If Van Berg had given thought to himself that evening as he did to
Ida Mayhew he might have discovered some rather odd phenomena in
his varying mental states. Earlier in the summer he had been a
very deliberate and conscientious wooer. He had leisurely taken
counsel of his reason, judgment, and good taste; he mentally
consulted his parents, and satisfied himself that Miss Burton would
have peculiar charms for them, and so it had come to seem almost
a duty as well as a privilege to seek that young lady's hand. The
sagacity and nice appreciation of character on which he had so
greatly prided himself led to the belief that fortune in giving him
a chance to win such a maiden had been very kind. That his pulse
was so even and his heart had so little to say in the matter was
only a proof that he did not possess an unbalanced head-long nature
like that of Stanton, who had soon become wholly mastered by his
passion. He had at one time reasoned it all out to his satisfaction,
and believed he was paying his suit to the woman he would make his
wife in an eminently proper way. but now that he was merely trying
to obtain a young girl's friendship, the cool and masterful poise
which he had then been able to maintain, was apparently deserting
him. He might have asked himself if he ever remembered being
such an enthusiastic friend before. He might have considered how
often he had kept awake and counted the hours till he should meet
a friend from whom he had just parted. That these obvious thoughts
and contrasts did not occur to him only proved that he was smitten
already by that blindness which a certain spiritual malady usually
occasions in its earlier stages.
As for poor Ida, she still felt that her little boat was being
carried forward by a shining tide--whither she dared not think.
She had come to the city to escape from the artist, and as a result
she might spend long hours alone with him in his studio and see
far more of him than if she had remained in the country. She had
not sought it--she had not even dared to hope or dream of such a
thing; but now that this exquisite cup of pleasure had been pressed
to her very lips by other hands she could not refuse it.
Her father had watched her keenly but furtively since she had been
his companion, and until the artist had accosted her the evening
before had not been able to understand the depression which she
could not disguise wholly from him; but the light and welcome that
flashed into her face when greeting Van Berg had suggested her
secret, and all that followed confirmed his surmise. The truth
was plainer still when she came down to their early breakfast the
next morning with color in her cheeks and a fitful light of excitement
in her eyes.
As he realized the truth he fairly trembled with apprehension and
longing. "Oh, if Ida could only marry that man I would be almost
beside myself with joy," he thought; "but I fear it is rash even
to hope for such a thing. Indeed, I myself am the obstacle that
would probably prevent it all. The Van Bergs are a proud race,
and this young man's father knows me too well. O God! I could be
annihilated if thereby my child could be happy."
"Ida," he said, hesitatingly, "perhaps I had better not go with you
this morning. I imagine Mr. Van Berg asked me out of politeness
rather than from any wish to see me and--and--I think I had better
not go."
She looked up at him swiftly, and the rich color mantled her face,
for she read his thoughts in part. But she only said quietly:
"Then I will not go."
"That would not be right or courteous, Ida," but I think you young
people will get on better without me."
"You are mistaken, Father; I never intend to get on without you,
and any friend of mine who does not welcome you becomes a stranger
from that hour. But I think you are doing Mr. Van Berg an injustice.
At any rate we will give him a chance to show a better spirit."
"Ida, my child, if you only knew how gladly I would sacrifice myself
to make you happy!"
She came to him and put her arms around his neck and looking up
into his face said, with the earnestness and solemnity of a vow,
"I will take no happiness which I cannot receive as your loving
daughter. As long as you are the man you have been since Sunday I
will stand proudly at your side. If you should ever be weak again
you will drag me down with you."
He held her from him and looked at her as a miser might gloat over
his treasure.
"Ida, my good angel," he murmured.
"Nonsense!" she exclaimed, trying to hide her feelings by a little
brusqueness, "I'm as human a girl as there is in this city, and will
try your patience a hundred times before the year is out. Come,
let us go and visit this proud artist. He had better beware, or
he may find an expression on my face that he won't like if I should
decide to give him a sitting."
