THE SERPENT'S COIL
Lofty as Jerome Humiston talked, and poetic as his face seemed to Bertha
Haney, he was at heart infinitely more destructive than any man she had
ever known; for he took a satanic delight in proving that all women were
alike in their frailty. He had reached also that period of decay wherein
the libertine demands novelty--where struggle is essential, and to
conquer easily is to fail of the joy of victory.
He, too, had rushed to the conclusion that this girl had married an old
and broken gambler for his money, and that she was of those to be easily
won. Her air of demure reserve piqued him--pleased him. "She is no silly
kitten," he mentally remarked, after their second meeting. "She's in for
a big career. With beauty and youth and barrels of money she will go
far, and I will be her guide--unless I have lost my cunning. She will
share her fortune with me some day, and I will teach her to live."
He met her at the door of his studio next day with a grave and tender
smile. "I'm glad you've come," he said, "but I'll have to confess that I
have very little to show you here. My pictures are all down at the
gallery, and some of them not yet hung. Next week they will all be in
place. But sit down while I boil some tea. My friends who own this
work-shop are out; they'll be in soon."
"I don't believe I can stay to-day. The Captain is below."
"Please do sit down for a moment. I'll be hurt if you don't."
The studio was a big bare barn of a place with a few broad canvases upon
the walls--not a bit like Humiston; and he explained that his stay in
America being short, he could not afford to have a studio of his own.
"I'm glad you came. You must let me take you to see my 'show' next week.
Your fresh, young, Western eyes are just what I need." This was false,
for he was impatient of all criticism. "I need comfort," he added,
wearily smiling. "I didn't sell enough in the West to pay my railway
fare."
He seemed ill as well as sad, and Bertha felt sorry for him. "Won't you
come with us for a ride?"
"I'd rather have you stay and talk with me."
"Oh, I can't do that! The Captain is waiting for me. He said to bring
you."
"But I don't want to go. I hate automobiles. I hate seeing sights. I
despise this town. I've a grouch against everything in America--except
you. Let me go down and tell the Captain to take his spin alone."
"No, no," she sharply said. "I keep my word. I said I'd be back in a few
minutes, and I'm going."
He sighed resignedly. "Very well; but you'll let me come to see you?"
"Why, cert! Come to dinner any day. We don't browse around much outside
the hotel. We're mostly always feeding at six."
"I'll come, and you must not fail to let me show you my pictures."
"Sure thing! I want to buy one to take home with me."
He assumed great candor. "I won't say that your ability to buy one of my
pictures is not of interest to me, for it is; but quite aside from that,
there is something in you that appeals to me. You make me think better
of the West--of America. I feel that you will find something in my
pictures which the critics miss." Then, with mournful abruptness, he
added: "No doubt Joe told you of my unhappy marriage--"
"No, he didn't."
"My wife cares nothing for my work. She takes no interest in anything
but the frippery side of life. That's what appeals to me in you--you are
so aspiring. I feel that you have such wonderful possibilities. You
would spur a man to big things."
They were both standing as if he had forgotten where he was, and she,
embarrassed but fascinated by his words, and especially held by his
voice, dared not make a motion till he released her. He looked round
him. "I don't wonder you dislike this room; it's horribly cold and
depressing to me. I can't work here. I wish you could see my den in
Paris. Perhaps you will let me show it to you some day. All my happiest
days have been spent in France. I am more French than American now."
He took her hand again, and with a return to his studiedly cheerful
manner called her to witness that she had promised to come to see his
paintings. "And please remember that I am going to take you at your word
and dine with you--perhaps this very night."
"All right, come along," she replied, and went away filled with wonder
at the familiar, almost humble attitude he had assumed towards her.
He did indeed dine with them that night, and quite won the Captain to a
belief in him. "Come again," he heartily said. And the great artist
feelingly answered: "I mean to, for, strange to say, I am almost as
lonesome in this big town as anybody could be." This was a lie, but
Haney's sympathy was roused. "There'll always be an empty chair for
you," he repeated, with a feeling that he, too, was encouraging art.
