Barbara knew very well that she was doing wrong. Summer had descended,
blazing, upon the city. Without exception her friends had gone to the
country. Her father had gone to Colorado upon an errand of which for the
present he chose to make a mystery. She made a habit of lunching at the
Colony Club, and occasionally saw some friend or other who had run into
town for a face massage, a hair wave, a gown, or a hat. But the
afternoons and evenings hung very heavily upon her hands. So that she
got to living in and for her mornings at the studio. With the appearance
of Blizzard, clean, thoughtful, and forceful, her feelings of loneliness
and depression vanished. If her vitality was at low ebb, his was not.
The heat appeared to brace him, and he had the faculty of communicating
something of his own energy, so that it was not until she had finished
working and dismissed him that she was sensible of fatigue and
discouragement.
The man was on his best behavior. He could not but realize that he had
established an influence over her; that she was beginning to take him at
his own estimate of himself, and to believe in his pretended
aspirations. And while he credited her with no affection for himself, he
had the presumption to imagine that his maimed condition and his low
station in life no longer made the slightest difference to her, and that
finally her friendliness would turn into a warmer feeling. But if not,
he had but to wait until the maturity of his plans should throw the city
into chaos, when she would be at his mercy.
The hand which he had dealt himself was so full of high cards that the
occasional losing of a trick did not disturb him in the slightest. He
had through her father's hideous mistake a hold on Barbara's conscience.
As a personage whose power over certain sections of the city was
stronger than the law, he had a hold upon her imagination. As the
inspirer of her best work, he had a hold upon her gratitude. He had, or
thought he had, a chance to win her affection in open and equal
competition. And, highest card of all--ace of trumps--he had persuaded
her that her influence upon him was such that with all the strength of
remorse he was shaping his life toward high ideals.
In his heart she was usually, but not always, the first consideration.
Sometimes the passion of ambition overlapped the passion of love. And
sometimes he felt that he would forego the fruition of all his plans if
only by some miracle his legs could be restored to him.
But on the whole, he had reached a high-water mark of self-satisfaction.
He had found it easy to carry corruption into high places. A list of
those who were in his power--willing or unwilling--would have horrified
the whole nation. From O'Hagan in the West came reports that all went
well with the organization, and that Wilmot Allen was displaying genius
in teaching inexperienced Polacks to shoot.
On his walks through the city the legless man carried a high head, and
looked about him with the eye of a landlord. His imagination was so
strong that he had already the feelings of a genuine conqueror, and not
of a man confronted by the awful possibilities of failure. And by some
subtlety of mental communication Barbara was coming more and more into
this same opinion of him. And in realizing this, and in allowing their
relations to continue, she knew that she was doing wrong.
She compared her model with all the men she had known, always to
conclude that there was in him a sort of greatness utterly wanting in
the others. If he had revealed his plans to her, she would have believed
him not only capable of carrying them out, but sure to do so--if he
wished. He might be Satan fallen, but he was still a god. In the early
days of their association she had felt herself the important person of
the two, and her bust of him the most important thing in the world. He
and she would surely die, but the bust had a chance to live. But now she
had the feeling that the work was of less importance than the man; and
that she herself was an insignificant spoiled person of no importance
whatever. When Blizzard entered the studio she had the feeling that a
great and busy man was, out of pure good nature, wasting his time upon
an unknown artist. But she knew very well that such was not the case.
She knew that he came to the studio because she attracted him, and for
no other reason. And at times she felt keenly curious to know just how
much she attracted him, and the morbid wish, for which she hated
herself, of leading him into some sort of a declaration.