The Mystery of the Rose Garden
The acquaintance of Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange had developed rapidly
into friendship.
The man whom the world had chosen to place upon one of the highest
pinnacles of its literary favor, and who--through some queer twist in his
nature--was so lonely and embittered by his exaltation, seemed to find in
the younger man who stood with the crowd at the foot of the ladder,
something that marked him as different from his fellows.
Whether it was the artist's mother; some sacredly hidden memories of
Lagrange's past; or, perhaps, some fancied recognition of the artist's
genius and its possibilities; the strange man gave no hint; but he
constantly sought the company of Aaron King, with an openness that made
his preference for the painter's society very evident. If he had said
anything about it, at all, Conrad Lagrange, likely, would have accounted
for his interest, upon the ground that his dog, Czar, found the
companionship agreeable. Their friendship, meanwhile--in the eyes of the
world--conferred a peculiar distinction upon the young man--a distinction
not at all displeasing to the ambitious artist; and the value of which he,
probably, overrated.
To Aaron King--aside from the subtle flattery of the famous novelist's
attention--there was in the personality of the odd character a something
that appealed to him with peculiar strength. Perhaps it was that the man's
words, so often sharp and stinging with bitter sarcasm, seemed always to
carry a hidden meaning that gave, as it were, glimpses of another nature
buried deeply beneath a wreck of ruined dreams and disappointing
achievements. Or, it may have been that, under all the cruel,
world-hardness of the thoughts expressed, the young man sensed an
undertone of pathetic sadness. Or, again, perhaps, it was those rare
moments, when--on some walk that carried them beyond the outskirts of the
town, and brought the mountains into unobstructed view--the clouds of
bitterness were lifted; and the man spoke with poetic feeling of the
realities of life, and of the true glory and mission of the arts;
counseling his friend with an intelligence as true and delicate as it was
rare and fine.
It was nearly two months after Conrad Lagrange had introduced the young
man at the house on Fairlands Heights. The hour was late. The
painter--returning from a dinner and an evening at the Taine home--found
the novelist, with pipe and dog, in a deserted corner of the hotel
veranda. Dropping into the chair that was placed as if it awaited his
coming, the artist--with no word of greeting to the man--bent over the
brown head that was thrust so insistently against his knee, as Czar, with
gently waving tail, made him welcome. Looking affectionately into the
brown eyes while he stroked the silky coat, the young man answered in the
language that all dogs understand; while the novelist, from under his
scowling brows, regarded the two intently.
"They were disappointed that you were not there," said the painter,
presently. "Mrs. Taine, particularly, charged me to say that she will not
forgive, until you do proper penance for your sin."
"I had better company," retorted the other. "Czar and I went for a look at
the mountains. I suppose you have noticed that Czar does not care for the
Fairlands Heights crowd. He is very peculiar in his friendships--for a
dog. His instincts are remarkable."
At the sound of his name, Czar transferred his attentions, for a moment,
to his master; then stretched himself in his accustomed place beside the
novelist's chair.
The artist laughed. "I did my best to invent an acceptable excuse for you;
but she said it was no use--nothing short of your own personal prayers for
mercy would do."
"Humph; you should have reminded her that I purchased an indulgence some
weeks ago."
Again, the other laughed shortly. Watching him closely, Conrad Lagrange
said, in his most sneering tones, "I trust, young man, that you are not
failing to make good use of your opportunities. Let's see--dinner and the
evening five times--afternoon calls as many--with motor trips to points of
interest--and one theater party to Los Angeles--believe me; it is not
often that struggling genius is so rewarded--before it has accomplished
anything bad enough to merit such attention."
"I _have_ been idling most shamefully, haven't I?" said the artist.
"Idling!" rasped the other. "You have been the busiest hay-maker in the
land. These scientific, intensive cultivation farmers of California are
not in your class when it comes to utilizing the sunshine. Take my advice
and continue your present activity without bothering yourself by any
sentimental thoughts of your palette and brushes. The mere vulgar tools of
your craft are of minor importance to one of your genius and opportunity."
Then, in a half embarrassed manner, Aaron King made his announcement.
"That may all be," he said, "but just the same, I am going to work."
"I knew it"--returned the other, in mocking triumph--"I knew it the moment
you came up the steps there. I could tell it by your walk; by the air with
which you carried yourself; by your manner, your voice, your laugh--you
fairly reek of prosperity and achievement--you are going to paint her
portrait."
