of you at all in that way.”
“You think you’ll hurt my vanity and make me angry.”
“Nothing of the kind!” protested he crossly. “You simply can’t get it
through your head that I don’t love you--that my life is settled along
other lines.”
“Then why shouldn’t I come?”
His mouth opened to reply, closed again. His expression was foolish.
She laughed. “You _are_ vain!” she cried. “You think the more I see of
you the more I’ll love you. Oh, Chang, Chang--what a peacock!”
“You’ve got a positive genius for putting me in the wrong. You----”
“Now, isn’t it sensible,” she interrupted, “for you to let me come--and
get cured of my romantic nonsense, as you call it?”
“I don’t need you any more. You only interrupt my work. And I’ve got a
hard fight, making a career in this country. I----”
“You know you do need me. The picture isn’t done.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I saw it in your face when I first came and spoke about the picture.”
She had him there. The picture did indeed need several days more with
the model. He took another tack. “It’s a mean trick for you to play on
that--that fellow you’re going to marry.”
“He and I understand each other,” said she with dignity.
“Does he know about--about this?”
“As much as is good for him. He isn’t the kind of man that can be told
the whole truth. A person has to be careful, you know, and judge the
character of the person she’s dealing with.”
Her manner was so wise and serious that he could not but laugh. “I’m
afraid Rix is--just a little deceitful.”
“You seem very much interested,” said she. “Well, I’ll tell you all
about it. Perhaps you can advise me better, if----”
He put up his hands. “Not a word!” he cried. “I don’t want to know. I
don’t care anything about it.”
“Please let me say just one thing. If you’ll let me come----”
“But I won’t.”
“Oh, yes, you will,” cried she, looking mockingly at him, her head on
one side. “You say you are devoted to your art. Then you’ve no right to
sacrifice your picture to your vanity.”
“My vanity! Well, I like that!”
“Your vanity. Your idea that on acquaintance you are more and more
fascinating, instead of less and less so.”
“I can take care of the picture.”
“Oughtn’t I to pose till it’s done? Honestly, Chang?”
He could not lie when she put it to him that way. “Well, I will admit,”
he conceded with much reluctance, “the picture would be the better for
a few more sittings. But they’re not absolutely necessary.”
“I have my right, too, Chang,” continued she. “We’re doing that picture
together. I’ve got a share in it--haven’t I?”
He had grown still and thoughtful. He nodded.
“So I insist that it must be done right.... Have you noticed I haven’t
once to-day said anything about loving you?”
“For Heaven’s sake, Rix, don’t talk that way. It gets on my nerves. It
makes me feel like a jumping idiot.”
“But have I said anything?” persisted she.
“Not in so many words,” he admitted. “But----”
“I’m not responsible for what you may have read into my looks and
voice, Chang. You know, you are so vain!... I haven’t said anything,
and I’ll promise not to--to get on those shaky nerves of yours when I
come to pose.”
“That’s a bargain?”
“Shake hands.”
And they shook hands. “Now, I must go,” said she. When he began to
get ready to accompany her she forbade him in a tone that admitted of
no discussion. “It’s an hour from even dusk,” said she. “Anyhow, I’m
afraid of nothing.”
“I should say!” laughed he.
“Because I’m not afraid of you? Oh, you _are_ vain!”
“Till to-morrow?”
“To-morrow.”
“And no more nonsense?”
“I thought it all out last night,” said she. “I understand that you
haven’t got the money to support a wife----”
“Stop right there!” commanded he. “Can’t you ever get it straight? I
don’t love you--and you don’t love me. That’s all.”
“Is my hat on straight?... I must hurry.... Well, I’ve no time to
discuss. Only I do admire and respect you for not wanting to marry a
girl when you couldn’t support her properly. Now, don’t get red and
cross and begin to bluster at me. I must go. Good-by.”
And, without giving him a chance to collect words for a reply, she
darted lightly and gracefully away.
IV
AN UPSET CANOE
The picture progressed steadily. There were no interruptions from the
weather, and a paid model would not have been so regular as was Rix.
But progress was slow. Roger blamed himself in part for this; he was
a slow workman, growing slower always as his work neared completion.
“I never saw anybody so painstaking,” said Rix. “And you’re just the
opposite in everything else but your painting.” The chief reason,
however, for the snail’s pace of this particular work was the model.