But the artist did like the expression of Ida's face as he glanced
up from his work with great frequency and with an admiring glow in
his eyes that was anything but cool and business-like. Even her
jealous love had not detected a tone or act in his reception of
her father that was not all she could ask, and she had never seen
the poor man look so pleased and hopeful as when he left the studio
for his office. There had not been a particle of patronage in
Van Berg's manner, but only the cordial and respectful courtesy of
a younger gentleman towards an elderly one. Mr. Mayhew had been
made at home at once, and before he left, the artist had obtained
his promise to come again with his daughter on the following morning.
"His bearing towards father was the perfection of good breeding,"
thought Ida, and it would seem that some of the gratitude with
which her heart overflowed found its way into her tones and eyes.
"You look so pleasantly and kindly, that you must be thinking of
Mr. Eltinge," said Van Berg.
"You are not to paint my thoughts," said Ida, with a quick flush.
"I wish I could."
"I'm glad you can't."
"You do puzzle one, Miss Mayhew. On the day of our visit to the
old garden your thoughts seemed as clear to me as the water of the
little brook, and I supposed I saw all that was in your mind. But
before the day was over I felt that I did not understand you at
all."
"Mr. Van Berg, I'm astonished you are an artist."
"Because of the character of my work?"
"No, indeed. But such a wonderful taste for solving problems
suggests a metaphysician. I think you would become discouraged
with such tasks. Just think how many ladies there are in the world,
and I'm sure any one of them is a more abstruse problem than I am."
The artist looked up at her in surprise and bit his lip with a faint
trace of embarrassment, but he said, after a moment, "But it does
not follow that they are interesting problems."
"You don't know," she replied.
"And never shall," he added. "I do know, however, that you are a
very interesting one."
"I didn't agree to come here to be solved as a problem," she said
demurely, but with a mirthful twinkle in her eyes; "I only promised
you a sitting for the sake of Mr. Eltinge."
"Two sittings, Miss Mayhew."
"Well, yes, if two are needful."
"By all the nine muses! you do not expect me to make a good picture
from only two sittings?"
"You know how slight is my acquaintance with any of those superior
divinities, and in this sacred haunt of theirs I feel that I should
express all my opinions with bated breath; but truly, Mr. Van Berg,
I thought you could make a picture from the sketch you made in the
garden."
"Yes, I could make A picture, but every sitting you will give enables
me to make a better picture, and you know how much we both owe to
Mr. Eltinge."
"I'm learning every day how much, how very much, I owe to him,"
she said, earnestly.
"Then for his sake you will promise to come as often as I wish you
to," was his eager response, and it was so eager that she looked
up at him in surprise.
"Really, Mr. Van Berg, I am becoming bewildered as to what that
little sketch I asked you to make may involve."
"Will it be so wearisome for you to come here?" he asked, with a
look of disappointment that surprised her still more.
"I didn't say that," was her quick reply; "and I promise to come
to-morrow. Perhaps you will find that sufficient."
"I know it won't be sufficient."
"Cousin Ik has told me that you are very painstaking and conscientious
in your work."
"Thanks to Cousin Ik. When I get a chance to paint such a picture
as this I do, indeed, wish to make the most of it."
"But how long must Mr. Eltinge wait for it?"
"I think we can send it to him as a Christmas present."
"We? You, rather, will send it."
"No, WE; or rather, in giving me the sittings you give Mr. Eltinge
all that makes the picture valuable to him."
Ida's cheeks began to burn, for the artist's words suggested a
powerful temptation that; in accordance with her impetuous nature,
came in the form of an impulse rather than an insidious and lurking
thought. The impulse was to accept of the opportunities he pressed
upon her, and, if possible, win him away from Jennie Burton. At
first it seemed a mean and dishonorable thing to do, and her face
grew crimson with shame at the very thought. Van Berg looked
at her with surprise. Conscious himself that while he meant that
Mr. Eltinge should profit richly from her visits, it was not by
any means for the sake of the old gentleman only that he had been
requesting her to come so often, his own color began to rise.
"She begins to see that my motives are a little mixed, and that is
what is embarrassing her," he thought as he bent over his work to
hide his own confusion.
