“Thank you--I’ll be glad to,” was Peter’s eager reply.
Within, his eyes made for a covered canvas on an easel in the middle of
the big room. “Is that by any chance Mr. Richmond’s picture?” asked he.
“Mr. Richmond’s picture?” said Roger. “I know nothing of any picture of
Mr. Richmond.”
“_For_ Mr. Richmond.”
“Neither of nor for.”
“I beg your pardon,” stammered Peter. “I rather hoped you’d let me have
a look at it. You know, I was engaged to Miss Richmond.”
Roger continued in his waiting attitude. Peter felt himself dwindling
before this large, dark calm. He shifted uneasily from leg to leg,
opened and shut his mouth several times, finally burst out: “I say,
what an ass you must think me.” And he gave Roger an honest, pathetic
look of appeal--an ingenuous plea for mercy.
The large, dark calm was rippled by a smile--a very human smile. It
made young Peter instantly feel that he was talking with a young human
being just like himself.
“I did want to look at the picture,” said he. “You know the one I
mean--the picture of _her_.”
Roger’s gaze wavered a little, steadied. “I’m sorry--but it’s not
finished,” said he.
“Oh--I see. And, naturally, you do not want anybody to look at it.
Well--I’ll come another time--if I may.”
Roger bowed.
Peter was desperate. He puffed furiously at his cigarette, finally
burst out: “Did you know that Miss Richmond and her father had
quarreled?”
“Really?” said Roger politely, and so far as Peter could judge the news
interested him only to the degree more discouraging than no interest at
all.
“Yes--they’ve quarreled--and she’s left home--is living alone at a
hotel in New York--says she’s never going back.”
Peter was not sure, but he thought he saw a something or other flash
across the artist’s face, like a huge, swift-swimming fish near the
surface of opaque water. He felt encouraged to go on.
“I think I ought to tell you. Miss Richmond and I _were_ engaged. It’s
been broken off. Her father is furious. She’s in love with another
man.” Peter glanced at Roger’s inscrutable eyes, blushed, glanced down
again. “She has sacrificed everything for this other man. It’s really
stunning, the way she did it--and a lot more I can’t tell you. And I
do believe she’ll stick--will not go back--though she’s got next to
nothing. You know her--know what a fine girl she is.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Roger cordially.
“She’s at the Wolcott--if you care to call. I guess she’s rather
lonely, as all her old pals are shying off. You see, her father’s a
deadly dangerous sort--liable to do up anybody who sided with her.”
Roger, his gaze upon a far, unseen country, was pale and somber.
“I do hope you’ll look in on her, Wade,” said Peter. “She’d appreciate
it.”
Wade’s eyes slowly turned with his returning thoughts until they
centered upon the eyes of young Vanderkief. Suddenly Roger’s face was
illuminated by that splendid smile of his. He grasped Peter by the
hand. “I’m glad to know you,” said he. “And--I beg your pardon--for
things I’ve thought about you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” cried Peter. “I’m not a dog in the manger, you
know. And I tell you she’s got a stiff stretch ahead of her--downright
rough. Of course she’s no fool. Still, it wouldn’t be possible for any
woman of her age and her bringing up to realize what she was bumping
into, dropping out of her class, sacking her father and trying to
scratch along on worse than nothing. When you’ve got tastes a little
money’s only an aggravation. Especially for her sort of woman. Won’t
you try one of my cigarettes?”
“Delighted,” said Roger, taking one.
“Well, I must move on,” proceeded Peter. “You don’t mind my butting in?”
“Not in the least. It was a fine friendly--decent thing to do.... Would
you like to see the picture?”
And without giving Peter time to reply, or himself a chance to repent
the impulse, he flung aside the drapery over the easel in the middle
of the room. He and Peter gazed in silence. It was a glorious vision
of morning in the springtime. Upon lake and cataract, upon tree and
bush and stone, sparkled the radiance of the birthday of summer. That
radiance seemed to come from the figure of a young girl in a canoe,
her paddle poised for the stroke--an attitude of exquisite grace, a
figure alive in every line of flesh and drapery--a face shedding the
soft luster of the bright hopes and dreams and joys that are summed up
in the thrilling word, youth. Roger was right in thinking it his best
work, his best expression of that intense joy of life which he was ever
striving to put upon canvas.
Peter gave a long, furtive sigh. “Yes,” he muttered, “she can look like
that.” He had seen her look just so once--when she told him she loved
the artist and would never change. Queer, how anyone could so love that
she got happiness out of giving love, even though it was unreturned.