Rix came early and stayed late; but, after their plain talk and
agreement, her strength seemed to fail rapidly. She looked just the
same; she had every sign of perfect health; but after ten or fifteen
minutes of posing she would insist on a rest--a good, long rest. As he
had no right to criticise or control this voluntary model, he could
not protest. And, it being essential to the picture that the model
keep on till the end, was he not merely doing his simple duty by his
picture in trying to amuse and interest her during the long pauses?
Not that talking with her was a disagreeable task--no, indeed, or a
task at all. But his conscience, as a serious man bent upon a career,
needed constant reassurance that he was really not trifling away the
gorgeous lights of those long mornings in dawdling with a foolish,
frivolous girl who cared only for laughter--that he was not encouraging
his liking for her and failing in his duty as an honorable man, as her
friend, to discourage her liking for him.
“Don’t be cross with me,” she said one morning when he fell into
an obviously depressed reverie during a rest. She had the habit of
observing him as a woman observes only the man of whom she believes
that he is more worth while as a subject for thought than herself.
“I’m not cross with you,” replied he.
“Then, with yourself.”
“Can’t help it. I work so infernally slow--slower all the time.”
He thought he saw the diaphanous gossamer of a smile flit swiftly
across her face. But he could not be sure; it might have been an
imagining of his own sensitiveness. “I read somewhere,” observed she,
“that genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains.”
“I’m hanged if I know whether I’m taking pains, as I hope, or am just
dawdling, as I fear and as you believe. However, we’ll soon be done.”
“You say that as if you were glad.”
“Oh, of course I’m pleased to work in such charming company,” said he
politely. His face took on the expression that always made her uneasy
as he added: “Still, I never lose sight of my career.”
“No danger of that,” declared she, with a conviction of tone which she
could have found it in her heart to wish insincere. “I never saw anyone
so persistent and so--so hard.”
He laughed at the absurdity of her calling him hard. What would she
think if she knew what a relentless taskmaster he usually was!
“How much longer do you think you’ll need me?” asked she.
“Not many days. Three or four, perhaps.”
It was her turn to drop into depressed abstraction. She roused herself
to say, “Won’t you use me in another picture?”
He frowned--it was nearly a scowl. “No, indeed,” said he. “I’ve--that
is, I’ve imposed on you enough.”
“You sounded as if you were going to say _I_ had imposed on _you_
enough,” she reproached, with an air of aggrieved suspicion that was
perhaps a trifle overdone.
“What are you laughing at?”
“I?” cried she with the utmost innocence. “I feel like anything but
laughing.”
He subsided. “Well, if you weren’t laughing you ought to have been.”
She rather disappointed him by refusing to take the bait. Instead
of asking why, she returned to her original point. “Don’t you think
pictures with figures in them--especially women--are more interesting
than just grass and leaves and things?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Then you’ve got to have _some_ model. Why not me? Haven’t I been
giving satisfaction?”
“Indeed, you have. But I’ll get a model who isn’t so interesting to
talk with--one who doesn’t demand such high pay. Time is the most
valuable thing in the world.”
“Not mine. It’s dirt cheap.” She sighed. “I don’t know what I’ll do
with myself when you get through with me,” she said dolefully. “I’ve
always been restless before. I see now I was right in thinking it was
because I didn’t have something to do--something useful.”
The subject dropped. While he was as inexpert as the next strongly
masculine man in the ways of women, he had intuitions that more than
replaced analysis. And there was something in her increasing tendency
to reverie that made him uneasy--that made him wonder whether this idle
child were not plotting some new device for stealing more of his time
from his career. “She’ll get left, if she is,” he said to himself.
But he continued to have qualms of nervousness. She was crafty, this
innocent maiden; she was always taking him by surprise.
There came a stage in his work when it did not especially matter
whether he had a model or not. He let her continue to come,
however--while he evolved how best to effect the separation. He felt
certain she was simply making use of him in whiling away leisure
hours that would otherwise bore her; still, courtesy demanded that,
in ridding himself of her, he show consideration for her. After all,
she had been most valuable to him, had helped him to make what he
hoped would be regarded as far and away the best picture he had ever
produced. “Never again!” he swore solemnly. “Never again will I work
with anyone I can’t pay off and discharge. Free labor is the most
expensive. Something for nothing takes the shirt off your back when you
come to pay.”
* * * * *
She was posing in her canoe, well out from the shore. He was laboring
at an effect of luminous shadow that would better bring out the poetry
he had been striving to put into the expression of her face. A slight
sound made him glance at the other shore of the lake--about two
hundred yards away, in that little bay. At a point where his model’s
back was full toward them, two young men were standing staring at her.
