Van Berg had scarcely ever known a day to pass more slowly and
heavily than Monday. He had taken pains to be present at Ida's
departure with her father, and it had depressed him unaccountably
that she had been so quiet as to seem even a little cold in her
farewell. She would not look towards him, nor could he catch her
eye or obtain one friendly expression. He did not know that the
poor girl dared not smile or speak lest she should be too friendly,
and that she avoided him with the instinct of self-preservation.
His conclusion was: "She finds, after thinking it all over, that
she has far more to forgive than she thought, and my presence
reminds her of everything she would be glad to forget."
He tried once or twice to find Jennie Burton, but did not succeed.
She made no apparent effort to avoid him, and was so cordial in
her manner when they met that he had severe compunctions that he
did not seek her society resolutely and press his suit. "The summer
is drawing to a close," he muttered, "and nothing is settled. Confound
it all! I'm the least settled of anything. The best chance I shall
ever have is passing swiftly. Ever faculty I possess assures me
that she is the one woman of all the world. I honor her, I reverence
her, I admire her and everything she does and says. I trust her
implicitly, even though she is so shrouded in mystery. What the
mischief is the matter with my old water-logged heart that it should
be so heavy and dumpish?"
But so it was. Jennie Burton smiled on him and others as brightly
as ever, and yet he knew her heart was breaking, for she was growing
slighter and more spirit-like daily. His desire to comfort her,
however, by a life-long effort ebbed away, till he was cursing himself
for a fickle, cold-blooded wretch. "I had better shut myself up
in my studio," he said to himself. "I may make a painter, but I
never will anything else;" and early on Tuesday he went doggedly
to work on Mr. Eltinge's picture.
His perplexed and jarring thoughts gradually ceased their discord
as he became absorbed in his loved and familiar tasks. Sweet and
low at first, and in the faint, broken suggestion of his kindling
fancy, the symphonic poem he had heard in the garden began again,
but at last his imagination made it almost real. He listened once
more to Ida's girlish, plaintive voice blending with the murmur of
the brook, the sighing wind and rustling leaves, and the occasional
trill of a bird. He leaned back in his chair, and his eyes became
full of deep and dreamy pleasure. Gradually a heavy frown contracted
his brow, and his face grew white and stern as he repeated words
that she once had spoken to him: "I meant to compel your respect,
and I thought there was no other way."
"Pharisee, fool that I was! If I had been kind and trustful at
the time her family wronged her, she would not now shrink from me
as if I summed up in my person the whole of that wretched experience.
Even Stanton appreciated my unutterable folly, for he said: "You
looked at her in a way that would have frozen even Jezebel herself,"
and now whenever I glance towards her she is reminded of that
accursed stare. Would it be possible, in painting her likeness
for Mr. Eltinge, to make her face so noble, womanly, and pure, that
she would recognize my present estimate of her character, and so
forgive me in very truth?"
The care and earnestness with which he filled in the outlines of
his sketch proved how zealously he would make the effort. In the
afternoon he drove over to the garden again, and made a careful
drawing of the tree and of Mr. Eltinge sitting beneath it, for Ida,
and he determined to go to the city the following day the he might
avail himself of the resources of his studio, and by the aid of this
hasty sketch make as fine a crayon picture as would be possible,
before her return on Saturday.
The old gentleman's heart was naturally warm towards his protege,
whom they both missed greatly, and he spoke of her often. He could
not help noticing that the artist was ever an excellent listener
at such times and would even suspend his work for a moment that he
might not lose a word. "It seems to me he takes a wonderful deal
of interest in her for a man who is seeking to engage himself
to another lady," mused Mr. Eltinge. "I think the other lady had
better be looking after him."
As Van Berg approached the hotel, he saw Miss Burton mounting the
steps with a quantity of ferns in her hands. She evidently was
returning from a long ramble, and when she came down to supper he
saw that she had not been able to remove wholly all traces of grief.
His conscience smote him sorely. He hesitated in his purpose
of going to the city, and determined to speak of it frankly, and
abandon it, if she showed, even by the expression of her face,
that she would prefer he would remain, but he found himself both
surprised and relieved that, so far from manifesting the least
reluctance to have him go, she encouraged the plan.
"You have a noble theme," she said cordially, "and you can't do
it justice in the room of a summer hotel. Besides I do think you
owe it to Miss Mayhew to make all the amends in your power, and
a fine picture of that emblematic tree, and her kind old friend
beneath it, may be of very great help to her in her new life. I
hope you will take me to see Mr. Eltinge on your return."
