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 see or 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, for she 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. “He has 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 his hand.” 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 the summer 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.”
“_I_ came 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, resuming the 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 at Richmond, 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 dropped it. 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. “And _I’m_ sure 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.”
VIII
AN INFURIATE FATHER
“I suppose you went back to apologize for me,” said her father as they
started on together.
“You don’t understand him,” replied she miserably. “Artists--great
artists--are different.”
“He _is_ a good deal of a man. D’Artois was right. I’ll see that he
does those panels.” And Richmond gave the nod of a man who has money
and knows that money is all-powerful.
Beatrice stopped short, her eyes opened wide. “Why,” exclaimed she, “I
thought you disliked him!”
“Not at all--not at all,” replied her father. “He’s a disagreeable
chap. But all men who amount to anything are. A man who’s thoroughly
agreeable is invariably weak. An agreeable man’s rarely worth more then
twelve or fifteen a week. What this world needs is more people like
this friend of yours. I saw that he had built himself up solidly from
the ground. I wish I had a son like that! Your brothers are pretty poor
excuses, thanks to the vicious training your mother has given them.
‘Be a gentleman--and make everybody comfortable--don’t do anything
to hurt anybody’s feelings or to make yourself conspicuous.’ That is,
be a cipher.” Richmond snorted. “A gentleman is a cipher--and ciphers
count for nothing unless they’re annexed after a figure that stands for
something. But I suppose a successful man can’t expect to have strong
sons. He has to be thankful if they’re not imbecile or dissipated.”
Beatrice had been caught up and whirled all in a twinkling from depth
to height. The way down through the woods was rough and toilsome. She
flitted along as if it were smooth as a French high-road. She beamed
upon her father. “What a difference between the ordinary young man, the
sort we meet--and a man like Roger Wade!” she cried.
“Those tailor’s dummies!” said Richmond contemptuously. “You can’t
compare a _man_ with them.”
He was on his favorite topic for private and public addresses--the
topic that enabled him to express the views which had won for him
the name of being the most democratic of the big financiers. Like
all men of abounding mentality he was a huge talker; get him started
and the only thing to do, whether one wished or no, was to listen.
Usually, Beatrice, who was not fond of silence and soon reached the
limit of her capacity for listening, would imperiously interrupt these
monologues--and both would enjoy the tussle between their wills as
each tried to compel the other to listen. But this discourse--composed
though it was of commonplaces he had repeated and she had heard scores
of times--she drank in as if it had been the brand-new thing her soul
had long thirsted to hear. Like all fluent talkers Richmond often
fell victim--in conversation, never in action--to the intoxication
of bubbling ideas and phrases. Before they reached the place where
they had left the T cart to await their return, Richmond had not
merely committed himself finally and completely to the gospel of the
aristocracy of achievement, he had hailed that aristocracy as the only
one worthy of consideration, had ridiculed and denounced all others as
utterly contemptible.
Beatrice took advantage of his pause for getting the horses under way.
She gave his arm a loving squeeze. “I’m so proud of you!” she said
tenderly, gazing at him with sparkling eyes and delicately flushed
cheeks. “I _knew_ you’d feel that way about him!”
“About whom?” said her father, whose flooding sermon had borne him
swiftly far from view, or remembrance even, of the text whence it had
sprung.
“About Chang.”
“Chang? What Chang? Who’s Chang?”
“Roger Wade.”
“Oh, of course,” said he indifferently. “He’s a case in point.”
“I knew you’d help me with him,” pursued the happy girl.
“Of course I will,” said Richmond. “Hasn’t he been doing what you
wanted about the picture?”
“I want _him_,” said she, feeling close and sympathetic, completely in
touch with this splendid, broad-minded father of hers.
Richmond reined in the horses so sharply that one of them reared. It
took a minute or so for them to be quieted, with the groom racing round
from the seat behind to steady their heads. When the cart was moving
smoothly on Richmond said: “What did you say just as that brown devil
began to act up?”
“I want to marry Roger Wade,” replied Beatrice, too strongly under the
delusion to read plain signs aright. “You see why. You’ve said yourself
that he was one of the realest men you had seen. You can’t wonder at
my caring for him. All the others seem so--so puny--beside him. I’d be
ashamed to show any of them as my husband. What shall I do, father? How
can I get him?”
If one finds oneself pointing south when he ought to be pointing north
there are two ways to act. One may veer gently and gradually, hoping
that the shift will pass unobserved; or one may make the change with
speed swifter than thought or sight, and may point north so stiffly
that it will seem impossible that one ever was pointing, or ever could
point, in any other direction. When Richmond found it necessary to flop
he did not sidle--he flopped. He proceeded to flop now--with a jerk and
a bang. “What are you talking about?” he said savagely. “You’re going
to marry Peter.”
The instant prompting of instinct to Beatrice was that her father would
not help, would not consent, would not tolerate. But straightway came
the memory of his gallant democratic speechifyings still echoing in her
ears. “You know I couldn’t marry a Peter after I had seen Roger,” she
said gayly. “All the time you were talking--as we walked down from his
studio--I knew what you really had in mind. You were giving it to me
for thinking of Peter when I might have the other man. You thought I
was hopelessly frivolous and snobbish like the rest of the family. But
I’m like you, father. I don’t want to be married to a tailor’s dummy. I
want a _man_!” She nodded brightly at his thunderous face. “And we’ll
get him--you and I!”
