed his guest with candid suspicion. Guilebeing foreign to his nature, he knew of its existence in his fellow-beings only as an incomprehensible but undeniable fact. He knew Richmond was a man of guile. Yet these sincere tones, these frank and friendly eyes— Also, what possible motive could the man have? Perhaps the picture had really converted him into a friend and admirer, unafraid now that there was no longer reason to suspect matrimonial designs.
“Don’t affect a modesty a man of your abilities could not possibly feel,” said Richmond, misunderstanding or pretending to misunderstand Roger’s embarrassed silence. “Only mediocrity is modest, and it is the crowd of fools that compels us, who can do things and have sense enough to know we can, to pretend to be modest.”
Roger laughed. “There’s truth in that,” said he. “Still, I’m sure my fate is a matter of importance only to myself.” His expression settled to somberness again. “No, I shall go. Thank you, but I shall go.”
“There is work for you here—big work,” urged Richmond. “I shall see that you get it—that you don’t have to wait for recognition and be wearied and disgusted by the stupid injustices that keep men of genius out of their own.”
Roger’s simple and generous face softened, for his heart was touched. “I see you understand,” said he.“I wish I could show my appreciation by accepting your offer. But I can’t. I must go.”
“I admit that the atmosphere over there is more congenial—much more congenial—to your sort of work. But you’ll find us less unsympathetic than you think. Give us a trial, Wade.”
Roger was entirely convinced now, and was deeply moved. “I wish I could, Mr. Richmond. But if I am to work I must go.”
The older man leaned still farther toward the young man in his earnestness. “Why, you painted here one of the greatest pictures I’ve seen. Of course, my personal feeling may bias my judgment somewhat—for I am attached to my daughter as I am to no other human being”—Richmond’s voice trembled, and there were tears in his eyes—“I’m a fool about her, Wade—a damn fool!... Excuse my getting off the track. As I was saying, I may think the picture greater than it really is. But I know that it is really great—great!”
Roger tried to conceal his agitation.
“You painted it here. That means, you can do great work here. Did you ever paint a better picture in Europe?”
“No,” admitted Roger.
“Then you ought to stay.”
Roger rose, seated himself, lit a fresh cigarette. “Can’t do it,” he said curtly. “Let’s say no more about it. Don’t think me rude or unappreciative. But—you must take my decision as final.”
“I’m older than you, Wade—twice as old. You are a young man, just starting. I’m about all in. So, I don’t feel that I’m impertinent in pressing you.”
Again Roger rose. This time he went to the edge of the veranda. At the steps he turned suddenly. “Don’t think me unappreciative, sir,” said he, “but this is painful to me—very painful.”
Richmond put on a most effective air of apology. “I’m sorry—I beg your pardon—I did not mean to intrude upon your private affairs. I was assuming you were free. It never occurred to me that there might be obligations over there——”
“Iamfree!” cried Roger. “At least, I was. And I intend to be so again. But—enough of this—of me. I’ll send you the picture— No, I’ll see that it is sent on Saturday.”
Richmond regarded the young man with the eyes of a father and a friend. He went up to him, laid one hand affectionately on his arm. “I know you don’t want to leave America—give up your ambition—the one that brought you here, so d’Artois says. Tell me. Can’t it be arranged somehow?”
“Impossible,” said Roger.
Richmond laughed gently. “A word for boys and for old failures.... Can’t you induceherto live on this side of the water?”
Roger looked puzzled.
“It’s always a woman,” said Richmond, eyes twinkling. “If she really cares for you she’ll live wherever your career demands.”
Roger’s smile of exaggerated disdain revealed how much of the boy he was taking with him into the thirties. “You are mistaken,” said he. “No woman has ever dominated my life.” His face grew stern again and energetic. “And no woman ever shall!”
“That’s right—that’s right,” heartily approved Richmond. “Woman in the wrong place in a man’s life is almost as bad as if she were left out entirely. Almost—but not quite.”
“I don’t agree with you,” said Roger.
“Did you ever happen to know a man who had left woman out altogether?” inquired Richmond.
“No—but I’ve seen many and many a life—an artist’s life—wrecked by women—by marriage.”
Richmond took advantage of Roger’s averted face to indulge in a smile of satisfaction. He went on in a careless tone that had no relationship to the smile: “Probably these chaps wouldn’t have amounted tomuch, anyhow. The man who has it in him to be wrecked by excess of any kind is bound to go under. Nothing can save him.”