"And why not?" retorted the young man, rather sharply, a trifle nettled by
the other's tone.
"Why not, indeed!" murmured the novelist. "Indeed, yes--by all means! It
is so exactly the right thing to do that it is startling. You scale the
heights of fame with such confident certainty in every move that it is
positively uncanny to watch you."
"If one's work is true, I fail to see why one should not take advantage
of any influence that can contribute to his success," said the painter. "I
assure you I am not so wealthy that I can afford to refuse such an
attractive commission. You must admit that the beautiful Mrs. Taine is a
subject worthy the brush of any artist; and I suppose it _is_ conceivable
that I _might_ be ambitious to make a genuinely good job of it."
The older man, as though touched by the evident sincerity of the artist's
words, dropped his sneering tone and spoke earnestly; "The beautiful Mrs.
Taine _is_ a subject worthy a master's brush, my friend. But take my word
for it, if you paint her portrait _as a master would paint it_, you will
sign your own death warrant--so far as your popularity and fame as an
artist goes."
"I don't believe it," declared Aaron King, flatly.
"I know you don't. If you _did_, and still accepted the commission, you
wouldn't be fit to associate with honest dogs like Czar, here."
"But why"--persisted the artist--"why do you insist that my portrait of
Mrs. Taine will be disastrous to my success, just to the degree that it is
a work of genuine merit?"
To which the novelist answered, cryptically, "If you have not the eyes to
see the reason, it will matter little whether you know it or not. If you
_do_ see the reason, and, still, produce a portrait that pleases your
sitter, then you will have paid the price; you will receive your reward;
and"--the speaker's tone grew sad and bitter--"you will be what I am."
With this, he arose abruptly and, without another word, stalked into the
hotel; the dog following with quiet dignity, at his heels.
From the beginning of their acquaintance, almost, the novelist and the
artist had dropped into the habit of taking their meals together. At
breakfast, the next morning, Conrad Lagrange reopened the conversation he
had so abruptly closed the night before. "I suppose," he said, "that you
will set up a studio, and do the thing in proper style?"
"Mrs. Taine told me of a place that is for rent, and that she thinks would
be just the thing," returned the young man. "It is across the road from
that big grove owned by Mr. Taine. I was wondering if you would care to
walk out that way with me this morning and help me look it over."
The older man's hearty acceptance of the invitation assured the artist of
his genuine interest, and, an hour later--after Aaron King had interviewed
the agent and secured the keys, with the privilege of inspecting the
premises--the two set out together.
They found the place on the eastern edge of the town; half-hidden by the
orange groves that surrounded it on every side. The height of the palms
that grew along the road in front, the pepper and eucalyptus trees that
overshadowed the house, and the size of the orange-trees that shut in the
little yard with walls of green, marked the place as having been
established before the wealth of the far-away East discovered the peculiar
charm of the Fairlands hills. The lawn, the walks, and the drive were
unkempt and overgrown with weeds. The house itself,--a small cottage with
a wide porch across the front and on the side to the west,--unpainted for
many seasons, was tinted by the brush of the elements, a soft and restful
gray.
But the artist and his friend, as they approached, exclaimed aloud at the
beauty of the scene; for, as if rejoicing in their freedom from restraint,
the roses had claimed the dwelling, so neglected by man, as their own. Up
every post of the porch they had climbed; over the porch roof, they spread
their wealth of color; over the gables, screening the windows with
graceful lattice of vine and branch and leaf and bloom; up to the ridge
and over the cornice, to the roof of the house itself--even to the top of
the chimney they had won their way--and there, as if in an ecstasy of
wanton loveliness, flung, a spray of glorious, perfumed beauty high into
the air.
On the front porch, the men turned to look away over the gentle slope of
the orange groves, on the other side of the road, to the towering peaks
and high ridges of the mountains--gleaming cold and white in the winter of
their altitude. To the northeast, San Bernardino reared his head in lonely
majesty--looking directly down upon the foothills and the feeble dwellers
in the valley below. Far beyond, and surrounded by the higher ridges and
peaks and canyons of the range, San Gorgonio sat enthroned in the
skies--the ruler of them all. From the northeast, westward, they viewed
the mighty sweep of the main range to Cajon Pass and the San Gabriels,
beyond, with San Antonio, Cucamonga, and their sister peaks lifting their
heads above their fellows. In the immediate landscape, no house or
building was to be seen. The dark-green mass of the orange groves hid
every work of man's building between them and the tawny foothills save the
gable and chimney of a neighboring cottage on the west.