Queer--yet, there it was. Roger, with a sudden gesture, recovered
the canvas. Peter stood motionless, staring at where the picture had
been--it was still there for him. He roused himself, looked at the
painter with frank admiration and respect. “That’s worth while!” said
he. “No wonder she----”
Roger’s frown checked him. But only for a moment; then he went on, in
an awed undertone: “She’s more of a--a person than anyone I ever saw.
If she’d let me I’d be crazy about her. As it is, while I know I can
never get her, everything’s stopped short with me until I’m sure she’s
out of reach--married to some one else. I’m a better man for having
known her, for having loved her.”
Roger was standing with arms folded upon his broad chest--powerful arms
bare to the elbow. He seemed lost in reverie.
“Thank you for showing me that,” said Peter gratefully and humbly. “I’d
wish to own it if it wasn’t that--well, I’d never be able to get any
peace of mind if I had it about. I’d stare at it till I went crazy.”
Roger flushed a significant, a guilty deep red.
Peter got himself together with a shake of his big frame. “I’m off,
now. You’ll not say anything about my having called--not to her or
anyone?”
“I do not see anyone,” said Roger in a constrained voice.
“But you’ll surely--” began Peter, but he halted on the threshold of
impertinence. “Well--I hope you’ll look in at the Wolcott and cheer her
up. Good-by. Thank you again.”
The young men shook hands with the friendliness of intimacy. Roger went
with Peter to the door, where they shook hands again. As Peter was
turning away he happened to glance down into the woods to the left.
There, beating a hasty, not to say undignified retreat, was Daniel
Richmond!
“Now what do you think of that?” cried Peter. “What the devil is _he_
doing here?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Roger indifferently.
“No doubt he recognized me,” Peter went on. “He’s got me scared to a
panic--for fear he’ll half ruin me--just out of a general insanity of
meanness. If he asks you what I was doing here say I came to buy the
picture. You don’t know how much trouble he could make for me.”
“I’ll probably not see him.”
“Do--for her sake, do,” urged Peter. “Be civil to him. Try to soften
him down. You ought to do it for her--honest, you ought.”
“That’s true,” said Roger gravely.
Peter departed. Roger stayed on in the doorway. Presently Richmond
reappeared, making his way slowly up the steep toward the studio.
He arrived much out of breath, but contrived to put unmistakable
politeness into his jerky tones as he gasped: “Good afternoon, Mr.
Wade.”
“How d’ye do, Mr. Richmond?” was Roger’s civil rejoinder. His talk
with Peter had put him in a frame of mind to bear and forbear, to do
whatever he could toward ending the quarrel between father and daughter.
“I’d be greatly obliged--for a few--minutes of your time,” said
Richmond between breaths.
He looked old and worn and tired. Violent passions, especially violent
temper, freely indulged, had played their wonted havoc. And these
eroding emotions had deepened seam and gutter painfully. There had
now appeared the gauntness in eye socket and under jawbone, about the
saddest of the forewarnings of decrepitude and death that show in the
human countenance with advancing age. Roger pitied him, this really
superior man who had given his life furiously to plowing arid golden
sands and was reaping ill health and unhappiness as his harvest. “Come
in,” said Roger.
When they were seated in the cool, airy workroom and had lighted,
Richmond a cigar, Roger his pipe, Richmond glanced at the covered
picture and said: “Is that it?”
“Yes,” replied Roger, not in a tone that invited further conversation
along those lines.
“I’ve come to see you about it,” persisted Beatrice’s father,
apparently undiscouraged.
“I do not care to discuss it,” said Roger.
“It is a picture of my daughter--painted for----”
“It is not a picture of your daughter,” interrupted Roger, “and it was
painted for my own amusement.”
“My wife gave you the commission, with the idea of a surprise for me.”
Roger was silenced.
“So,” Richmond went on, “the picture belongs to us.”
“No,” said Roger quietly. “I purpose to keep it.”
“You certainly have a strange way of doing business,” said Richmond
with resolute amiability.
“I don’t do business,” replied Roger.
Richmond waved his hand. “Oh--call it what you like. Artists paint
pictures for money.”
“I don’t know about others,” said Roger. “But I paint for my own
amusement. And of my work I sell enough to enable me to live.”
“Very fine--very fine,” said Richmond, in the tone of a man who doesn’t
believe a word of it, but politely wishes to seem impressed. “I saw
from the beginning of our acquaintance that you were an unusual man.