“No doubt,” assented Roger, with assumed indifference. The point Richmond had just made was new, was impressive—appealed disquietingly to the young man’s pride as well as to his intelligence. For the first time he looked upon his visitor as a dangerous man. He stood at the edge of the veranda in that expectant silence which compels a caller either to show cause why he should stay or to take himself off. Richmond covered his defeat and his embarrassment by returning to his chair and seating himself in the attitude of one far from the end of a leisurely and intimate visit. Roger could do nothing but reluctantly reseat himself. They smoked in silence a few minutes; then Richmond said reflectively:
“So—you’re opposed to marriage?”
“Unalterably,” said Roger.
“I remember now. You said that to me the other day when”—Richmond laughed with frank good humor—“when I was suspecting you of designs on my daughter—or, rather, on my fortune. How absurd that seems now. But I had some excuse. I didn’t know you then. If I had I might not have been so well pleased by your views on matrimony.”
As these words flowed fluently from Richmond’s gracious tongue Roger cast at him a furtive glance of amazed suspicion.
“My older daughter,” continued Richmond, “is a thoroughly worldly woman. She has married a title—and is as happy as a normal woman would be over getting the man of her heart’s choice. But my other daughter——”
Roger moved uncomfortably in his chair. Could it be possible— No! No! Ridiculous! And yet—Preposterous! As little danger of it as of Roger himself giving in.
“Beatrice”—Richmond pronounced the name with tenderness—and tenderness now seemed as essentially one of his traits as hardness or cruelty or tyranny— “Beatrice is entirely different. But you know her. You artists read character. I needn’t tell you she is delightfully unworldly—foolishly romantic—need I?”
“No,” said Roger in a hurried, harried way.
“Your painting shows how thoroughly you understood—appreciated her. Wade, one of the finest things I ever knew a man to do was your refusal to take advantage of her inexperienced young imagination. It was noble—noble!”
Roger looked wretched. “I—I don’t deserve that,” was his stammering but vigorous protest. “My motive was altogether different—wholly selfish.”
“Oh, come, now,” cried the older man jocosely, “she’s not so unattractive. A man less scrupulous, less honorable—might easily have fancied himself in love with her. You’ll admit that—won’t you?”
Roger was braced well back in his chair. “Yes,” said he in a tone not remotely suggestive of terror.
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Wade,” laughed Richmond.
“Not at all—not at all,” said Roger, his panic ludicrously obvious.
“So—it was really noble of you.”
“I can’t permit that, sir,” said Roger. “My only motive was my determination never to marry.”
“I don’t like to hear you say that,” said Richmond. “As the father of a daughter, as a man who wishes to see his daughter in the keeping of a man of the right sort—and how few such there are!—I don’t like to hear any of those few declare against matrimony.”
There was no misunderstanding the trend of this. Incredible though it seemed, the man had come round, was abetting his daughter in her willful whim of conquest! “I’m not opposed to marriage—for others,” said Roger awkwardly. “I simply feel that it is not wise for me. If a man whose life is given to creative work marries a woman he loves he is content. It is theend of achievement, of ambition. Why strive after the lesser when what seems to him the greater has been achieved? If such a man marries unfortunately then the bitterness and the agitations destroy his ability to create. Happy marriage suffocates genius, unhappy marriage strangles it. Death inevitable—in either case.”
The words were not unlike those he had used in describing his position to Beatrice. His manner—the tone, the look of the eyes, the expression of mouth and chin—made them seem entirely different, far more profoundly significant. A man, a serious man, rarely reveals his innermost self to a woman unless he and she have reached a far closer intimacy than Roger had permitted with Beatrice. But talking with Richmond, with another man, one who could and would understand and sympathize, Roger exposed a side of his nature of the existence of which Beatrice had only a faint intuition, no direct or definite knowledge. Richmond had been pushed by the portrait well toward conviction of Roger’s high rank in the aristocracy he esteemed as a man among men. He was now wholly convinced. His daughter, he saw, had chosen more wisely than he knew.
“I see your point,” said Richmond slowly, thoughtfully. “I see your point.”
Roger showed his deep sense of relief.
“It is a good one—a very good one.”
Roger’s tension visibly relaxed.
