A Cry in the Night
As Conrad Lagrange and Mr. Rutlidge entered the studio, Aaron King turned
from the easel, where he had drawn the velvet curtain to hide the finished
portrait. Mrs. Taine was standing at the other side of the room, wrap in
hand, calmly waiting, ready to go. The artist greeted Mr. Rutlidge
cordially, while the woman triumphantly announced the completion of her
portrait.
"Ah! permit me to congratulate you, old man," said Rutlidge, addressing
the artist familiarly. "It is too much, I suppose, to expect a look at it
this afternoon?"
"Thanks,"--returned the artist,--"you are all coming to-morrow, at three,
you know. I would rather not show it to-day. It is a little late for the
best light; and I would like for _you_ to see it under the most favorable
conditions possible."
The critic was visibly flattered by the painter's manner and by his
well-chosen emphasis upon the personal pronoun. "Quite right"--he said
approvingly--"quite right, old boy." He turned to the novelist--"These
painter chaps, you know, Lagrange, like to have a few hours for a last
touch or two before _I_ come around." He laughed pompously at his own
words--the others joining.
When Mrs. Taine and her companions were gone, the artist said hurriedly
to his friend, "Come on, let's get it over." He led the way back to the
studio.
"I thought the light was too bad," said the older man, quizzingly, as they
entered the big room.
"It's good enough for _your_ needs," retorted the painter savagely. "You
could see all you want by candle-light." He jerked the curtain angrily
aside, and--without a glance at the canvas--walked away to stand at the
window looking out upon the rose garden--waiting for the flood of the
novelist's scorn to overwhelm him. At last, when no sound broke the quiet
of the room, he turned--to find himself alone.
Conrad Lagrange, after one look at the portrait on the easel, had slipped
quietly out of the building.
The artist found his friend, a few minutes later, meditatively smoking his
pipe on the front porch, with Czar lying at his feet.
"Well," said the painter, curiously,--anxious, as he had said, to have it
over,--"why the deuce don't you _say_ something?"
The novelist answered slowly, "My vocabulary is too limited, for one
reason, and"--he looked thoughtfully down at Czar--"I prefer to wait until
you have finished the portrait."
"It _is_ finished," returned the artist desperately. "I swear I'll never
touch a brush to the damned thing again."
The man with the pipe spoke to the dog at his feet; "Listen to him,
Czar--listen to the poor devil of a painter-man."
The dog arose, and, placing his head upon his master's knee, looked up
into the lined and rugged face, as the novelist continued, "If he was only
a wee bit puffed up and cocky over the thing, now, we could exert
ourselves, so we could, couldn't we?" Czar slowly waved a feathery tail in
dignified approval. His master continued, "But when a fellow can do a
crime like that, and still retain enough virtue in his heart to hear his
work shrieking to heaven its curses upon him for calling it into
existence, it's best for outsiders to keep quite still. Your poor old
master knows whereof he speaks, doesn't he, dog? That he does!"
"And is that all you have to say on the subject?" demanded the artist, as
though for some reason he was disappointed at his friend's reticence.
"I _might_ add a word of advice," said the other.
"Well, what is it?"
"That you pray your gods--if you have any--to be merciful, and bestow upon
you either less genius or more intelligence to appreciate it."
* * * * *
At three o'clock, the following afternoon, the little party from Fairlands
Heights came to view, the portrait Or,--as Conrad Lagrange said, while the
automobile was approaching the house, "Well, here they come--'The Age',
accompanied by 'Materialism', 'Sensual', and 'Ragtime'--to look upon the
prostitution of Art, and call it good." Escorted by the artist, and the
novelist, they went at once to the studio.
The appreciation of the picture was instantaneous--so instantaneous, in
fact, that Louise Taine's lips were shaped to deliver an expressive "oh"
of admiration, even _before_ the portrait was revealed. As though the
painter, in drawing back the easel curtain, gave an appointed signal, that
"oh" was set off with the suddenness of a sky-rocket's rush, and was
accompanied in its flight by a great volume of sizzling, sputtering,
glittering, adjectival sparks that--filling the air to no purpose
whatever--winked out as they were born; the climax of the pyrotechnical
display being reached in the explosive pop of another "oh" which released
a brilliant shower of variegated sighs and moans and ecstatic looks and
inarticulate exclamations--ending, of course, in total darkness.