"Listen"--said Conrad Lagrange, in a low tone, moved as always by the
grandeur and beauty of the scene--"listen! Don't you hear them calling?
Don't you feel the mountains sending their message to these poor insects
who squirm and wriggle in this bit of muck men call their world? God, man!
if only we, in our work, would heed the message of the hills!"
The novelist spoke with such intensity of feeling--with such bitter
sadness and regret in his voice--that Aaron King could not reply.
Turning, the artist unlocked the door, and they entered the cottage.
They found the interior of the house well arranged, and not in bad repair.
"Just the thing for a bachelor's housekeeping"--was the painter's
verdict--"but for a studio--impossible," and there was a touch of regret
in his voice.
"Let's continue our exploration," said the novelist, hopefully. "There's a
barn out there." And they went out of the house, and down the drive on the
eastern side of the yard.
Here, again, they saw the roses in full possession of the place--by man,
deserted. From foundation to roof, the building--a small simple
structure--was almost hidden under a mass of vines. There was one large
room below; with a loft above. The stable was in the rear. Built,
evidently, at a later date than the house, the building was in better
repair. The walls, so hidden without by the roses, were well sided; the
floors were well laid. The big, sliding, main door opened on the drive in
front; between it and the corner, to the west, was a small door; and in
the western end, a window.
Looking curiously from this window, Conrad Lagrange uttered an
exclamation, and hurried abruptly from the building. The artist followed.
From the end of the barn, and extending, the full width of the building,
to the west line of the yard, was a rose garden--such a garden as Aaron
King had never seen. On three sides, the little plot was enclosed by a
tall hedge of Ragged Robins; above the hedge, on the south and west, was
the dark-green wall of the orange grove; on the north, the pepper and
eucalyptus trees in the yard, and a view of the distant mountains; and on
the east, the vine-hidden end of the barn. Against the southern
wall,--and, so, directly opposite the trellised, vine-covered arch of the
entrance,--a small, lattice bower, with a rustic table and seats within,
was completely covered, as was the barn, by the magically woven tapestry
of the flowers. In the corner of the hedge farthest from the entrance they
found a narrow gate. Unlike the rest of the premises, the garden was in
perfect order--the roses trimmed and cared for; the walks neatly edged and
clean; with no weed or sign of untidiness or neglect anywhere.
The two men had come upon the spot so suddenly--so unexpectedly--the
contrast with the neglected grounds and buildings was so marked--that they
looked at each other in silence. The little retreat--so lovely, so hidden
by its own beauty from the world, so cared for by careful hands--seemed
haunted by an invisible spirit. Very quietly,--almost reverently,--they
moved about; talking in low tones, as though half expecting--they knew not
what.
"Some one loves this place," said the novelist, softly, when they stood,
again, in the entrance.
And the artist answered in the same hushed voice, "I wonder what it
means?"
When they were again in the barn, Aaron King became eagerly enthusiastic
over the possibilities of the big room. "Some rightly toned burlap on the
walls and ceiling,"--he pointed out,--"with floor covering and rugs in
harmony; there"--rolling back the big door as he spoke--"your north light;
some hangings and screens to hide the stairway to the loft, and the stable
door; your entrance over here in the corner, nicely out of the way; and
the window looking into the garden--it's great man, great!"
"And," answered Conrad Lagrange, from where he stood in the big front
door, "the mountains! Don't forget the mountains. The soft, steady, north
light on your canvas, and a message from the mountains to your soul,
through the same window, should make it a good place to work, Mr.
Painter-man. I suppose over here"--he moved away from the window, and
spoke in his mocking way--"over here, you will have a tea-table for the
ladies of the circle elect--who will come to, 'oh', and, 'ah', their
admiration of the newly discovered genius, and to chatter their
misunderstandings of his art. Of course, there will be a page in velvet
and gold. By all means, get hold of an oriental kid of some kind--oriental
junk is quite the rage this year. You should take advantage of every
influence that can contribute to your success, you know. And, whatever you
do, don't fail to consult the 'Goddess' about these essentials of your
craft. Many a promising genius has been lost to fame, through inviting the
wrong people to take tea in his studio. But"--he finished whimsically,
looking from the window into the garden--"but what the devil do you
suppose the spirit who lives out there will think about it all."