“It is unanswerable,” was Richmond’s final, sweeping concession.
“Unanswerable,” echoed the painter decisively, yet with a curious note of unhappiness.
“But,” pursued Beatrice’s father, “what would you do—if you fell in love?” And, ignoring the painter’s confusion in the bursting of this bomb, he went on with an air of philosophic impartiality: “Love laughs at reason—at ambition—at calculation of every kind. Yes—I—about the last man in the world to be suspected of sentimentality—I say that love is supreme master.”
Roger, with an air of youthful positiveness—cocksureness—made a gesture of strong dissent.
Richmond smiled, went on: “Yes, young man—yes! When love commands we all obey—you—I—all—we obey. We may squirm—struggle—but we surrender. What would you do if you fell in love?”
Roger leaned forward in his chair, looked firmly into the keen, kindly eyes of Beatrice’s father. “I should fly,” said he slowly.
The two men regarded each other steadily, each reading the other’s mind. And again beneath theyoung and romantic handsomeness Richmond saw the man with whom his daughter was not yet acquainted—the man with the great character gracefully concealed behind the romantic-looking painter—a character in the making as yet, but having the imposing outlines that enable one to imagine something of the final form. At last Richmond said: “Yes—I believe—you—could—fly—andwould.”
Roger flushed and his gaze sank. “I should feel that I was false to all that means myself to me if I did not,” said he. “No matter how I loved her I would fly.”
“And she?” inquired Richmond. “What about her?”
Roger smiled faintly—a sardonic smile. “Women forget their caprices easily.”
“Wouldyouforget easily?” said the older man gently—he looked very old and very gentle and kind.
The handsome face of the young painter grew grave. “I’m afraid not,” said he. “But ifIcould forget a—a reality, certainly she could forget a fancy.”
No one—except perhaps his wife, with her memories of Richmond’s ardent and generous youth when he had wooed and won her despite her father’s misgivings about his poverty and her own misgivings about his size—but certainly no one else would have recognizedthe face of Daniel Richmond as he replied: “Not if she had, by some divine instinct, understood and appreciated such a rare man as you.”
Roger’s impatient gesture was almost angry. “I am not a man. I am a painter.”
“And if she did not forget?” persisted Richmond in the same slow, insistent way, like conscience itself. “If it was not a whim?”
Roger stood up. “I don’t grant your supposition,” said he. “But, granting it, then at least I’d not have made a mess of her life and of my own. For if I were false to my art it would revenge itself by tormenting me. And the wife of a tormented man is not happy.”
Richmond sat staring at the floor of the veranda. The wrinkles and seams and hollows in his face seemed to be deepening. After a few minutes of silence, disturbed by the irritating noisiness of a flock of sparrows, he said: “She refuses to come home. I offered to concede—everything. I’d be glad to let her have her way. But, as you say, it’s impossible. She’ll not come home. She blames me. I thought I was altogether to blame. I see I’m not. But—she blames me, and always will. And she’ll not make it up with me.” A long pause, then there came from him in a mere ghost of his normal voice: “And—it is killing me.”
Roger sat motionless, gazing at the bed of sweet old-fashioned flowers before the veranda.
Richmond broke the long stretch of evening stillness: “Would you—would it be asking too much of you— If you saw her you might persuade her to make it up with me.”
Roger did not move—did not reply. He had retreated deep within himself.
“I know it isn’t fair to you—or to her—to ask it,” went on her father’s sad, monotonous voice, heavy with heartache. “I know that seeing her again would only make it harder for you to do what you’ve got to do—for I understand about those musts of ambition that make men like us relentless. And I know that seeing you again—and seeing even more clearly the man you are—would make it—impossible, perhaps, for her to forget. But—” Richmond paused long before adding—“I am an old man and—I have the selfishness of those who have not long to live.”
Roger still neither moved nor spoke.
Richmond observed him for a while, rose with a painful effort. “Good-by,” he said, extending his hand.
Roger stood, took his hand. “I’d do it if I could—if I were strong enough,” he said. “It’s humiliating, but I have to confess I am not.”
“Think it over, Wade. Do the best you can for me.”
And Richmond, his feet almost shuffling, went down the steps and down the walk and out through the gate. He climbed heavily into his runabout—was gone. Roger leaned against the pillar, staring into vacancy, until the old woman had twice called him to supper.