Mrs. Taine in Quaker Gray
Aaron King seemed loth to begin his work on the portrait of Mrs. Taine.
Day after day, without apparent reason, he put it off--spending the hours
in wandering aimlessly about the place, idling on the porch, or doing
nothing in his studio. He would start from the house to the building at
the end of the rose garden, as though moved by some clearly defined
purpose--and then, for an hour or more, would dawdle among the things of
his craft, with irresolute mind--turning over his sketches and drawings
with uncertain hands, as though searching for something he knew was not
there; toying with his paints and brushes; or sitting before his empty
easel, looking away through the big window to the distant mountains. He
seemed incapable of fixing his mind upon the task to which he attached so
much importance. Several times, Mrs. Taine called, but he begged her to be
patient; and she, with pretended awe of the moods of genius, waited.
Conrad Lagrange jeered and mocked, offered sneering advice or sarcastic
compliment; and, under it all, was keenly watchful and sympathetic--
understanding better than the artist himself, perhaps, the secret of the
painter's hesitation. Every day,--sometimes in the morning, sometimes in
the afternoon or evening unseen musician, in the orange grove wrought
for them melodie that, whether grave or gay, always carried, somehow,
the feeling that had so moved them in the mysterious darkness of
that first evening.
They knew, now, of course, that the musician lived in the neighboring
house--the gable and chimney of which was just visible above the
orange-trees. But that was all. Obedient to some whimsical impulse that
prompted them both, and was born, no doubt, of the circumstance and mood
of that first evening, they did not seek to learn more. They
feared--though they did not say it--that to learn the identity of the
musician would rob them of the peculiar pleasure they found in the music,
itself. So they spoke always of their unknown neighbor in a fanciful vein,
as in like humor they spoke of the spirit that Aaron King still insisted
haunted the place, or as they alluded to the mystery of the carefully
tended rose garden.
When the artist could put it off no longer, a day was finally set when
Mrs. Taine was to come for the beginning of her portrait. The appointed
hour found the artist in his studio. A canvas stood ready upon the easel;
palette, colors and brushes were at hand. The painter was standing at the
big, north window, looking up away to the mountains--the mountains that
the novelist said called so insistently. Suddenly, he turned his head to
listen. Sweetly clear and low, through the green wall of the orange-trees,
came the music of that hidden violin.
As he stood there,--with his eyes fixed upon the mountains, listening to
the spirit that spoke in the tones of the unseen instrument,--Aaron King
knew, all at once, that the passing moment was one of those rare
moments--that come, all unexpectedly--when, with prophetic vision, one
sees clearly the end of the course he pursues and the destiny that waits
him at its completion. As clearly, too, he saw the other way, and knew the
meaning of the vision. But seldom is the strength given to man, in such
moments, to choose for himself. Though he may see the other way clearly,
his feet cling to the path he has elected to follow; nor will he, unless
some one takes him by the hand saying, "Come," turn aside.
A voice, not at all in harmony with the music, broke upon the artist's
consciousness. He turned to see Mrs. Taine standing expectantly in the
open door. "Hush!" said the painter, still under the spell of that moment
so big with possibilities. "Listen,"--with a gesture, he checked her
advance,--"listen."
A look of haughty surprise flashed over the woman's too perfect features.
Then, as her ear caught the tones of the violin, she half turned--but only
for a moment.
"Very clever, isn't it," she said as she came forward "It must be old
Professor Becker. He lives somewhere around here, I understand. They say
he is very good."
The artist looked at her for an instant, in amazement Then, as his normal
mind asserted itself, he burst into an embarrassed laugh.
At her look of puzzled inquiry, he said, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Taine.
I did not realize how harshly I greeted you. The fact is I--I was
dreaming"--he turned suggestively toward the canvas upon the easel. "You
see I was expecting you--I was thinking--then the music
came--and--well--when you actually appeared in the flesh, I did not for
the moment realize that it was really you."
"How charming of you!" she returned. "To be made the subject of an
artist's dream--really it is quite the nicest compliment I have ever
received. Tell me, do you like me in this?" she slipped the wrap she wore
from her shoulders, and stood before him, gowned in the simple, gray dress
of a Quaker Maid. Deliberately, she turned her beautiful self about for
his critical inspection. Moving to and fro, sitting, half-reclining,
standing--in various graceful poses she invited, challenged, dared, his
closest attention--professional attention, of course--to every curve and
detail.