"Mr. Van Berg, I'm getting tired of sitting still," Ida exclaimed.
"It's contrary to my restless disposition. May I not make an exploring
tour around your studio? You have no idea what a constraint I've
been putting on my feminine curiosity."
"I give you a 'carte-blanche' to do as you please. Have you much
curiosity?"
"I'm a daughter of Eve."
"Well, I'm coming to the conclusion that there is a good deal of
'old Adam' in me," and he felt that as she then appeared she could
tempt him to almost anything.
Now that her back was towards him she felt safer, and her mellow
laugh trilled out as she said, "We may have to dub this place a
confessional rather than a studio of you talk in that way."
"If I confessed all my sins against you, Miss Mayhew, it would,
indeed, be a confessional." He spoke so earnestly that she gave
him a quick glance of surprise.
"There is no need," she said, hesitatingly, "since I have given you
full absolution," and she suddenly became interested in something in
the farthest corner of the apartment. After a moment she added,
"If I am to come here I must say to you again, as I did on the
day I so disgusted you by my behavior in the stage--you must let
by-gones be by-gones."
It was now the artist's turn to laugh, and his merriment was
so hearty and prolonged that she turned a vexed and crimson face
towards him and said, "I think it's too bad in you to laugh at me
so."
"Miss Mayhew, I assure you I'm not laughing at you at all. But your
words suggest a good omen. Didn't that stage teach you that fate
means us to be good friends in spite of all you can do? Before we
met in that car of fortune I had been trying for a week or more to
make your acquaintance, and made a martyr of myself in the effort.
I played the agreeable to nearly every lady in the hotel, and
perspired on picnics and boating parties that I did not enjoy. I
played croquet and other games till I was half bored to death, and
all in the effort to produce such a genial atmosphere of enjoyment
and good-feeling that you would thaw a little towards me; but you
wouldn't speak to me, nor even look at me. At last I gave up in
despair and went off among the hills with my sketch-book, and when
returning that blessed old stage overtook me. Wasn't I pleased
when I found you were a fellow-passenger! and let me now express
my thanks that you looked so resolutely away from me, for it gave
me a chance to contrast a profile in which I could detect no fault
with the broad, sultry visage of the stout woman opposite me. And
then, thank heaven, the horses ran away. Whoever heard of stage
horses running away before? It was a smile of fortune--a miracle.
Submit to destiny, Miss Mayhew, for it's decreed that we should be
good friends," and he laughed again in huge enjoyment of the whole
scene.
In spite of herself Ida found his humor contagious and irresistible,
and she laughed also till the tears came into her eyes.
"Mr. Van Berg," she exclaimed, "I ought to be indignant, or I ought
to be ashamed to look you in the face. I don't know what I ought
to do, only I'm sure it isn't the proper thing at all for me to be
laughing in this way. I think I'll go home at once, for I'm only
wasting your time.
His answer was not very relevant, for he said impetuously, "Oh,
Miss Ida, I would give five years of my life to be able to paint
your portrait as you now appear, for the picture would cure old
melancholy himself and fill a prison-cell with light."
"I won't come here any more if you laugh at me so," she said,
putting on her hat.
"See," he said, "I'm as grave as a judge. I will never laugh
AT you, but I hope to laugh WITH you many a time, for to tell you
the truth the experience has reminded me of the 'inextinguishable
laughter of the Gods.' Please don't go yet."
"If I must come so often my visits must be brief."
"Then you will come?"
"I haven't promised anything except for to-morrow. Good-morning."
"Let me walk home with you."
"No, positively. You have wasted too much time already."
"You will at least shake hands in token of peace and amity before
we part?"
"Oh, certainly, if you think it worth the while when we are to meet
so soon again. Oh! you hurt me. You did that once before."
His face suddenly became grave and even tender in its expression,
as he said, in a low, deep voice, "More than once, Miss Ida. Don't
think I forget or forgive myself because you treat me so generously."