The expression of their faces, of their bodies, made them a living
tableau of the phrase, “rooted to the spot.” At first glance he was
angered by their impertinence; but directly came an intuition that
something out of the ordinary was about to happen. Swift upon the
intuition followed its realization. One of the young men--the shorter,
much the shorter--shouted in a voice of angry amazement:
“Beatrice!”
That shout acted upon Roger’s model like the shot from a gun it so
strongly suggested. She glanced over her shoulder, lost her balance.
Up went her arms wildly; with a shriek of dismay she rolled most
ungracefully into the water. Her flying heels gave the capsized canoe
a kick that sent it skimming and bobbing a dozen yards away. Roger
lost no time in amazement at the sudden and ridiculous transformation
of the serene tranquillity of the scene. The girl was head downward;
her agitated heels were more than merely ludicrous, they were a danger
signal. He flung down palette and brush, dashed into the shallow water,
strode rapidly toward where Rix was struggling to right herself. He
soon arrived, reached under, seized her by the shoulder and brought
her right side up. She splashed and spluttered and gasped, clinging
to him, he holding her in his arms. It would have been impossible to
recognize the lovely and charming model of two minutes before in this
bedraggled and streaming figure. Yet it was obvious that for Roger
there was even more charm than before. He was holding her tightly and
was displaying an agitated joy in her safety out of all proportion to
the danger she had been in.
“What a mess!” she exclaimed, as soon as she could articulate. “Where
are those two?”
He glanced across the bay, located them running along the shore, making
the wide detour necessary to getting to where he had stood painting
her. “They’re coming,” said he. He spoke gruffly and tried to disengage
himself.
Still clinging to him she cleared her eyes of water and looked. “Yes,
I see,” gasped she. “How cold it is! The one ahead is my brother.
About the only thing he can do is sprint. So he’ll get here first. You
must act as if you knew him--must call him Heck--that’s the short for
Hector. I’ll prompt him all right.”
“Come on. Let’s wade ashore.” Again he tried to release himself from
her. “The water’s not four feet deep.”
“Don’t let go of me,” pleaded she. “I’m a little weak--and oh, horribly
cold!” And she took a firmer hold.
He did not argue or hesitate, but decided for the most expeditious way
ashore. That is, he gathered her up in his arms as easily as if she had
weighed thirty pounds instead of nearly one hundred and thirty--making
no account of the hundred pounds or so of water she was carrying in her
garments. As she had predicted, Hector distanced his taller and heavier
companion and arrived well in advance of him. When he came panting to
within a hundred yards or so of where she was wringing out her skirts
Roger sung out, loudly enough for his voice to reach the ears of the
still distant other youth: “Hello, Heck. She’s all right.”
“Heck” stopped short in astonishment. Then he came on, but at a slower
gait. “Who are _you_?” he said to Roger.
Rix looked up from her clothes-wringing. “Call him Chang,” she said
tranquilly to her brother. “Hank mustn’t know.”
“What the dev--” began Heck.
“Shut up, Heck,” Beatrice ordered in the tone members of the same
family do not hesitate to use to one another in moments of extreme
provocation. “Don’t try to think. You know you can’t. You’ve certainly
got sense enough to see that Hank must be made to believe that Chang
and you are old friends.” She added in a still lower tone: “Drop that
hit-on-the-head look. He’s not ten seconds away.”
Hector had barely time for an indifferently successful but passable
rearrangement of his expression when up dashed Hank, puffing, all
solicitude. “You’re not hurt very much, dear--are you?” he panted.
“Might know--Heck’s such an awful fool.”
“Mr. Chang, Mr. Vanderkief,” interrupted Beatrice.
Vanderkief, big and heavy, red and breathless, mechanically bowed. The
effort of that conventional gesture seemed suddenly to recall to him
the state of mind suspended by the catastrophe. He gave the big artist
a second and longer and unpleasantly sharp stare. Roger returned it
with polite affability of eye. “We must build a fire,” said be, “and
dry this young lady. Come on, Heck.” The way “Heck” winced seemed to
delight him--and Beatrice and he exchanged one of those furtive looks
of sympathetic enjoyment of a secret joke that proclaim a high degree
of intimacy and understanding. Said Roger to the stiff and uneasy
“Hank”: “Will you help, Mr. Vandersniff?”
“Mr. Vanderkief,” corrected Beatrice. “While you three are building
the fire I’ll retire into the bushes and squeeze out all I can of the
lake.”