"I'll wait over a day and take you there to-morrow," he said
promptly.
"No," she replied decisively; "you have not enough time as it is,
before Saturday, to do justice to your work, and I want you to make
Miss Mayhew's friend look as if he were speaking to her."
"Miss Jennie," said the artist rather impulsively, "you haven't a
drop of selfish blood in your little body."
"I am under the impression that Mr. Van Berg's estimates of his lady
acquaintances are not always correct. Not that I was any wiser,
but then such positive assertions seem hardly the thing from people
who have shown themselves so fallible."
"I'm right for once," Van Berg insisted. "Do you know that Miss
Mayhew and I nearly had a falling out. Indeed she has been rather
cool towards me ever since, and you were the cause. I believed
with absolute certainty that the new Ida Mayhew that I had learned
to know in Mr. Eltinge's garden would gravitate towards you as
surely as two drops of dew run together when brought sufficiently
near, and I began to speak quite enthusiastically of what friends
you would surely become, when Miss Mayhew's manner taught me I had
better change the subject. Oddly enough, she has never liked you,
and yet, in justice to her, I must add that she acted conscientiously,
and I have never heard one lady speak of another more favorably and
sincerely, than she spoke of you, though it seemingly cost her an
effort."
A sudden moisture came into Jennie Burton's eyes, and she said
under her breath: "Poor child! that was noble and generous of her
to speak so of me. Oh, how blind he is!" But with mock gravity
she answered him:
"Your rather sentimental figure of speech, Mr. Van Berg, shows
where your error lies. Miss Mayhew and myself are not pellucid
drops of dew that you look through at a glance. We are women: and
the one thing in this world which men never will learn to understand
is a woman. I'm going to puzzle you still further. I am learning
to have a very thorough respect for Miss Mayhew. I am beginning to
admire her exceedingly, and to think that she is growing exquisitely
beautiful; and yet were she here this week you would find that I
would not seek her society. Give your mind to your art, and never
hope to untangle the snarl of a woman's mind. Men, in attempting
such folly, have become hopelessly entangled. Take a woman's word
for it--what you see you can't reason out. I've no doubt but that
Miss Mayhew has excellent reasons for disliking me, and the fact
that you can't understand them is nothing against them."
"Miss Jennie," said Van Berg resolutely, "for once I cannot take
your word for it. You two ladies have puzzled me all summer, and
I'll never be content till I solve the mysteries which so baffle
me. My interest is not curiosity, but friendship, to say the
least, that I hope will last through life. You will tell me some
day all your trouble, and you will feel the better for telling me."
She became very pale at these words, and said gravely: "I cannot
promise that--I doubt it. You may have to trust me blindly till
you forget me."
"I do not trust you blindly; I never will forget you," he began,
impetuously.
"Good-night, Mr. Van Berg," she said, and in a moment he was alone
on the piazza.
"She is an angel of light, he muttered, "and not a woman. I could
worship her, but I'm too earthy in my nature to lover her as I
ought."
He took the earliest train to New York, and so had a long afternoon
in his studio. He was surprised to find how absorbed he soon became
in his work. "Miss Jennie is right," he thought; "I'm an artist,
and not a reformer or a metaphysician, and I had better spend my
time here than in trying to solve feminine enigmas;" and he worked
like a beaver until the fading light compelled him to desist.
"There," he said, "that is a fair beginning. Two or three more
days of work like this will secure me, I think, a friendlier glance
than Miss Ida gave me last." From which words it might be gathered
that he was thinking of other rewards than mere success in his art.
In the evening the wand of Theodore Thomas had a spell which
he never thought of resisting, and it must be admitted that there
lurked in his mind the hope that Ida and her father might be drawn
to the concert garden also. If so, he was sure he would pursue
his investigations.
He was rewarded, for Mr. Mayhew and his daughter soon entered and
took seats in the main lobby, where he and Stanton had sat nearly
three months before. Van Berg congratulated himself that he was
outside in the promenade, and so had not been observed; and he sought
a dusky seat from which he might seek some further knowledge of a
character that had won and retained a deepening interest from the
time of their first meeting, which now seemed an age ago. Events
mark time more truthfully than the course of the sun.