She would not look up and meet his eyes, but replied, in tones that
trembled with repressed feeling, "I could forgive anything after
your manner towards father this morning. Never think I can forget
such favors," and then she snatched away her hand and went swiftly
out. Her tears fell fast as she sought her home by quiet streets
with bowed head and vail drawn tightly down, and she murmured:
"I cannot give him up--I cannot, indeed, I cannot. If I lose him
it must be because there is no help for it."
Then conscience uttered its low, faint protest and her tears fell
faster still.
When reaching her room she threw herself on the sofa and sobbed,
"Would it be so very, very wrong to win him if I could? she can't
love him as much as I do. Why, I was ready to die even to win his
respect, and now in these visits he gives me a chance to win his
love. Is he pledged to Miss Burton yet? If he is, I do not know
it. He does seem to care for me--there is often something in his
face and tone that whispers hope. If he loves her as I love him
he could not be here in New York all this week. But it's her love
that troubles me--I've seen it in her eyes when he was not observing,
and I fear she just worships him. Alas, he gave her reason. His
manner has been that of a lover, and no one--he least of all--would
think of flirting with Jennie Burton. But does he lover her so
deeply that I could not win him if I had a chance? Would it be very
wicked if I did? Must I give up my happiness for her happiness?
I came to New York to get away from danger and temptation and here
I am right in the midst of it. What shall I do! Oh, my Saviour,
I'm half afraid to speak to thee about this."
"If I could only see Mr. Eltinge," she murmured, after an
hour of distracted thought and indecision. "There is no time to
write--indeed, I could not write on such a subject, and--and--I'm
afraid he'd advise me against it. He can't understand a woman's
feelings in a case like this, at least he could not understand a
passionate, faulty girl like me. I've no patience--no fortitude.
I could die for my love--I think, I hope, I could for my faith,--but
I feel no power within me to endure patiently year after year. I
would be like the poor, weak women they shut up in the Inquisition
and who suffered on to the end only through remorseless compulsion,
because the walls were too thick for escape, and the tormentor's
hands and the rack were irresistible. My soul would succumb as well
as my body. This would seem wild, wicked talk to Mr. Eltinge; it
would seem weak and irrational to any man. But I'm only Ida Mayhew,
and such is my nature. I've been made all the more incapable of
patient self-sacrifice by self-indulgence from my childhood up.
Oh, will it be very, very wrong to win him if I can?" and the
passionate tears and sobs that followed these words would seem to
indicate that she understood her nature only too well.
At last she concluded, in weariness and exhaustion, "I'm too weak
and distracted to think any more. I hardly know whether it's right
or wrong. I hope it isn't very wrong. I won't decide now. Let
matters take their own course as they have done and I may see
clearer by and by."
But deep in her heart she felt that this was about the same as
yielding to the temptation.
She bathed her eyes, tried to think how she could spend the
intervening hours before they would meet again. Then with a sense
of dismay she began to consider, "If we are to meet so often what
are we to talk about? He once tried to converse with me and found
me so ignorant he couldn't. It seemed to me I didn't know anything
that evening, and he'll soon grow disgusted with me again as he sees
my poor little pack of knowledge is like a tramp's bundle that he
carries around with him. I must read--I must study every moment,
or I haven't the remotest chance of success. Success! Oh, merciful
heaven! it's the same as if I were setting about it all deliberately
and there's no use of deceiving myself. I hope it isn't very, very
wrong."
She went to her father's library with flushed cheeks and hesitating
steps, as if it were the tree from which she might pluck the fruit
of forbidden knowledge. The long rows of ponderous and neglected
books appalled her; she took down two or three and they seemed
like unopened mines, deep and rocky. She felt instinctively that
there was not time for her to transmute their ores into graceful
and natural mental adornments.
"Methuselah himself couldn't read them all," she exclaimed. "By the
powers! if here isn't more books than I can carry, on one subject.
I suppose cartloads have been written about art. I've no doubt
he's read them all, but I never can; I fear my attempt to read up
is like trying to get strong by eating a whole ox at once. Oh,
why did I waste my school-days, and indeed all my life as I have!"
and she stamped her foot in her impatience and irritation.