I’ve thought about you a great deal”--with a sly smile--“naturally.”
Roger made a slight inclination of his head.
“I owe you an apology for the way I acted the other day. And I make it.
I lost my temper--a bad habit I have.”
“Yes, it is a bad habit,” said Roger dryly. “A particularly bad one for
a man in your position, I should say.”
“How in my position?” inquired Richmond, surprised.
“Oh, an independent man like me, who asks nothing of anybody, can
afford that sort of thing. But you, who are dependent upon others for
the success of your plans--that’s very different.”
“Um,” grunted Richmond, little pleased but much struck by this new
view of him as slave, not master. “Um.” A long pause, with Richmond
the more embarrassed because Roger’s silence seemed natural and easy,
like that of a statue or of a man alone. “I also--I also wish to say,”
Richmond resumed, “that on thinking the matter over I feel I did you
an injustice in believing you--in accusing you--” He could not find a
satisfactory word frame for his idea.
“In suspecting I was after your daughter and your money?” suggested
Roger with an amused, ironic twinkle.
“Something like that. But, Mr. Wade, you are a man of the world. You
can’t wonder at my having such an idea.”
“Not in the least,” assented Roger.
“At the same time I do not blame you for being angry.”
Roger smiled. “But, my dear sir, I was not angry. I didn’t in the least
care what you thought. Even if you had succeeded in your vicious
little scheme for robbing me of my competence, I still couldn’t have
been angry. It is so easy for a man to make a generous living if he
happens not to have burdened himself with expensive tastes.”
“That matter of the railway bonds--it will be adjusted at once, Mr.
Wade. I was sorry the exigencies of a large operation forced me
to--to----”
In his indignation Roger forgot the resolutions Peter had soothed and
softened him into making. With his curtest accent he said: “What you
did was contemptible enough. Why make it worse by lying?”
Richmond sprang to his feet. Roger rose toweringly, in his face a plain
hope that his guest was about to depart. Richmond sat down again. “You
have me at your mercy,” cried he with a ludicrous mingling of attempt
at politeness and frantic rage.
“I?” said Roger, laughing. “Oh, no. Neither of us can do the other any
harm. I wouldn’t if I could. You couldn’t if you would. Don’t you think
we have had about enough of each other?”
“I have a favor to ask of you,” said Richmond sullenly.
Roger hesitated, seated himself. There was a look in his visitor’s
eyes--a look of misery--that touched his heart.
“Mr. Wade,” Richmond began again after a brief silence, “I am a man of
very strong affections--very strong. Circumstances have concentrated
them all on one person, my daughter Beatrice. They say everyone is a
fool in at least one way. I am a fool about her.”
Wade, inscrutable, was gazing at the drape over his painting.
“But,” Richmond went on, “if she married against my will, much as I
love her, foolish as I am about her, I would cut her off relentlessly.”
“Then you don’t love her,” said Roger. “If you did you’d insist on her
freely choosing the man she is to live with, the man who is to be the
father of her children.”
“Our ideas differ there,” said Richmond stiffly.
“I am not surprised that she has left you,” pursued Roger. “You have
made her realize that you don’t love her. And from what I know of her
I doubt if you will ever get her back until you change your notions of
what loving means.”
Suspicion was once more sparkling in Richmond’s wicked eyes. “You
may be sure I’ll not change, Mr. Wade,” said he with a peculiarity
of emphasis which even the simple-minded Roger could not fail to
understand.
Roger laughed heartily. “At it again!” cried he. “Really, you are very
amusing.”
“Be that as it may,” snapped Richmond, “I want you to know that I will
never take her back--_never!_--until I am sure she has given you up.
You may stake your life on that, sir. When I put my hand to the plough
I do not turn back.”
Roger leaned toward the unhappy man distracted by his own torturings of
himself. “Will you believe me, sir,” said he earnestly, “when I say I
am deeply sorry that I have been the innocent cause of a breach between
you and your daughter. Perhaps it is just as well that she has gotten
away from you. It may result in her developing into the really fine
person God intended her to be. Still, I wish to do all I can to heal
the breach.”
“That sounds like a man, Mr. Wade!” cried Richmond, all eagerness.
“I’ve been putting up with you this afternoon,” pursued Roger,
apparently not much impressed by this certificate of his virtue,
“because I hoped to do something toward ending the quarrel between you
two.”
“You can end it,” interrupted Richmond. “You can end it at once.”
“Tell me how, and I’ll do it,” said Roger.
“She believes you wish to marry her.”