At first she seemed only solicitous about her father, who lighted
a cigar and said something to her that must have been very reassuring
and pleasant, for a glad smile broke over her pale face. But it
vanished quickly, and the artist saw that her habitual expression
was sad, and even dejected. She did not look around with the breezy
alertness natural to a young girl in such a place. The curiously
diverse people around her excited no interest, and she appeared
inclined to lapse into deep reveries, even when the music was
light and gay, as was the character of the earlier part of the
entertainment. At times she would start perceptibly when her father
spoke to her, and hesitate in her answer, as if she had to recall
her thoughts from far-off wanderings. It would seem that Mr.
Mayhew was troubled by her sad face and absent manner. He justly
felt that the brilliant music ought to enliven her like sunlight;
and that it did not proved the presence of some intervening cloud.
Van Berg's sympathies and interest at last became so strong that
he determined to speak to her at once, but before he could take
a step towards her the orchestra began playing Beethoven's Fifth
Symphony, the very music she ignored for the sake of Mr. Minty's
compliments when first she had so exasperated him by her marvellously
perfect features, but disagreeable face. He had not looked at the
programme, and that this symphony should now be repeated seemed
such a fortunate coincidence that he could not resist the temptation
of contrasting the woman before him with the silly and undeveloped
girl he first had seen. Moreover, he knew that the music must
remind her of him, and he might gain a hint of her present feelings
toward him. Either the beauty or something familiar in the exquisite
strains soon caught her attention, and she took up her programme,
which hitherto had lain neglected on her lap. She crimsoned
instantly, and her brow contracted into a frown; a moment later an
expression of intense disgust passed over her face.
"Now I know what she thinks of me," he thought with a sinking
heart. "I doubt whether I had better speak to her this evening,
and at this place."
"What's the matter, Ida?" asked her father. "Don't you like the
music?"
"I have disagreeable associations connected with it. The fault is
wholly in me, and not the music."
"Ida, darling, you are making me so happy that I wish I could do
as much for you."
"Don't worry, father," she said, trying to smile. "I'm happier
than I deserve. Listen!"
As the last exquisite cadences died away, Van Berg saw that there
were tears in her eyes. What did they mean? "Stanton repeated my
harsh words and she recalls them," was the best explanation he could
think of. "By the fates!" he exclaimed, "if there isn't Sibley
with a toilet as spotless as he is himself smirched and blackened.
Curse him! he actually has the impudence to speak to Miss Mayhew,"
and the artist started up threateningly, but before discovering
himself, he remembered that Ida's natural protector was at her
side. And yet he fairly trembled with rage and protest, that this
fellow should be so near her again. He also saw that Mr. Mayhew
rose and looked very menacing. But Ida was equal to the emergency,
and extricated herself with womanly dignity, for while she blushed
scarlet with shame, she was quiet and self-possessed, and paid no
heed to his eagerly proffered hand.
"I was not myself that hateful day, Miss Ida," he said hastily.
"I fear you were, sir," she coldly replied. "At any rate, I am
not my old self, and until you win and maintain the character of
a gentleman, we must be strangers. Good evening, sir;" and she
turned her back upon him.
His face became fairly livid with rage, but on encountering the
stern and threatening eyes of Mr. Mayhew he slunk away and left
the building.
"That's my peerless, noble Ida," whispered her father. "Oh thank
God! thank God! I could not have survived if you had realized the
fears I once had about that low scoundrel."
Ida's lip quivered as she said, "Father, please take me home. I
don't enjoy myself here." They had taken but a few steps toward
the door when the artist confronted them with eyes aglow with
admiration and sympathy.
Poor Ida had no time to mask her feelings or check her impulses,
and she took his extended hand as if she were sinking, while the
color and light of welcome flashed brightly into her face. Then
her beautiful confusion suggested that she felt her greeting had
been too cordial, and she sought with indifferent success to regain
her dignity.
"Please don't go just yet," said Van Berg eagerly. "The concert
is but half over, and there are some pretty things still to come."
Ida hesitated and looked doubtfully at her father.
"I shall be very glad to stay," he said with a smile, "if you
feel able to. My daughter is not very well, I fear," he added in
explanation to the artist.
"Perhaps it has been a little close here in the lobby," suggested
Van Berg, "and a walk in the open air will be agreeable. If you
will trust your daughter to me, sir, I promise to bring her back
before she is tired. I have much to tell her about her old friend,
Mr. Eltinge, whom I visited yesterday, and the pictures. Perhaps
you will go with us, for I know what I have to say will interest
you also."