Mrs. Taine hastened to turn the artist's embarrassed attention to an
appreciation that had the appearance, at least, of a more enduring value.
Drawing, with affectionate solicitude, close to her husband, she
asked,--in a voice that was tremulous with loving care and anxiety to
please,--"Do you like it, dear?"
"It is magnificent, splendid, perfect!" This effort to give his praise of
the artist's work the appearance of substantial reality cost the wretched
product of lust and luxury a fit of coughing that racked his burnt-out
body almost to its last feeble hold upon the world of flesh and, with a
force that shamed the strength of his words, drove home the truth that
neither his praise nor his scorn could long endure. When he could again
speak, he said, in his husky, rasping whisper,--while grasping the
painter's hand in effusive cordiality,--"My dear fellow, I congratulate
you. It is exquisite. It will create a sensation, sir, when it is
exhibited. Your fame is assured. I must thank you for the honor you have
done me in thus immortalizing the beauty and character of Mrs. Taine." And
then, to his wife,--"Dearest, I am glad for you, and proud. It is as
worthy of you as paint and canvas could be." He turned to Conrad Lagrange
who was an interested observer of the scene--"Am I not right, Lagrange?"
"Quite right, Mr. Taine,--quite right. As you say, the portrait is most
worthy the beauty and character of the charming subject."
Another paroxysm of coughing mercifully prevented the poor creature's
reply.
With one accord, the little group turned, now, to James Rutlidge--the
dreaded authority and arbiter of artistic destinies. That distinguished
expert, while the others were speaking, had been listening intently;
ostensibly, the while, he examined the picture with a show of trained
skill that, it seemed, could not fail to detect unerringly those more
subtle values and defects that are popularly supposed to be hidden from
the common eye. Silently, in breathless awe, they watched the process by
which professional criticism finds its verdict. That is, they _thought_
they were watching the process. In reality, the method is more subtle than
they knew.
While the great critic moved back and forth in front of the easel; drew
away from or bent over to closely scrutinize the canvas; shifted the easel
a hair breadth several times; sat down; stood erect; hummed and muttered
to himself abstractedly; cleared his throat with an impressive "Ahem";
squinted through nearly closed eyes, with his head thrown back, or turned
in every side angle his fat neck would permit: peered through his
half-closed fist; peeped through funnels of paper; sighted over and under
his open hand or a paper held to shut out portions of the painting;--the
others _thought_ they saw him expertly weighing the evidence for and
against the merit of the work. In _reality_ it was his _ears_ and not his
_eyes_ that helped the critic to his final decision--a decision which was
delivered, at last, with a convincing air of ponderous finality. Indeed it
was a judgment from which there could be no appeal, for it expressed
exactly the views of those for whose benefit it was rendered. Then, in a
manner subtly insinuating himself into the fellowship of the famous, he,
too, turned to Conrad Lagrange with a scholarly; "Do you not agree, sir?"
The novelist answered with slow impressiveness; "The picture, undoubtedly,
fully merits the appreciation and praise you have given it. I have already
congratulated Mr. King--who was kind enough to show me his work before you
arrived."
After this, Yee Kee appeared upon the scene, and tea was served in the
studio--a fitting ceremony to the launching of another genius.
"By the way, Mr. Lagrange," said Mrs. Taine, quite casually,--when, under
the influence of the mildly stimulating beverage, the talk had assumed a
more frivolous vein,--"Who is your talented neighbor that so charms Mr.
King with the music of a violin?"
The novelist, as he turned toward the speaker, shot a quick glance at the
Artist. Nor did those keen, baffling eyes fail to note that, at the
question, James Rutlidge had paused in the middle of a sentence. "That is
one of the mysteries of our romantic surroundings madam," said Conrad
Lagrange, easily.
"And a very charming mystery it seems to be," returned the woman. "It has
been quite affecting to watch its influence upon Mr. King."
The artist laughed. "I admit that I found the music, in combination with
the beauty I have so feebly tried to out upon canvas, very stimulating."
A flash of angry color swept into the perfect cheeks of Mrs. Taine, as she
retorted with meaning; "You are as flattering in your speech as you are
with your brush. I assure you I do not consider myself in your unknown
musician's class."
The small eyes of James Rutlidge were fixed inquiringly upon the speakers,
while his heavy face betrayed--to the watchful novelist--an interest he
could not hide. "Is this music of such exceptional merit?" he asked with
an attempt at indifference.