"Well," she sighed at last, with a grim sort of humor; "I must do
the best I can. It's the same as if I were on a desert island. I
must tie together some sort of a raft in order to cross the gulf
that separates us, for I never can stand it to stay here alone.
Since I have not time to spare I may as well commence with that
encyclopaedia, and learn a little about as many things as possible;
then if he introduces a subject he shall at least see that I know
what he is talking about." And during the afternoon the poor
girl plodded through sever articles, often recalling her wandering
thoughts by impatient little gestures, and by the time her father
returned she was conscious of knowing a very little indeed about a
number of things. "No matter," she thought, compressing her lips,
"I won't give up till I must. It's my one chance for happiness
in this world, and I'll cling to it while there is a shred of hope
left."
It was with an eager and resolute face that she confronted her
father that evening, as they sat down to dinner. He thought she
would descant on her experiences of the morning, and he was anxious
for a chance to say how truly he appreciated Mr. Van Berg's cordial
manner, but she surprised him by asking abruptly:
"Father, when do we elect another president?"
He told her, and then followed a rapid fire of questions about the
general and state government, and the names and characters of the
men who held the chief offices. At last Mr. Mayhew laid down his
knife and fork in his astonishment, and asked sententiously:
"How long is it since you decided to go into politics?"
Ida's laugh was very reassuring, and she said, "Poor father! I
don't wonder you think I've lost my wits, now that I'm trying to
use the few I have. Don't you see? I don't know anything that's
worth knowing. I wasted my time at school, for my head was full
of beaux, dress, and nonsense. Besides, I don't think my teachers
took much pains to make me understand anything. At any rate, my
dancing-master, and perhaps my music-teacher--a little bit--are
the only ones that have any reason to be proud of the result. Now
I want you to brush up your ideas about everything, so you can
answer the endless questions I am going to ask you."
"Why bless you, child, you take away my breath. Rome wasn't built
in a day."
"The way they built Rome will never answer for me. I must grow like
one of our Western cities that has a mayor and opera-house almost
before the Indians and wolves are driven out of town. Speaking of
Rome reminds me how little I know of that city, and it's a burning
shame, too, for I spent a month there."
"Well," said Mr. Mayhew, with kindling interest, "suppose we take
up a course of reading about Rome for the winter."
"For the winter! That won't do at all. Can't you tell me something
of interest about Rome this evening?"
"I've already mentioned the interesting fact--that it wasn't built
in a day. I think that's the most important thing that you need
to know about Rome and everything else this evening. Why, Ida,
you can't become wise as an ostrich makes its supper--by swallowing
everything that comes in its way. You are not a bit like an
ostrich."
"An ostrich is a silly bird that puts its head under the sand and
thins its whole great body hidden because it can't see itself,
isn't it, father?"
"I've heard that story told of it," replied Mr. Mayhew, laughing.
"Anything but an ostrich, then. Come, I'll read the evening paper
to you on condition you tell me the leading questions of the day.
What is just now the leading question of the day?"
"Well," said Mr. Mayhew, demurely, but with a sparkle of humor
in his eye, "one of the leading questions of this day with me has
been whether Mr. Van Berg would not enjoy dining with us to-morrow
evening now that he is here alone in the city?"
Ida instantly held the newspaper before her crimson face and said:
"Father, you ought to be ashamed thus to divert my mind from the
pursuit of useful knowledge."
Her father came to her side and said very kindly: "Ida, darling,
you are a little bit like an ostrich now."
She sprang up, and, hiding her face on his shoulder, trembled like
a leaf. "Oh, father," she whispered, "I would not have him know
for the world. Is it so very plain?"
"Not to him, my child, but the eyes of a love like mine are very
keen. So you needn't be on your guard before your old father as
you must be before him and the world. You shall have only rest and
sympathy at home as far as I can give them. Indeed, if you will
let me, I'll become a very unobtrusive, but perhaps, useful ally.
At any rate, I'll try not to make any stupid, ignorant blunders.