Humiston pursued this game with singular and joyous skill. He talked of
the West and of politics with the Captain, and of love and art and his
essentially lonely life to Bertha. He returned often to the wish that
they might meet in Paris. "A trip abroad would do you infinite good," he
insisted. "What you need is three years of life in Paris. With your
beauty and money, and, above all, with your personal magnetism, you
could reign like a queen. I wonder that you don't go. It would be worth
more to you than any other possible schooling. I don't know of anything
in this world that would give me greater pleasure than to show you
Paris."
Bertha's silence in face of these approaches deceived him. The throbbing
of her bosom, the fall of her eyelashes, were due to instinctive
distrust of him. That he was more dangerous than the rough miners and
cowboys of the West she could not believe, and yet she drew back in
growing fear of one who openly claimed the right to plow athwart all the
barriers of law and custom. His mind's flight was like that of the
eagle--now rising to the sun in exultation, now falling to the gray sea
to slay. At times she felt a kind of gratitude that he should be willing
to sit beside her and talk--he, so skilled, so learned, so famous.
The Chicago papers were still filled with criticism of his work and his
theories, and this discussion, as well as the appearance of his portrait
in the magazines, had made of him a very exalted person in little Mrs.
Haney's eyes, and the interest he took in her was too subtly flattering
not to affect her. He seemed fond of the Captain, too, and often joined
them in their trips about the city, and the fellows who had known
Humiston in Paris and who did not know Bertha nodded knowingly. "Jerry's
amusing himself, as usual. I wonder who she is?"
He explained his poverty one day as he sat with her in the little
gallery where his paintings were hung. "The fact is, while other men
have been painting to order and doing 'stunts' for the Salon, I've gone
on refining, seeking new shades, new allurements, subordinating line to
color, story to harmony, till my work is sublimated beyond my public.
The people that bought my things once can't follow me; it is only now
and then that a man, or a woman _feels_ what I'm after--and so I live. I
hold all things beautiful to paint, America does not."
He liked her all the better because she did not try to say what she
thought of his pictures, and when she insisted on taking one of them
home he quickly stopped her. "I'm not asking you to take pity on me," he
sharply said. And in this lay the subtlest touch of flattery he had yet
used: the idea that she, an ignorant mountain girl, could be accused of
patronizing a man so distinguished, so gifted as he, moved her in spite
of all warnings. Why should she not use her money to help this wonderful
artist?
She insisted on a picture, and asked him to select one for her. "I've
got a big house out in the Springs, and I'd like something of yours."
"Not out of this collection," he declared. "These are not the ones on
which my fame rests. The ones that represent me are in the cellar."
Her eyes were wide in question. "What do you mean by that?"
"American dealers won't include my best things in the exhibit--they are
too 'direct.' They are stored over here in a warehouse. I'd like to show
them to you. Will you come?" he asked, with eager eyes.
And she, with a sense of being distinguished above the great public,
consented. Humiston rose animatedly. "Let's go over and see them now."
His gentle _camaraderie_, his eagerness, touched Bertha, and when he
took her arm to help her into the elevator or to make sure she did not
stumble at the crossing she was stirred--not as Ben's hand had moved
her, but her blood nevertheless palpably quickened. Was it not wonderful
that she, so lately from the mountains, should be walking here in the
midst of the thronging multitudes of a great city street in the company
of one of the chief artists of the world?
Humiston, crafty, cruel, unscrupulous, returned to his abuse of the
city, and explained to her that American dealers had no real
appreciation of art. "They sell anything that will sell, any cheap daub,
and yet they dared to refuse to exhibit my best things! It was the same
in Pittsburg and Buffalo; they're all alike. But what can you expect of
these densely material towns? Beauty means only prettiness to them."