In spite of its simplicity of color and line, the gown still bore the
unmistakable stamp of the wearer's world. The severity of line was subtly
made to emphasize the voluptuousness of the body that was covered but not
hidden. The quiet color was made to accentuate the flesh the dress
concealed only to reveal. The very lack of ornament but served to center
the attention upon the charms that so loudly professed to scorn them. It
was worldliness speaking in the quiet voice of religion. It was vulgarity
advertising itself in terms of good taste. She had made modesty the
handmaiden of blatant immodesty, and the daring impudence of it all
fairly stunned the painter.
"Oh dear!" she said, watching his face, "I fear you don't like it, at
all--and I thought it such a beautiful little gown. You told me to wear
whatever I pleased, you know."
"It _is_ a beautiful gown," he said--then added impulsively, "and you are
beautiful in it. You would be beautiful in anything."
She shook her head; favoring him with an understanding smile. "You say
that to please me. I can see that you don't like me this way."
"But I do," he insisted. "I like you that way, immensely. I was a bit
surprised, that's all. You see, I thought, of course, that you would
select an evening gown of some sort--something, you know, that would fit
your social position--your place in the world. In this costume, the beauty
of your shoulders--"
Lowering her eyes as if embarrassed, she said coldly, "The beauty of my
shoulders is not for the public. I have never worn--I will not wear--one
of those dreadful, immodest gowns."
Aaron King was bewildered. Suddenly, he remembered what Conrad Lagrange
had said about her fad. But after so frankly exhibiting herself before
him, dressed as she was in a gown that was deliberately planned to
advertise her physical charms, to be particular about baring her shoulders
in a conventional costume--! It was quite too much.
"Again, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Taine," he managed to say. "I did not
know. Under the circumstances, this is exactly the thing. Your portrait,
in what is so frankly a costume assumed for the purpose, takes us out of
the dilemma very nicely, indeed."
"Why, that's exactly what I thought," she returned eagerly. "And this is
so in keeping with my real tastes--don't you see? A real portrait--I mean
a serious work of art, you know--should always be something more than a
mere likeness, should it not? Don't you think that to be genuinely good, a
portrait must reveal the spirit and character--must portray the soul, as
well as the features? I _do_ so want this to be a truly great picture--for
your sake." Her manner seemed to say that she was doing it all for him. "I
have never permitted any one to paint my portrait before, you know," she
added meaningly.
"You are very kind, Mrs. Taine," he returned gravely. "Believe me, I do
appreciate this opportunity I shall do my best to express my appreciation
here"--he indicated the canvas on the easel.
When his sitter was posed to his liking, and the artist, with a few bold,
sweeping, strokes of the charcoal had roughed out his subject on the
canvas, and was bending over his color-box--he said, casually, to put her
at ease, "You came alone this afternoon, did you?"
"Oh, no, indeed! I brought Louise with me. I shall always bring her, or
some one. One cannot be too careful, you know," she added with simulated
artlessness.
The painter, studying her face, replied mechanically "No indeed."
As he turned back to his canvas, Mrs. Taine continued, "I left her in the
house, with a box of chocolates and a novel. I felt that you would rather
we were alone."
"Please don't look down," said the artist. "I want your eyes about
here"--he indicated a picture on the wall, a little back and to the left
of where he stood at the easel.
After this, there was silence in the studio, for a little while. Mrs.
Taine obediently kept the pose; her eyes upon the point the artist had
indicated; but--as the man, himself, was almost directly in her line of
vision--it was easy for her to watch him at his work, when his eyes were
on his canvas or palette. The arrangement was admirable in that it
relieved the tedium of the hour for the sitter; and gave her face an
expression of animated interest that, truthfully fixed upon the canvas,
should insure the fame and future of any painter.
It would be quite too much to say that Aaron King became absorbed in his
occupation. Thorough master of the tools of his craft, and of his own
technic, as well; he was interested in the mere exercising of his skill,
but he in no sense lost himself in his work. Two or three times, Mrs.
Taine saw him glance quickly over his shoulder, as though expecting some
one. Once, for quite a moment, he deliberately turned from his easel to
stand at the window, looking up at the distant mountain peaks. Several
times, he seemed to be listening.
"May I talk?" she said at last.
"Why, certainly," he returned. "I want you to feel perfectly at ease. You
must be altogether at home here. Just let yourself go--say what you like,
with no conventional restraints whatever--consider me a mechanical
something that is no more than an article of furniture--be as thoroughly
yourself as if alone in your own room."
"How funny," she said musingly.
"Not at all"--he returned--"just a matter of business."
"But it _would_ be funny if I were to take you at your word," she replied;
suddenly breaking the pose and meeting his gaze squarely. "Is it--is it
quite necessary for the mechanical something to look at me like that?"
"I said that you were to _consider_ me as an article of furniture. I
didn't say that I _felt_ like a table or chair."