I have like Mr. Van Berg from the first hour of our meeting, and
I would thank God from the depths of my heart if this could be."
"Dear, good father, how little I understood you. I've been living
in poverty over a gold mine. But father, I'm so ignorant and Mr.
Van Berg knows everything."
"Not quite, you'll find. He's only a man, Ida. But you can never
win him through politics or by discussing with him the questions
of the day. These are not in your line nor his."
"What can I do, father. Indeed, it does not seem to me maidenly
to do anything."
"It would not be maidenly, Ida, to step one hair's breadth beyond
the line of scrupulous, womanly delicacy, and by any such course
you would only defeat and thwart yourself. A woman must always
be sought; and as a rule, she loses as she seeks. But I strust to
your instincts to guide you here. You have only to be simple and
true, as you have been since the happy miracle that transformed
you. Unless a man is infatuated as I--but no matter. A man that
keeps his sense welcomes truthfulness--a high delicate sense of
honor--above all things in a woman, for it gives him a sense of
security and rest. By truthfulness I do not mean the indiscreet
blurting out of things that good taste would leave unsaid, but
clear-eyed integrity that hides no guile. Then, again, unless
a man is blinded by passion or some kind of infatuation he knows
that the chief need of his life is a home lighted and warmed by an
unwavering love. With these his happiness and success are secured,
as far as they can be in this world, unless he is a brute and a
fool, and has no right to exist at all. But I am growing preachy.
Let me suggest some things that I have observed in this artist. He
is a high-toned pagan and worships beauty; but with this outward
perfection he also demands spiritual loveliness, for with him mind
and honor are in the ascendant. He admired you immensely from the
first, and since your character has been growing in harmony with
your face he has sought your society. So, be simple, true, and
modest, and you will win him if the thing is possible. You will
never win him by being anything else, and you might lose your own
respect and his too."
"I'll suffer anything rather than that, father. I think you had
better not invite him to-morrow evening."
"I'll be governed by what I see to-morrow," he replied, musingly.
"Both my business and my habit of mind have taught me to observe
and study men's motives and impulses very closely. You could order
a suitable dinner after leaving the studio, could you not?"
"Yes, father."
"Well, then, my Princess Ida, I'll be your grand vizier, and I'll
treat with this foreign power with such a fine diplomacy that he
shall appreciate all the privileges he obtains. But we will keep
our self-respect hereafter, Ida, and then we can look the world in
the face and ask no odds of it."
"Yes, father, let us keep that at all events. And yet I'm only a
woman."
"You are the woman that has made me happy, and I think there is
another man who will want to be made happy also. And now we will
defer all other questions of the day, for I must go out for a time.
Do not think I undervalue your craving for information, and you
shall have it as fast as you can take care of it. You have grown
pale and thin this summer, but I do not expect you to become plump
and rosy again in a day."
"Oh, I'm rosy too often as it is. Why is it that girls must blush
so ridiculously when they don't want to? That's the question of
the day for me. I could flirt desperately in old times, and yet
look as demure and cool as if I were an innocent. But now, oh!
I'm fairly enraged with myself at times."
"They say blushes are love's trail," said Mr. Mayhew with a laugh,
"and since he is around I suppose he must leave his tracks. If
you wish for a more scientific reason let me add that physiology
teaches us that the blood comes from the heart. I can assure you,
however, that there are but few gentlemen who admire ladies that
cannot blush, and Mr. Van Berg is not one of them."
Ida spent the evening at her piano instead of over the encyclopaedia,
but she sighed again and again.
"Simple and true! I fear Jennie Burton and Mr. Eltinge would say
I was neither if they knew what was in my heart. But I can't help
it--I can't give him up after what has happened since I came to
the city, unless I must."
But the music she selected was simple and true. Tossing her brilliant
and florid pieces impatiently aside, she played or sang only that
which was plaintive, low, and in harmony with her thoughts. It
also seemed to have a peculiar attractiveness to a tall gentleman
who lingered some moments beneath the windows, and even took one
or two steps up towards the door, and then turned and strode away
as if conscious that he must either enter or depart at once.