THE ARTIST.
Sprague was a dilettante in art as he was in life. If he had not been
rich, he might perhaps have become a great artist. But, lacking the
spur of poverty, he seemed incapable of sustained effort. Occasionally
he was seized with a frenzy for labor; and, for weeks at a time,
he would shut himself up in his studio, until he had creditably
accomplished some bit of work. But the fever was soon spent, and a
reaction invariably followed, during which palette and brush were taken
up only in desultory fashion. Thus it was that at the age of eight
and twenty, Sprague had painted a few pictures which had attracted
favorable attention at the annual exhibitions of the Academy of Design,
and which the critics had spoken of as "promising"; and thus it was
that the promise was as yet unfulfilled, and that Sprague, though a man
of undoubted talent, was not likely ever to rank as a genius in his
profession.
Sturgis, with his keen insight into human nature, fully realized the
potential capacities of the artist, and at times he could not control
his impatience at his friend's inert drifting through life. But, with
all their differences, these two men held each other in the highest
esteem, each admiring in the other those very qualities which were
lacking in himself.
The artist lived in a fashionable quarter of the city, in a bachelor
apartment which included a large and commodious studio fitted up
according to the latest canons of artistic taste.
On this particular New Year's morning, after waking and observing,
by the filtering of a few bright sunbeams through the closely drawn
blinds, that it was broad daylight, he stretched himself with a
voluptuous yawn and prepared to relapse into the sensuous enjoyment of
that semi-somnolent state which succeeds a night of calm and refreshing
sleep.
Just as he was settling himself comfortably, however, he was startled
by a knock at the bedroom door. Most men, under the circumstances,
would have betrayed some vexation at being thus unceremoniously
disturbed. But there was no suspicion of annoyance in Sprague's cheery
voice, as he exclaimed:
"You cannot come in yet, Mrs. O'Meagher. I am asleep, and I shall be
asleep for another hour at the least. Surely you cannot have forgotten
that to-day is a holiday. Happy New Year! You have time to go to
several masses before----"
"Get up, old lazybones; and don't keep a man waiting at your door in
this inhospitable way, when he is in a hurry," interrupted a voice
whose timbre was not that of the housekeeper, Mrs. O'Meagher.
"Oh! is that you, Sturgis?" laughed the artist. "Aren't you ashamed of
yourself to come routing honest men out of bed at this unseemly hour?
Wait a minute, till I put on my court costume, that I may receive you
with the honors and ceremonies due to your rank and station."
A couple of minutes later, the artist, picturesquely attired in a loose
oriental dressing gown and fez, opened the door to his friend, Ralph
Sturgis.
"Come in, old man," he said, cordially extending his hand to the
reporter; "you are welcome at any hour of the day or night. What is it
now? This is not your digestion call, I presume."
"No," replied Sturgis, "I merely dropped in to say that I should be
unable to take our projected bicycle trip this afternoon, I shall
probably be busy with the Knickerbocker bank case all day. By the way,
if you would like to come to the bank with me, I shall be glad of your
company. I am on my way there now."
"I should like nothing better," said Sprague, "but I have made an
appointment for this morning with a----er----er----with a sitter."
"What, on New Year's day, you heathen!"
Sturgis observed the artist closely, and then added quizzically:
"Accept my congratulations, old man."
"Your congratulations?" inquired Sprague, coloring slightly.
"Yes; my congratulations and my condolence. My congratulations on
the fact that she is young and beautiful, and possessed of all those
qualities of mind and heart which----and so on and so forth. My
condolence because I fear you are hit, at last."
"What do you mean?" stammered the artist sheepishly; "do you know her?
What do you know about her?"
"Nothing whatever," replied Sturgis laughing, "except what you are
telling me by your hesitations, your reticence and your confusion."
The artist spoke after a moment of thoughtful silence:
"Your inductions in this case are premature, to say the least. My
sitter is a young lady, so much is undeniably true. And there is
no doubt in my mind as to her possession of all the qualities you
jocularly attribute to her; but my interest in her is only that of the
artist in a beautiful and charming woman.
"At any rate," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "I hope so; for I
have heard that she is as good as betrothed to another man."
The reporter's keen ear detected in his friend's tones a touch of
genuine sadness of which the artist himself was probably unconscious.
Laying his hand gently upon Sprague's shoulder, he said gravely:
"I hope so too, old man; for you are one of those foolish men whose
lives can be ruined by an unhappy love affair. I suppose it is useless
to preach to you;--more's the pity--but, in my humble opinion, no
woman's love is worth the sacrifice of a good man's life."
"Yes, I know your opinion on that subject, you old cynic," replied
Sprague, "but you need not worry on my account; not yet, at all events.
I am still safe; the portrait is almost finished; and I should be a
fool to walk into such a scrape with my eyes wide open."
"Humph!" ejaculated Sturgis skeptically, "when a man makes a fool of
himself for a woman, it matters little whether his eyes be open or
shut; the result is the same."
Sprague laughed somewhat uneasily; and then, as if to change the
subject:
"Come and see the picture," he said. "I should like your opinion of it."
The reporter consulted his watch.
"I shall have to come back some other time for that," he replied; "I
must hurry off now to keep my appointment with Mr. Dunlap."
He started toward the door; but suddenly facing Sprague again, he held
out his hand to the artist, who pressed it cordially.
"Good-bye, old man," he said affectionately; "be as sensible as you
can, and don't wantonly play with the fire."
And before Sprague could frame an answer, the reporter was gone.
The artist remained thoughtfully standing until his friend's footsteps
had died away in the distance. Then he turned and walked slowly into
the studio. Here, in the middle of the room, stood an easel, upon which
was the portrait of a beautiful young girl.
Sprague gazed at it long and earnestly. Then he heaved an almost
inaudible sigh.
"Sturgis is right," he said to himself, turning away at last,
"and----and I am a confounded idiot!"