"I think I'll light another cigar and wait for you here," Mr. Mayhew
answered quietly. "Old people like to sit still after their day's
work, and if Ida feels strong enough I would enjoy hearing the rest
of the concert."
"It would be hard to resist the temptation to hear anything about
dear old Mr. Eltinge," said Ida, taking the artist's arm, and
feeling as if she were being swept away on a shining tide.
"You WERE glad to see me, Miss Mayhew, and you can't deny it," Van
Berg began exultantly.
"You almost crushed my hand, and it aches still," was her demure
reply.
"Well, that was surely the wound of a friend."
"You are very good to speak to me at all, after all that's happened,"
she said in a low tone and with downcast face.
"What a strange coincidence! That is exactly what I was thinking
of you. I almost feared you would treat me as you did Sibley. How
much good it did me to see him slinking away like a whipped cur! I
never realized before how perfectly helpless even brazen villainy
is in the presence of womanly dignity."
"Why, were you present then?" she asked, with a quick blush.
"Not exactly present, but I saw your face and his, and a stronger
contrast I scarcely expect to see again."
"You artists look at everything and everybody as pictures."
"Now, Miss Mayhew, you are growing severe again. I don't carry
the shop quite as far as that, and I have not been looking at you
as a picture at all this evening. I shall make known the whole
enormity of my offence, and the if I must follow Sibley, I must,
but I shall carry with me a little shred of your respect for telling
the truth. I had a faint hope that you and your father would come
to-night, and I was looking for you, and when you came I watched
you. I could not resist the temptation of comparing the Miss Mayhew
I now so highly esteem and respect, with the lady I first met at
this place."
"Oh, Mr. Van Berg," said Ida, in a low, hurt tone, "I don't think
that was fair to me, or right."
"I am confessing and not excusing myself, Miss Mayhew. I once very
justly appeared to you like a prig, and now I fear I shall seem
a spy; but after our visit to that old garden together, and your
frankness to me, I feel under bonds to tell the whole truth. You
said we were fated to misunderstand each other. I think not, for
if you ever permit me to be your friend I shall be the frankest
one you ever had;" at these words he felt her hand trembling on
his arm, and she would not look up nor make any reply.
"Well," said he, desperately, "I expect Sibley's fate will soon
be mine. I suppose it was a mean thing to watch you, but it would
seem a meaner thing to me not to tell you. I was about to speak
to you, Miss Mayhew, when by another odd coincidence the orchestra
commenced playing music that I knew would remind you of me. I
was gaining the impression before you left the country that as you
came to think the past all over, you had found that there was more
against me than you could forgive, or else that I was so inseparably
associated with that which was painful that you would be glad to
forget the one with the other. I must admit that this impression
was greatly strengthened by the expression of your face, and I
almost decided to leave the place without speaking to you. But I
found I could not, and--well, you know I did not. You see I'm at
your mercy again."
Ida was greatly relieved, for she now learned that he had discovered
nothing in his favor, and that she was still mistress of the
situation.
"I do not think you are very penitent; I fear you would do the same
thing over again," she said.
"Indeed, Miss Mayhew, when I first met you here I thought I would
always do the right and proper thing, and I fear I thought some
things right because I did them. I've lived a hundred years since
that time, and am beginning to find myself out. Didn't you think me
the veriest prig that ever smiled in a superior way at the world?"
"I don't think I shall give you my opinion," she replied, averting
her face to hide a blush and a laugh.
"No need. I saw your opinion in your face when you looked down at
your programme half an hour since."
"You are mistaken; I was thinking of myself at that moment, for I
could not help remembering what a fool I must have appeared to you
on that occasion."
He looked at her in surprise. "Miss Burton was right," he ejaculated,
"I never shall understand you."
"Was she talking about me?" asked Ida, in a low tone.
"Yes, and she spoke of you in the most complimentary way, as you
did of her. Why the mischief you two ladies do not become the
warmest friends is beyond me. Sit down here a little while, Miss
Mayhew, for you are growing tired;" and she was very glad to comply.
As she made no effort to continue the conversation he resumed, "You
haven't told me what my punishment is to be."
"Are you so anxious to be punished?" she asked, looking up shyly
at him.
"Well, my conscience troubles me greatly, and I feel I ought to do
something for you in the way of expiation."
"And so I gather that anything done for me would be such severe
penance that your conscience would be appeased."
"Now, Miss Mayhew," he replied, looking earnestly into her face,
"tell me truly, do you gather any such impression from my words
and manner?"