"Oh!"
"Don't look down; keep the pose, please," came somewhat sharply from the
man at the easel, as though he were mentally taking himself in hand.
After that, she watched him with increasing interest and, when he turned
his head in that listening attitude, a curious, resentful light came into
her eyes.
Presently, she asked abruptly, "What is it that you hear?"
"I thought I heard music," he answered, coloring slightly and turning to
his work with suddenly absorbing interest.
"The violin that so enchanted you when I came to break the spell?" she
persisted playfully--though the light in her eyes was not a playful light.
"Yes," he answered shortly; stepping back and shading his eyes with his
hand for a careful look at his canvas.
"And don't you know who it is?"
"You said it was an old professor somebody."
"That was my _first_ guess," she retorted. "Was I right?"
"I don't know."
"But it comes from that little box of a house, next door, doesn't it?"
"Evidently," the artist answered. Then, laying aside his palette and
brushes he said abruptly, "That is all for to-day; thank you."
"Oh, so soon!" she exclaimed; and the regret in her voice was very
pleasing to the man who was decidedly not a mechanical something.
She started eagerly forward toward the easel. But the artist, with a quick
motion, drew a curtain across the canvas, to hide his work; while he
checked her with--"Not yet, please. I don't want you to see it until I say
you may."
"How mean of you," she protested; charmingly submissive. Then,
eagerly--"And do you want me to-morrow? You do, don't you?"
"Yes, please--at the same hour."
When the Quaker Maiden's dress was safely hidden under her wrap, Mrs.
Taine stood, for a moment, looking thoughtfully about the studio; while
the artist waited at the door, ready to escort her to the automobile. "I
am going to love this room," she said slowly; and, for the first time, her
voice was genuinely sincere, with a hint of wistfulness in its tone that
made him regard her wonderingly.
She went to him impulsively. "Will you, when you are famous--when you are
a great artist and all the great and famous people go to you to have their
portraits painted--will you remember poor me, I wonder?"
"Am I really going to be famous?" he returned doubtfully. "Are you so sure
that this picture will mean success?"
"Of course I am sure--I _know_. You want to succeed don't you?"
Aaron King returned her look, for a moment, without answering. Then, with
a quick, fierce determination that betrayed a depth of feeling she had
never before seen in him, he exclaimed, "Do I want to succeed! I--I must
succeed. I tell you I _must_."
And the woman answered very softly, with her hand upon his arm, "And you
shall--you shall."
* * * * *
Conrad Lagrange and Czar found the artist on the front porch, pulling
moodily at his pipe.
"Is it all over for to-day?" asked the novelist as he stood looking down
upon the young man with that peculiarly piercing, baffling gaze.
"All over," replied the artist, answering the greeting thrust of Czar's
muzzle against his knee, with caressing hand. "Where did you fly to?"
The other dropped into a chair. "I would fly anywhere to escape being
entertained by that Ragtime' piece of human nonentity--Louise Taine. I
saw them coming, just in time." He was filling his pipe as he spoke. "And
how did the work go?"
"All right," replied the painter, indifferently.
The older man shot a curious sidewise glance at his moody companion; then,
striking a match, he gave careful attention to his pipe. Watching the
cloud of blue smoke, he said quizzingly, "I suppose 'Her Majesty' was
royally apparelled for the occasion-properly arrayed in purple and fine
linen; as befits the dignity of her state?"
The artist turned at the mocking, suggestive tone and answered savagely,
"I suppose you have got to know, damn you! I'm painting her as a Quaker
Maiden."
Conrad Lagrange's reply was as surprising in its way as was the outburst
of the artist. Instead of the tirade of biting sarcasm and stinging abuse
that the painter expected, the older man only gazed at him from under his
scowling brows and, shaking his head, sadly, said with sincere regret and
understanding "You poor fellow! It must be hell." Then, as his keen mind
grasped the full significance of the artist's words, he murmured
meditatively, "The personification of the age masquerading in Quaker
gray--Shades of the giants who used to be! What an opportunity--if you
only had the nerve to do it."
The artist flung out his hand in protest as he rose from his chair to pace
up and down the porch. "Don't, Lagrange, don't! I can't stand it, just
now."
"All right." said the other, heartily, "I won't." Rising, he put his hand
on his friend's shoulder. "Come, let's go for a look at the roses, before
Yee Kee calls us to dinner."
In the garden, the artist's eye caught sight of something white lying in
the well-kept path. With an exclamation, he went quickly to pick it up. It
was a dainty square of lace--a handkerchief--with an exquisitely
embroidered "S" in the corner.
The two men looked at each other in silence; with smiling, questioning
eyes.