Not without making Hank’s eyes glint jealously and her brother’s eyes
angrily, but without either’s overhearing, she contrived to say to
Roger, “You’ll help me out, won’t you?”
“Sure,” said he. “But my name’s Roger Wade--not Chang.”
“And mine’s Beatrice Richmond.”
“That’s plenty to go on. Now, hide in the bushes. We must hurry up the
fire.” And he cried to Hank: “Come on, Vanderkief!”
Miss Richmond’s teeth were chattering; but she delayed long enough to
engage her brother aside a moment. “His name’s Wade, not Chang.”
“Good Heaven!” muttered Heck. “What’s the meaning of all this?
Beatrice, who on earth is the fellow? Why, you aren’t even sure of his
name!”
“Mind your own business,” said Beatrice tranquilly. “He’s an old friend
of yours--of mine--of the family--an artist we met in Paris. Don’t
forget that.”
Heck clinched his fists and drew his features into a frown that would
have looked dangerous had his chin been stronger. “I’ll not stand for
it. I’m going to take you bang off home.”
“And put Hank on to the whole business?--and end the engagement?--and
disgrace me?--and yourself?--and the family?” Everyone of these
cumulative reasons why Heck could not refuse to conspire she emphasized
with a little laugh. She ended: “Oh, I guess not. I care less about it
than you do. Be careful, or I’ll give it away, myself. It would be such
fun!”
Hector, despite his anger, gave an appreciative grin, for he had a
sense of humor.
“Behave yourself,” said Beatrice. “Go help get wood.”
“But what’ll mother say--and father! Holy cat! How father will scream!”
“Don’t you worry. Do your part!” And Beatrice vanished among the bushes
and huge glacial rocks.
Roger conducted his part in the deception with signal distinction.
He so busied himself collecting huge pieces of wood and bearing them
to the central pile they were making in an open space that he had no
breath or time for conversation; and as the other two men could not but
follow so worthy an example, not a word was said. Besides, a glance at
the face of either big Hank or little Heck was enough to disclose how
industriously they were thinking. Once Hank, finding himself near the
picture, began to edge round for a look at it. He thought Roger was
busy far away. He literally jumped when Roger’s voice--authoritative,
anything but friendly--hurled at him: “I say there, you! Keep away from
that picture! I don’t let anybody look at my unfinished things.”
“I--I beg your pardon,” stammered Vanderkief, hastily putting himself
where no suspicion of even peeping could possibly lie against him.
The fire was a monster, and Roger and Beatrice--who addressed him
alternately as Chang and Mr. Wade--were soon drying out. They talked
and laughed in the highest spirits, not unmindful of the gloominess of
the silent, listening brother and fiancé, but positively enjoying it.
Presently Beatrice turned to her brother and said, “I’ve persuaded Mr.
Wade to accept mother’s invitation.”
Roger smiled agreeably. “Not exactly, Miss Richmond,” parried he, as
skillfully as if the stroke had not come without the least warning. “I
couldn’t be sure, you know.”
Beatrice looked at the watchful Vanderkief--a handsome fellow, almost
as big as Roger, but having the patterned air of a fashionable man
instead of Roger’s air of unscissored individuality. “Chang is still
the toiling hermit,” said she. “Mother’s having hard work to get him
even for dinner.” She turned to Roger. “You must come, this once,
Chang,” pleaded she. In an undertone she added, “You owe it to me--to
help me out.”
“There’s no resisting that,” said he, but he did not conceal his
dissatisfaction.
Vanderkief’s jealousy would no longer permit him to be silent. He
blurted out: “I don’t see why you annoy Mr.--Mr.----”
“Wade,” assisted Roger easily.
“I thought it was Chang,” said Vanderkief with a slight sneer.
“So it is,” cried Beatrice gayly. “But only for the favored few whom
Mr. Wade admits to friendship. You know he’s not like you and Heck,
Hanky. He’s a real personage. He can do things.”
Hanky looked as if he would like nothing on earth or in Heaven so much
as a chance at this big, impressive-looking mystery, with bare fists
and no referee. “I was about to say,” he went on, “it’s a shame to
annoy so busy and important a chap with invitations.”
Roger looked at him in a large, tolerant way that visibly delighted
Beatrice. “Much obliged, Vanderkief,” said he. “But I’m fond of the
Richmonds, and it’s a pleasure to break my rule for them.” He beamed on
Heck. “I _am_ glad to see you again!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t realize
how much I had missed you till I saw you once more. Isn’t this like old
times?”
“Well, I guess,” said Heck on the broad grin. “It is old times!”