* * * * *
The days of the two following weeks were busy days for Aaron King. He
leased the place in the orange groves, and set men to work making it
habitable. The lawn and grounds were trimmed and put in order; the
interior of the house was renovated by painter and paper-hanger; and the
barn, under the artist's direction, was transformed into an ideal studio.
There was a trip to Los Angeles--quite fortunately upon a day when Mrs.
Taine must go to the city shopping--for rugs and hangings; and another
trip to purchase the tools of the artist's craft. And, at last, there was
a Chinese cook and housekeeper to find; with supplies for his kitchen. It
was at Conrad Lagrange's suggestion, that, from the first, every one was
given strict orders to keep out of the rose garden.
Every day, the novelist--accompanied, always, by Czar--walked out that way
to see how things were progressing; and often,--if he had not been too
busy to notice,--Aaron King might have seen a look of wistfulness in the
keen, baffling eyes of the famous man--so world-weary and sad. And, while
he did not cease to mock and jeer and offer sarcastic advice to his
younger friend, the touch of pathos--that, like a minor chord, was so
often heard in his most caustic and cruel speeches--was more pronounced.
As for Czar--he always returned to the hotel with evident reluctance; and
managed to express, in his dog way, the thoughts his distinguished master
would not put in words.
Very often, too, the big touring car from the house on Fairlands Heights
stopped in front of the cottage, while the occupants inspected the
premises, and--with many exclamations of flattering praise, and a few
suggestions--made manifest their interest.
In time, it was finished and ready--from the big easel by the great, north
window in the studio, to the white-jacketed Yee Kee in the kitchen. When
the last workman was gone with his tools; and the two men, after looking
about the place for an hour, were standing on the front porch; Conrad
Lagrange said, "And the stage is set. The scene shifters are off. The
audience is waiting. Ring up the curtain for the next act. Even Czar has
looked upon everything and calls it good--heh Czar?"
The dog went to him; and, for some minutes, the novelist looked down into
the brown eyes of his four-footed companion who seemed so to understand.
Still fondling the dog,--without looking at the artist,--the older man
continued, "You will have your things moved over in the morning, I
suppose? Or, will we lunch together, once more?"
Aaron King laughed--as a boy who has prepared a surprise, and has been
struggling manfully to keep the secret until the proper moment should
arrive. Placing his hand on the older man's shoulder, he answered
meaningly, "I had planned that _we_ would move in the morning." At the
other's puzzled expression he laughed again.
"We?" said the novelist, facing his friend, quickly.
"Come here," returned the other. "I must show you something you haven't
seen."
He led the way to a room that they had decided he would not need, and the
door of which was locked. Taking a key from his pocket, he handed it to
his friend.
"What's this?" said the older man, looking foolishly at the key in his
hand.
"It's the key to that door," returned the other, with a gleeful chuckle.
Then--"Unlock it."
"Unlock it?"
"Sure--that's what I gave you the key for."
Conrad Lagrange obeyed. Through the open door, he saw, not the bare and
empty room he supposed was there, but a bedroom--charmingly furnished,
complete in every detail. Turning, he faced his companion silently,
inquiringly--with a look that Aaron King had never before seen in those
strange, baffling eyes.
"It's yours"--said the artist, hastily--"if you care to come. You'll have
a free hand here, you know; for I will be in the studio much of the time.
Kee will cook the things you like. You and Czar can come and go as you
will. There is the arbor in the rose garden, you know, and see here"--he
stepped to the window--"I chose this room for you, because it looks out
upon your mountains."
The strange man stood at the window for, what seemed to the artist, a long
time. Suddenly, he turned to say sharply, "Young man, why did you do
this?"
"Why"--stammered the other, disconcerted--"because I want you--because I
thought you would like to come. I beg your pardon--if I have made a
mistake--but surely, no harm has been done."
"And you think you could stand living with me--for any length of time?"
The' painter laughed with relief. "Oh, _that's_ it! I didn't know you had
such a tender conscience. You scared me for a minute, I should think you
would know by this time that you can't phase me with your wicked tongue."