Richmond did not relent, not a whit. She had taken him so completely by
surprise, had put him in such an absurdly false position that temper
got the better of prudence. He did not view the situation calmly and
proceed along lines of wisdom--using common-sense argument, appeal to
material instincts and that mightiest of weapons, gentle ridicule.
He hurled at her through his eyes the hot wrath of his tyrant will.
“You are going to marry Peter, I tell you. I’m astounded at you. I’m
disgusted with you. I’d have thought you could see straight through
a cheap, lazy fortune hunter. Vanity--always vanity! He makes a few
flattering speeches, and you believe he is in love with you. And you
begin to make a god out of him. I’m glad you spoke to me about this. If
the Vanderkiefs had any idea of it they’d drop you double-quick.”
Beatrice knew her father--knew when he was in earnest. Never before had
she seen or felt a deeper earnestness than this of his now. She sat
dazed, staring at the restless ears of the thoroughbreds before her.
“No good ever comes of marrying out of your own class,” continued he.
“I thought you had more pride. I know you have. You were joking. Let’s
hear no more about it.”
“He is not a fortune hunter,” said Beatrice in a numb way.
“I tell you he is!” cried Richmond violently. “The impudent hound! No
wonder he tried to work off that picture of his as a gift!” Richmond
laughed with a sneer. “The impudent puppy!”
“He is a great artist,” said Beatrice. “D’Artois says so.”
“What of that? What’s an artist? What standing has he got? But don’t
talk about it. I’ll not be able to contain myself.” He faced her
sharply. “Look at me!”
The girl turned her eyes slowly, with her wounded soul’s suffering
revealed in them. But Richmond did not see people ever; he saw only his
own purposes. “How far has this gone?”
She eyed him steadily long enough for him to get the sense of an
immovable obstacle squarely across the path of his indomitable will.
“It has gone so far that I’ll not marry anyone else,” she said, neither
hot nor cold. “I couldn’t.”
“Don’t let me hear that kind of talk!” shouted Richmond, in his rage
forgetting the groom. “You are going to marry a man who can make you
happy--a man in your own station--a man who has family and standing.”
“But you said Roger was of the only true aristocracy,” pleaded
Beatrice. “You said----”
“And a fool I was, to talk to a silly, little idiot of an ignorant
girl with no experience of life, with no ability to understand what
I was talking about. I wasn’t discussing a husband for you. I wasn’t
discussing the world as it is. I wasn’t discussing people of our
station. I wasn’t discussing fortune-hunting artists. It shows how
little sense you’ve got, that you could twist what I said into an
appeal to you to marry an impudent fortune hunter!”
In his fury at her for being thus stupid he gave the off thoroughbred a
sharp cut with the whip. The horse, unused to such loutish disrespect
to his royal blood, leaped forward, started to run. For five minutes
Richmond had to fix his undivided attention upon the horses; they gave
him a bad scare before consenting to submit.
The girl, unconscious of what was going on, sat in the blinding storm
of her own unhappiness.
“You and Peter are engaged?” was her father’s resuming remark.
“In a fashion.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not much of anything,” replied his daughter indifferently.
Richmond’s strong, sallow teeth looked as if they were crowded because
they were pushing eagerly to the fore in competition to be first in
sinking into the prey. Said he: “I want the date of the wedding fixed
at once.”
Silence.
“Did you hear?”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you answer?”
“You didn’t ask a question. You issued an order.”
“And you will obey it.”
Silence.
“Did you hear?”
“Yes.”
“I won’t tolerate sullenness. I am your father. I know life--the
world--what is best for my family--for you. I don’t often interfere.
When I do, I expect obedience.”
“It seems to me you are blustering a good deal, for one who is sure of
obedience,” said Beatrice, in a way that brought out all her latent
resemblance to the incarnation of passionate will and willful passion
who begot her.
“I’ve always been indulgent with all my family--with you,” fumed
Richmond. “But I think you know me well enough to know I’m not to be
trifled with.”
“Nor am I,” said the girl. And again she eyed him in that unyielding
way.
“Where did you and your mother pick up that vagabond, anyhow?” demanded
Richmond.
“_I_ picked him up. D’Artois told you----”
“D’Artois was talking about him as an artist, not as an equal.”
“Equal!” cried Beatrice. And she laughed mockingly.
“Don’t be impudent to me!” raged her father. “You’ve been brought up in
a certain way. You’re not fit for any other way of life. You are not
to be allowed to make a fool of yourself, to muddle your life up. I’ll
have no scandals in my family--no scoundrels blackmailing me to release
my daughter.”
Beatrice’s look at him was so appealing, so reminiscent of his bold
talk about democracy, about the democracy of achievement, that some
men, if they had been in his place, would have been ashamed and
confounded. Not Daniel Richmond, however--not when his plans of
social grandeur, nursed all these years in his secretest heart, were
endangered.