“But you’d better take your sister home now--walk her briskly every
inch of the way. Really, she ought to run.”
“No,” said Beatrice. “I’m going back as I came.”
“But who’s to wade into that icy water for your canoe?” inquired Roger.
“Not I, for one.”
“Certainly not,” cried she. “I spoke without thinking. I’ll send one of
the servants for it in a boat.”
“Now, hurry along,” said Roger; “and walk fast. And if I can arrange to
come to dinner I’ll send up a note this afternoon.”
Beatrice was eying him reproachfully; but as Hank was watching her she
did not venture to protest. “I’ll see you to-morrow morning,” said she.
“Oh, no--don’t bother to come. I’ll let you know when I need you.”
“So this is where you’ve been spending your mornings?” said Vanderkief.
“Some of them,” replied Beatrice. “It was to have been a surprise.
Still-- You didn’t let them see it, did you, Chang?”
“Not a peep,” he assured her.
Vanderkief’s tension somewhat relaxed. Roger admired the innocent
Miss Richmond. Really, she had been displaying a genius for
deception--whose art lies in saying just enough and leaving it to the
dupe’s own imagination to do the heavy work of deceit. The parting was
accomplished in good order, Vanderkief showing a disposition to be
apologetically polite to Roger now that he had convinced himself he was
mistaken in his first jealous surmises. “If you make a good job of Miss
Richmond,” said he graciously, “I’ll see that a lot of things are put
in your way.”
Roger thanked him with a simple gratitude that put him in excellent
humor with himself. After the three set out Beatrice came running back.
“You saved me,” she said. “I’m so ashamed for having dragged you into
such a mess. But you must do one thing more. You _must_ come to dinner.”
“Can’t do it,” said Roger. “Here’s where I step out.”
This seemed to astonish her. She looked at him doubtfully, was so
agitated by his expression that she hastily cried, “Oh, no, you’ll not
desert me. I admit it’s my fault. But you wouldn’t be so unfriendly as
to get me into trouble!”
“How would I get you into trouble? It’s just the other way. If I came
to your house it’d make a tangle that even Vanderkief would see.”
“No--no, indeed,” protested she. “I can’t stop to explain now. _Don’t_
be so suspicious, Chang. I’ll be here to-morrow morning--no, at the
studio. Pete--that is, Hank--might follow me here. And now that you
know who we are, don’t you see there’s no reason for----”
She laughed coquettishly, and away she sped, before he could repeat his
refusal. To call after her would be to betray her.
* * * * *
As he was working in the usual place near the cascade the next morning
she came upon him from the direction of the studio. “What a fright
you’ve given me!” exclaimed she, dropping to the grass a few yards
away. “I went up to the studio as I told you I would.”
He had bowed to her with some formality. His tone was distinctly stiff
as he replied: “My work compelled me to be here. Anyhow, Miss Richmond,
it’s clear to me, and must be to you, that our friendship must cease.”
“You don’t look at me as you say that,” said she, obviously not
seriously impressed.
“It isn’t pleasant to say that sort of thing to you,” replied he. “But
your coming again, when you ought not, forces me to be frank.”
“Why?” said she, clasping her knees with her hands. “Why must our
friendship cease?”
“There are many reasons. One is enough. I do not care to continue it.”
“How nasty you are this morning, Chang!”
He took refuge in silence.
“Surely you’re not jealous of Hanky?” said she, with audacious mischief.
He ignored this.
“Don’t look so sour. I was merely joking. Are you cross because I made
you help me tell--things that weren’t quite so?”
“I don’t like that sort of business,” said he, unconvincingly
industrious with his brush.
“Neither do I,” said she. “But what was I to do? You know, you forced
me into engaging myself to him.”
He stopped work, stared at her. The light--or something--that
morning was most becoming to her, the smallish, slim, yellow-haired
sprite--most disturbingly becoming.
She went on in the same sweet, even way: “And if it hadn’t been for my
coming here to act as your model I’d not have got into trouble. And,
having got in, what was there to do but get out with as little damage
to poor Peter’s feelings as possible?” Then she looked at him with
innocent eyes, as if she had uttered the indisputable.
Roger surveyed her with admiration. “You are--the limit!” he exclaimed.
“The limit!”
“But isn’t what I said true?” urged she. “What else could I have done?”
“True? Yes--true,” said he, making a gesture of resignation. “I admit
everything--anything.”
“Now, do be reasonable, Chang!” she reproached. “Where isn’t it true?”