The Answer
When Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange entered the house to meet their
callers from Fairlands Heights, the artist felt, oddly, that he was
meeting a company of strangers.
The carefully hidden, yet--to him--subtly revealed, warmth of Mrs. Taine's
greeting embarrassed him with a momentary sense of shame. The frothing
gush of Louise's inane ejaculations, and the coughing, choking, cursing of
Mr. Taine,--whose feeble grip upon the flesh that had so betrayed him was,
by now, so far loosed that he could scarcely walk alone,--set the painter
struggling for words that would mean nothing--the only words that, under
the circumstances, could serve. Aaron King was somewhat out of practise in
the use of meaningless words, and the art of talking without saying
anything is an art that requires constant exercise if one would not commit
serious technical blunders. James Rutlidge's greeting was insolently
familiar; as a man of certain mind greets--in public--a boon companion of
his private and unmentionable adventures. Toward the great critic, the
painter exercised a cool self-restraint that was at least commendable.
While Aaron King, with James Rutlidge and Mr. Taine, with carefully
assumed interest, was listening to Louise's effort to make a jumble of
"ohs" and "ahs" and artistic sighs sound like a description of a sunset in
the mountains, Mrs. Taine said quietly to Conrad Lagrange, "You certainly
have taken excellent care of your protege, this summer. He looks
splendidly fit."
The novelist, watching the woman whose eyes, as she spoke, were upon the
artist, answered, "You are pleased to flatter me, Mrs. Taine."
She turned to him, with a knowing smile. "Perhaps I _am_ giving you more
credit than is due. I understand Mr. King has not been in your care
altogether. Shame on you, Mr. Lagrange! for a man of your age and
experience to permit your charge to roam all over the country, alone and
unprotected, with a picturesque mountain girl!--and that, after your
warning to poor me!"
Conrad Lagrange smiled grimly. "I confess I thought of you in that
connection several times."
She eyed him doubtfully. "Oh, well," she said easily, "I suppose artists
must amuse themselves, occasionally--the same as the rest of us."
"I don't think that, '_amuse_' is exactly the word, Mrs. Taine," the other
returned coldly.
"No? Surely you don't meant to tell me that it is anything serious?"
"I don't mean to tell you anything about it," he retorted rather sharply.
She laughed. "You don't need to. Jim has already told me quite enough. Mr.
King, himself, will tell me more."
"Not unless he's a bigger fool than I think," growled the novelist.
Again, she laughed into his face, mockingly. "You men are all more or less
foolish when there's a woman in the case, aren't you?"
To which, the other answered tartly, "If we were not, there would be no
woman in the case."
As Conrad Lagrange spoke, Louise, exhausted by her efforts to achieve that
sunset in the mountains with her limited supply of adjectives, floundered
hopelessly into the expressive silence of clasped hands and heaving breast
and ecstatically upturned eyes. The artist, seizing the opportunity with
the cunning of desperation, turned to Mrs. Taine, with some inane remark
about the summers in California.
Whatever it was that he said, Mrs. Taine agreed with him, heartily,
adding, "And you, I suppose, have been making good use of your time? Or
have you been simply storing up material and energy for this winter?"
This brought Louise out of the depths of that sunset, with a flop. She was
so sure that Mr. King had some inexpressibly wonderful work to show them.
Couldn't they go at once to the equally inexpressibly beautiful studio, to
see the inexpressibly lovely pictures that she was so inexpressibly sure
he had been painting in the inexpressibly grand and beautiful and
wonderfully lovely mountains?
The painter assured them that he had no work for them to see; and Louise
floundered again into the depths of inexpressible disappointment and
despair.
Nevertheless, a few minutes later, Aaron King found himself in his
studio, alone with Mrs. Taine. He could not have told exactly how she
managed it, or why. Perhaps, in sheer pity, she had rescued him from the
floods of Louise's appreciation. Perhaps--she had some other reasons.
There had been something said about her right to see her own picture, and
then--there they were--with the others safely barred from intruding upon
the premises sacred to art.
When there was no longer need to fear the eyes of the world, Mrs. Taine
was at no pains to hide the warmth of her feeling. With little reserve,
she confessed herself in every look and tone and movement.
"Are you really glad to see me, I wonder," she said invitingly. "All this
summer, while I have been forced to endure the company of all sorts of
stupid people, I have been thinking of you and your work. And, you see, I
have come to you, the first possible moment after my return home."