“I am confident she never told you anything like that.”
“She thinks you’re afraid to marry her unless she brought the money to
keep her in the style she’s been used to.”
“Impossible,” said Roger.
“She tells me you refused her. But she still hopes.”
Roger had become red and awkward. “Your daughter is something of a
coquette,” he stammered. “But I assure you you are wrong in thinking
she-- It’s impossible for me to discuss this.” He rose impatiently.
“Your daughter does not wish to marry me. I do not wish to marry her.
That’s the whole story, sir. I must ask you to let me continue my work.”
“If you _mean_ that,” urged Richmond, “you will go to her and tell
her so. She’s at the Wolcott--in New York City. You will tell her you
do not love her and would not marry her--and she’ll come home.” The
father’s voice had grown hoarse and quavering, and in his face there
was a piteous humility and wretchedness--such an expression as only a
dethroned tyrant can have. “If you knew how her conduct is making me
suffer, Mr. Wade, you’d not hesitate to do me--and her--this favor.”
That last word of abasement came in little more than a whisper.
Roger seemed to be debating.
“You must realize she is not a fit wife for you--she, brought up to a
life of fashion and luxury. And she will never have a cent from me--not
a cent!”
Roger had not been listening. “Can’t do it,” he now said. “Sorry, but I
can’t.”
“You wish to marry her!” cried Richmond in the frenzy of impotence
struggling at its bonds. “You hope!”
Roger, too full of pity for resentment, regarded the old man with
friendly eyes. “Mr. Richmond,” said he, “I repeat I do not wish to
marry anyone. I have made up my mind, with all the strength of what
little good sense I may have, never to marry. I do not believe in
marriage--for myself--for people who are doing the sort of thing I’m
trying to do. You might as well accuse a Catholic priest of intending
to marry.”
“Fudge!” snorted Richmond.
Roger shrugged his shoulders. “This interview was not of my seeking. I
wish it to come to an end.”
“You refuse to tell her you will not marry her?”
“I refuse to make an impertinent ass of myself. If you wish your
daughter back, sir, go and apologize for having outraged her finest
feelings and ask her to come home unconditionally. I could not say to
her what you request--for obvious reasons of good taste. If you had a
sense of humor you’d not ask it. But I don’t hesitate to give you my
word that you need not have an instant’s uneasiness lest your daughter
and I marry.”
“On your honor?”
“On my honor.”
Richmond gazed at him with eyes that seemed to be searching every
corner of his soul. “I believe you,” said he at last. “And I am
content.” He had abruptly changed from suspicion and sneer and hardly
veiled insult to his most winning friendliness and geniality. It was
amazing how attractive his wizened and usually almost wicked face
became. “It’s been my experience,” he went on to explain, “that human
beings are at bottom exactly alike--in motives, in the things that
appeal to them. Once in a while there is an exception. You happen to
be one, Mr. Wade. I think you’ll forgive me for having applied my
principle to you. Where exceptions are rare it’s most unwise for a
practical man to consider them as a possibility.”
Roger smiled amiably enough. “No matter,” said he. “I hope you’ll make
it up with your daughter.”
Richmond’s face clouded, and once more that look of anguish showed deep
in his eyes. “It’ll just about kill me if I don’t,” said he.
“Go to her--like a father who loves,” said Roger gently. And once more
the impulse came, too strong to resist, and he dropped the cover from
the painting. But this time he did not look at the picture--at Beatrice
Richmond as incarnation of a spring morning; he fixed his gaze upon her
father. And the expression of that sad, passion-scarred face made him
glad he had yielded to the impulse.
“I must have it!” said Richmond. “Name your own price.”
“It is not for sale.”
“I tell you I must have it.”
“No--you can have her. I shall keep this.”
Roger was gazing absently at his creation. Richmond, struck by some
subtle accent in his words, glanced quickly at him.
“I’ll take it with me--back to Paris,” said Roger, talking aloud to
himself.
“When do you go?” asked Richmond abruptly.
“Next week.”
“For the summer?”
“For good,” said Roger, covering the picture.
“I wish you every success,” cried Richmond heartily. “You are an
honest, sincere man.”
The meaning of Roger’s quizzical smile escaped him.
XVII
RICHMOND TRIES TO MAKE PEACE
It would hardly have been possible for anyone to hold crow in lower
esteem as a repast than did Daniel Richmond; and, long though his
career and many its ups and downs, seldom had he been called upon to
eat it. But on those few occasions he had eaten like the wise man he
was--as if it were a delicacy, as if it were his favorite dish; as if
he were afraid some one would snatch away his portion should he linger
over it. The vicissitudes of fortune had now swung crow round to him
once more. He lost no time in setting about dispatching it.