But she kept her eyes resolutely on the ground, and said demurely,
"Such was the obvious meaning of your words."
"Do you know why I am in the city?" he asked after a moment.
"I have not presumed to think why."
"Perhaps I can make a little inroad in your indifference when I
tell you that I have spent several hours in my studio working on
your picture, and that I intend to work the remainder of the week
so as to have it ready for you Saturday evening."
She looked up now with a face radiant with surprise and pleasure,
"O Mr. Van Berg, I did not dream of your taking so much trouble
for me."
"That's a small payment on an old debt. What can I do for you
while I am in the city, to atone for my rudeness?"
She looked at him hesitatingly and wistfully a moment.
"I know you wish something, but fear to ask it," he said, gently,
"and I'm sorry to remember I've done so little to inspire your
confidence."
"Mr. Van Berg," she said in a low tone, looking earnestly at him
while she spoke, so as to learn from his expression how he received
her request. "Your kindness does tempt me to ask a favor. Please
remember I'm acting from an impulse caused by this unexpected talk
we are having, and pardon me if I overstep the bounds of reserve
or suggest a task that you might very naturally shrink from as
disagreeable."
"I pledge you my word at once to do what you wish."
"No, don't do that. Wait till you hear all. If when it comes easily
and naturally in your way you will do a little towards helping me
keep father the man he can be, my gratitude will be deeper than you
can understand. I am studying him very carefully and I find that
any encouraging recognition from those who have known his past, has
great weight with him. At the same time it must be very unobtrusive
and come as a matter of course as it were. You gave him your society
one Sunday morning last June in a way that did him a great deal
of good, and if I had only seconded your efforts then, everything
might have been different. I can never remember that day without
a blush of shame. I can't help the past, but my whole soul is now
bent on making amends to father. I fear, however, my deep solicitude
has led me to ask more than good taste can sanction."
"Miss Mayhew," said the artist, eagerly, "this is one of the best
moments of my life. You could not have made such a request unless
you trusted me, unless you had fully forgiven me all the wrong I
have done you. I doubted if I could ever win your friendship, but
I think I can claim a friend's place already in your esteem, since
you are willing to let me share in so sacred a duty. I renew my
pledge with double emphasis."
He never forgot the smile with which she rewarded him, as she said,
in a low tone, "That's better than I thought. You are very kind
to me. But I'm staying too long from father."
"We'll understand each other eventually," he said gently. "Now I
know why tears were in your eyes before the symphony was over."
"No you don't," she whispered to herself.
As they took their seats by Mr. Mayhew he remarked with a smile,
"Mr. Van Berg must have had a long budget of news frm your good
old friend."
Ida looked at the artist in dismay, and was still more embarrassed
as she saw a sudden flash of mirth and exultation in his eyes. But
he turned to Mr. Mayhew and replied, promptly, "Two pictures are
growing out of my visits to Mr. Eltinge and his garden. The one
that is for Mr. Eltinge contains a portrait of Miss Mayhew as I
saw her reading to him. I wish you and your daughter would visit
my studio to-morrow and see the sketches, and if Miss Mayhew would
give me one or two sittings, I could make a much better picture for
Mr. Eltinge than now is possible, and I'm anxious to do the very
best I can for him."
"I would be very glad to come," said Mr. Mayhew, and his pleased
expression confirmed his words. "Will a visit before I go down
town be too early?"
"Not at all. I am always at work early."
"Well, Ida, does Mr. Eltinge miss your visits very much? It's
selfish in me to let you stay in the city."
"He does indeed, sir," said the artist answering for her. "He
talked to me continually about her yesterday, although I can't say
I tried to change the subject."
"Father, Mr. Van Berg shall not shield my short-comings," said Ida,
with crimson cheeks. "I forgot to ask about Mr. Eltinge. To tell
the truth, we were talking of old times. I met Mr. Van Berg here
last June and I made a very bad impression on him."
"And I at the same time made a worse impression on Miss Mayhew,"
added the artist.
"Well," said her father, with a doubtful smile and a puzzled glace
from one to the other, "one almost might be tempted to believe that
you had been revising your impressions."
"Mine has not been revised, but changed altogether," said Van Berg,
decisively.
"Come, father, let us go at once lest Mr. Van Berg's impressions
change again," and her mirthful glance as she gave him her hand
in parting revealed a new element in her character. She was not
developing the cloying sweetness of honey.