The novelist's face twisted into a grotesque smile. "I warn you--I will
flay you and your friends just the same. You need it for the good of your
soul."
"As often and as hard as you like"--returned the other, heartily--"just so
it's for the good of my soul. You will come?"
"You will permit me to stand my share of the expense?"
"Anything you like--if you will only come."
The older man said gently,--for the first time calling the artist by his
given name,--"Aaron, I believe that you are the only person in the world
who would, really want me; and I _know_ that you are the only person in
the world to whom I would be grateful for such an invitation."
The artist was about to reply, when the big automobile stopped in front of
the house. Czar, on the porch, gave a low growl of disapproval; and,
through the open door, they saw Mr. Taine and his wife with James Rutlidge
and Louise.
The novelist said something, under his breath, that had a vicious
sound--quite unlike his words of the moment before. Czar, in disgust,
retreated to the shelter of Yee Kee's domain. With a laugh, the younger
man went out to meet his friends.
"Are you at home this afternoon, Sir Artist?" called Mrs. Taine, gaily, as
he went down the walk.
"I will always be at home to the right people," he answered, greeting the
other members of the party.
As they moved toward the house,--Mr. Taine choking and coughing, his
daughter chattering and exclaiming, and James Rutlidge critically
observing,--Mrs. Taine dropped a little back to Aaron King's side. "And
are you really established, at last?" she asked eagerly; with a charming,
confidential air.
"We move to-morrow morning," he answered.
"We?" she questioned.
"Conrad Lagrange and I. He is going to live with me, you know."
"Oh!"
It is remarkable how much meaning a woman can crowd into that one small
syllable; particularly, when she draws a little away from you as she
speaks it.
"Why," he murmured apologetically, "don't you approve?"
Mrs. Taine's beautiful eyebrows went up inquiringly--"And why should I
either approve or disapprove?"
The young man was saved by the arrival of his guests at the porch steps,
and by the appearance of Conrad Lagrange, in the doorway.
"How delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Taine, heartily; as she, in turn, greeted
the famous novelist. "Mr. King was just telling me that you were going to
share this dear little place with him. I quite envy you both."
The others had passed into the house.
"You are sometimes guilty of saying twisty things yourself, aren't you?"
returned the man; and, as he spoke, his remarkable eyes were fixed upon
her as though reading her innermost thoughts.
She flushed under his meaning gaze, but carried it off gaily with--"Oh
dear! I wonder if my maid has hooked me up properly, this time?"
They left Mr. Taine in an easy chair, with a bottle of his favorite
whisky; and went over the place--from the arbor in the rose garden to Yee
Kee's pantry--Mr. Rutlidge, critically and authoritatively approving;
Louise, effervescing the same sugary nothings at every step; Mrs. Taine,
with a pretty air of proprietorship; Conrad Lagrange, thoughtfully
watching; and Aaron King, himself, irresponsibly gay and boyishly proud as
he exhibited his achievements.
In the studio, Mrs. Taine--standing before the big easel--demanded to
know of the artist, when he would begin her portrait--she was so
interested, so eager to begin--how soon could she come? Louise assumed a
worshipful attitude, and, gazing at the young man with reverent eyes,
waited breathlessly. James Rutlidge drew near, condescendingly attentive,
to the center of attraction. Conrad Lagrange turned his back.
"Really," murmured the painter, "I hope you will not be too impatient,
Mrs. Taine, I fear I cannot be ready for some time yet. I suppose I must
confess to being over-sensitive to my environment; for it is a fact that
my working mood does not come upon me readily amid strange surroundings.
When I have become acclimated, as it were, I will be ready for you."
"How wonderful!" breathed Louise.
"Quite right," agreed Mr. Rutlidge.
"Whenever you are ready," said Mrs. Taine, submissively.
When their friends from the Heights were gone, Conrad Lagrange looked the
artist up and down, as he said with cutting sarcasm, "You did that very
nicely. Over-sensitive to your environment, hell! If you _are_ a bit fine
strung, you have no business to make a _show_ of it. It's a weakness, not
a virtue. And the man who makes capital out of any man's weakness,--even
of his own,--is either a criminal or a fool or both."
Then they went back to the hotel for dinner.
The next morning, the artist and the novelist moved from the hotel, to
establish themselves in the little house in the orange groves--the
little house with its unobstructed view of the mountains, and with its
rose garden, so mysteriously tended.