At ten the next morning, when Beatrice descended to the parlor of the
Wolcott in response to her father’s name brought up to her in his hasty
scrawl on one of the hotel’s blank cards, she was greeted effusively.
He did not give her a chance to be uppish and distant. He met her in
the door, took her in his arms and kissed her fondly.
“It’s been an age since I saw you,” cried he, twinkling with good
humor. “I’m amazed to find you still young.”
She was quite taken aback, but succeeded in concealing it and in
accepting his suggestion as to the dominant note of what she had
assumed would be a trying interview. “How’s mother--and the boys?”
inquired she. “Much changed?”
“All well. Your mother holds together wonderfully.”
There was no jest, however, but a moving earnestness in his eyes as
they fixed upon her a hungry, devouring expression. And her own look
at him strongly suggested the presence of a veil of tears. Neither had
until now realized how much they cared about each other, how strong was
the sympathy through similarity of character. He abruptly seized her
and kissed her again, his fingers trembling as he passed them over her
yellow hair. “I’m mighty glad to see you,” said he. “Mighty glad.”
“And I you,” she replied, taking his hand and giving it an affectionate
squeeze. And then she kissed him and openly wiped away her tears.
[Illustration: “‘I’m mighty glad to see you,’ said he. ‘Mighty glad.’”]
This outburst of nature on her part was a grave tactical blunder--for,
in dealing with men of his sort, the guard can never be dropped; their
habit of seeing and seizing advantage is too powerful ever to relax.
Upsetting to him though his agitation and delight were, he did not
cease to be himself. The instant he saw how moved she was, how she was
meeting his advances half way at least, if not more, he began to hope
he could spare himself the hated dish of crow. So, although his napkin
was tucked under his chin and his knife and fork were in air, eager for
the festal attack, he did not proceed. He had intended his next words
to be a sweeping apology. Instead, he said:
“I see you’ve been thinking things over, just as I have.”
“Yes,” replied she.
“We were both hasty. You inherit my disposition--and it’s a rather
difficult one.” He was hesitatingly caressing her hand. “I wanted a boy
with my sort of brain,” he went on. “But it didn’t turn out that way.
You inherited, instead. Just as well, perhaps. I’d have broken with a
boy like myself. But the feminine in you saves the situation. We can
forgive each other without pride interfering.... I’m sorry for what I
did, and I’ve no doubt you are. Let’s forget it all and go home and
begin again.”
“You mean that, father?” cried she, tears again welling into her eyes.
“Oh, you _do_ love me! And I thought you didn’t.”
“This business has aged me ten years,” said he, thinking rapidly as he
was still further encouraged by those tears. “I saw it myself when I
shaved this morning.”
Beatrice hung her head. For the moment she felt guilty. She--_she_ had
aged this loving, always-indulgent father!
This further evidence of feminine softness and affection encouraged
him to the point of believing himself once more master. He said, in
a forgiving tone: “But you didn’t realize what you were doing. Well,
you’ve had a valuable lesson, my dear, and you’ve got the intelligence
to profit by it. How long will it take you to get ready?”
“Oh, not long. I’ve got some things to attend to, but I can do it at
Red Hill just as well as here, I think.”
“Go up and pack, and I’ll come back in an hour.” He rose. “What a
weight this lifts off me!” And his appearance confirmed his words. “But
I’m gladdest of all because it vindicates your good sense. I knew my
daughter would see I was doing what was best for her, would see it just
as soon as her intelligence regained control.”
Beatrice had risen; at this last sentence she sat down again with a
dazed expression. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, father,” said
she, hesitatingly. “I’m afraid I misunderstood you.”
Richmond saw he had gone too far--probably not much too far, but still
beyond where her mood of penitence had carried her--as yet. “Let’s
not discuss disagreeable things,” said he hurriedly. “Do your packing
and let’s get home. Once we get there everything else can be settled
easily.”
But Beatrice, after trying in vain to arrest his evading glance,
kept her seat. “No, we must understand each other first,” said she
decisively.
“Now, Beatrice,” protested her father at the door into the hall, “don’t
spoil your happiness and my own!”
“Listen to me, father. I’ve not changed my mind about Peter--not in the
least.”
“Oh--bother Peter!” exclaimed he good-humoredly.
“Do you still expect me to marry him?”