Louise Taine--sensing that the performances of the unnamed violinist had
been acceptable to Conrad Lagrange and Aaron King--the two representatives
of the world to which she aspired--could not let the opportunity slip. She
fairly deluged them with the spray of her admiring ejaculations in praise
of the musician--employing, hit or miss, every musical term that popped
into her vacuous head.
"Indeed,"--said the critic,--"I seem to have missed a treat." Then,
directly to the artist,--"And you say the violinist is wholly unknown to
you?"
"Wholly," returned the painter, shortly.
Conrad Lagrange saw a faint smile of understanding and disbelief flit for
an instant over the heavy face of James Rutlidge.
When the automobile, at last, was departing with the artist's guests; the
two friends stood for a moment watching it up the road to the west, toward
town. As the big car moved away, they saw Mrs. Taine lean forward to speak
to the chauffeur while James Rutlidge, who was in the front seat, turned
and shook his head as though in protest. The woman appeared to insist. The
machine slowed down, as though the chauffeur, in doubt, awaited the
outcome of the discussion. Then, just in front of that neighboring house,
Rutlidge seemed to yield abruptly, and the automobile turned suddenly in
toward the curb and stopped. Mrs. Taine alighted, and disappeared in the
depths of the orange grove.
Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange looked at each other, for a moment, in
questioning silence. The artist laughed. "Our poor little mystery," he
said.
But the novelist--as they went toward the house--cursed Mrs. Taine, James
Rutlidge, and all their kin and kind, with a vehement earnestness that
startled his companion--familiar as the latter was with his friend's
peculiar talent in the art of vigorous expression.
After dinner, that evening, the painter and the novelist sat on the
porch--as their custom was--to watch the day go out of the sky and the
night come over valley and hill and mountain until, above the highest
peaks, the stars of God looked down upon the twinkling lights of the towns
of men. At that hour, too, it was the custom, now, for the violinist
hidden in the orange grove, to make the music they both so loved.
In the music, that night, there was a feeling that, to them, was new--a
vague, uncertain, halting undertone that was born, they felt, of fear. It
stirred them to question and to wonder. Without apparent cause or reason,
they each oddly connected the troubled tone in the music with the stopping
of the automobile from Fairlands Heights, that afternoon, at the gate of
the little house next door--the artist, because of Mrs. Taine's insistent
inquiry about the, to him, unknown musician;--Conrad Lagrange, because of
the manner of the girl in the garden when James Rutlidge appeared and
because of the critic's interest when they had spoken of the violinist in
the studio. But neither expressed his thought to the other.
Presently, the music ceased, and they sat for an hour, perhaps, in
silence--as close friends may do--exchanging only now and then a word.
Suddenly, they were startled by a cry. In the still darkness of the night,
from the mysterious depths of the orange grove, the sound came with such a
shock that the two men, for the moment, held their places,
motionless--questioning each other sharply--"What was that?" "Did you
hear?"--as though they doubted, almost, their own ears.
The cry came again; this time, undoubtedly, from that neighboring house to
the west. It was unmistakably the cry of a woman--a woman in fear and
pain.
They leaped to their feet.
Again the cry came from the black depths of the orange grove--shuddering,
horrible--in an agony of fear.
The two men sprang from the porch, and, through the darkness that in the
orange grove was like a black wall, ran toward the spot from which the
sound came--the dog at their heels.
Breathless, they broke into the little yard in front of the tiny box-like
house. Lights shone in the windows. All seemed peaceful and still. Czar
betrayed no uneasiness. Going to the front door, they knocked.
There was no answer save the sound of some one moving inside.
Again, the artist knocked vigorously.
The door opened, and a woman stood on the threshold.
Standing a little to one side, the men saw her features clearly, in the
light from the room. It was the woman with the disfigured face.
Conrad Lagrange was first to command himself. "I beg your pardon, madam.
We live in the house next door. We thought we heard a cry of distress. May
we offer our assistance in any way? Is there anything we can do?"
"Thank you, sir, you are very kind,"--returned the woman, in a low
voice,--"but it is nothing. There is nothing you can do."
And the voice of Sibyl Andrés, who stood farther back in the room, where
the artist from his position could not see her, added, "It was good of you
to come, Mr. Lagrange; but it is really nothing. We are so sorry you were
disturbed."
"Not at all," returned the men, as the woman of the disfigured face drew
back from the door. "Good night."
"Good night," came from within the house, and the door was shut.