The salesman of the shop, accustomed to seeing Humiston pass in and out
with friends, paid no special heed to the painter as he led Bertha into
the farther room, where a few of his pictures hung among a dozen others.
No one was in the gallery, and just as she was wondering where the other
paintings could be, he opened a door (which was cut out of the wall and
partly concealed by paintings), and smilingly said: "Here is the inner
temple. Enter."
She obeyed with a little hesitation, for the storeroom was not well
lighted, and she had a wild bird's distrust of dark, enclosing walls.
Humiston shut the door behind him and followed her, plaintively saying:
"Isn't it hard lines to have to bring my friends into this hole to show
my masterpieces?" And by this she inferred that there was nothing
unusual in the experience.
It was a long, bare hall, filled with boxes and littered with bits of
excelsior, and Bertha looked about her uneasily while Humiston bent over
some canvases stacked on the floor. He seemed to be selecting one with
care. An electric lamp was swinging from the ceiling, and under it stood
a large easel, and on this he placed a canvas, and, stepping back with
eyes fixed on her, said with spirit: "This is one of my best. It was in
the new Salon--here is the number. And yet it may not be exhibited in
this rotten town."
Bertha inwardly recoiled from the canvas, for it was a painting of a
nude figure of a girl at the bath. The critics had said, "It is naked,
rather than nude," and the dealers objected to it on this ground, and to
the Western girl it was both shocking and ugly. Before she had caught
her breath he continued, in a tone that was at once a seduction and a
defence: "There is nothing more beautiful in the world than the female
form; it is the flower of flowers. Why should it not be painted?" And
then, while still he argued for the return of the Greek's love of
beauty, covering his moral depravity with the mantle of the philosopher,
he placed another canvas before her--something so unrefined, so animal,
so destructive of womanly modesty and of all reserve, that any one
looking upon it would instantly know that the man who had painted it was
a degenerate demon--an associate of dissolute models, an anarchist in
the world of women. It was fit only for the banquet-halls of the damned.
Bertha stared at it--fascinated by the sense of the tempter's nearness.
It was as if a satyr had suddenly revealed his lawless soul to her. Her
thinking for an instant chained her feet, and her silence emboldened
him.
Even as she turned to flee she felt his arm about her waist, his breath
upon her cheek. "Don't go!" he pleaded, and in his eyes was the same
look she had seen in the face of Charles Haney. At last he stood
revealed. His artist soul could stoop as low in purpose as a drunken
tramp. Beating him off with her strong hands, she ran down the hall and
burst into the brilliantly lighted exhibition room such a picture of
affrighted, outraged girlhood that the salesman stared upon her in
wonder. His look of surprise warned Bertha of her danger. Composing
herself by tremendous effort of the will, she closed the door and walked
slowly out into the street, her brain in a tumult of anger and shame.
It seemed at the moment as if every man she had ever known was a
brute-demon seeking to destroy her. She understood now the reason for
the great painter's flattering deference to her opinion. From the first
he had sought to blind her. His ways were subtler than those of Charles
Haney and his like, but his soul was no higher; it was indeed more
ignoble, for he was of those who claim to dispense learning and light.
Pretending to add beauty to the world, he was ready to feed himself at
the cost of a woman's soul. She recalled Mrs. Moss' hints about his life
in Paris, and understood at last that he had wilfully misread her homage
and trust. A realization of this perfidy filled her with a fury of hate
and disgust. Was Ben Fordyce like all the rest? Did his candor, his
sweetness of smile, but veil another mode of approach? Was his kiss as
vile in its disloyalty, his embrace as remorseless in its design?
She walked back along the shining avenue to her hotel with drooping
head. She knew the worst of Humiston now. She burned with helpless wrath
as she dwelt upon his assumptions of superiority. She hated the whole
glittering, unresting, lavish city at the moment, and her soul longed
for the silence of the peaks to the west. She turned to her husband as
one who seeks a tower of refuge in time of war.