The man--being a man--could not remain wholly insensible to the alluring
physical beauty of the splendid creature who stood so temptingly before
him; but, to the honor of his kind, he could and did remain master of
himself.
The woman, true to her life training,--as James Rutlidge had been true to
his schooling when he approached Sibyl Andrés in the mountains,--construed
the artist's manner, not as a splendid self-control but as a careful
policy. To her, and to her kind, the great issues of life are governed,
not at all by principle, but by policy. It is not at all what one is, or
what one may accomplish that matters; it is wholly what one may skillfully
_appear_ to be, and what one may skillfully provoke the world to say,
that is of vital importance. Turning from the painter to the easel, as if
to find in his portrait of her the fuller expression of that which she
believed he dared not yet put into words, she was about to draw aside the
curtain; when Aaron King checked her quickly, with a smile that robbed his
words of any rudeness.
"Please don't touch that, Mrs. Taine. I am not yet ready to show it."
As she turned from the easel to face him, he took her portrait from where
it rested, face to the wall; and placed it upon another easel, saying,
"Here is your picture."
With the painting before her, she talked eagerly of her plans for the
artist's future; how the picture was to be exhibited, and how, because it
was her portrait, it would be praised and talked about by her friends who
were leaders in the art circles. Frankly, she spoke of "pull" and
"influence" and "scheme"; of "working" this and that "paper" for
"write-ups"; of "handling" this or that "critic" and "writer"; of
"reaching the committees"; of introducing the painter into the proper
inside cliques, and clans; and of clever "advertising stunts" that would
make him the most popular portrait painter of his day; insuring thus
his--as she called it--fame.
The man who had painted the picture of the spring glade, and who had so
faithfully portrayed the truth and beauty of Sibyl Andrés as she stood
among the roses, listened to this woman's plans for making his portrait of
herself famous, with a feeling of embarrassment and shame.
"Do you really think that the work merits such prominence as you say will
be given it?" he asked doubtfully.
She laughed knowingly, "Just wait until Jim Rutlidge's 'write-up' appears,
and all the others follow his lead, and you'll see! The picture is clever
enough--you know it as well as I. It is beautiful. It has everything that
we women want in a portrait. I really don't know much about what you
painters call art; but I know that when Jim and our friends get through
with it, your picture will have every mark of a great masterpiece, and
that you will be on the topmost wave of success."
"And then what?" he asked.
Again, she interpreted his words in the light of her own thoughts, and
with little attempt to veil the fire that burned in her eyes, answered,
"And then--I hope that you will not forget me."
For a moment he returned her look; then a feeling of disgust and shame for
her swept over him, and he again turned away, to stand gazing moodily out
of the window that looked into the rose garden.
"You seem to be disturbed and worried," she said, in a tone that implied a
complete understanding of his mood, and a tacit acceptance of the things
that he would say if it were not for the world.
He laughed shortly--"I fear you will think me ungrateful for your
kindness. Believe me, I am not."
"I know you are not," she returned. "But don't think that you had better
confess, just the same?"
He answered wonderingly, "Confess?"
"Yes." She shook her finger at him, in playful severity. "Oh, I know what
you have been up to all summer--running wild with your mountain girl!
Really, you ought to be more discreet."
Aaron King's face burned as he stammered something about not knowing what
she meant.
She laughed gaily. "There, there, never mind--I forgive you--now that you
are safely back in civilization again. I know you artists, and how you
must have your periods of ah--relaxation--with rather more liberties than
the common herd. Just so you are careful that the world doesn't know _too_
much."
At this frank revelation of her mind, the man stood amazed. For the
construction she put upon his relation with the girl whose pure and gentle
comradeship had led him to greater heights in his art than he had ever
before attained, he could have driven this woman from the studio he felt
that she profaned. But what could he say? He remembered Conrad Lagrange's
counsel when James Rutlidge had seen the girl at their camp. What could he
say that would not injure Sibyl Andrés? To cover his embarrassment, he
forced a laugh and answered lightly, "Really, I am not good at
confessions."
"Nor I at playing the part of confessor," she laughed with him. "But, just
the same, you might tell me what you think of yourself. Aren't you just a
little ashamed?"
The artist had moved to a position in front of her portrait; and, as he
looked upon the painted lie, his answer came. "Rather let me tell you what
I think of _you_, Mrs. Taine. And let me tell you in the language I know
best. Let me put my answer to your charges here," he touched her portrait.
Almost, his reply was worthy of Conrad Lagrange, himself.
"I don't quite understand," she said, a trifle put out by the turn his
answer had taken.
"I mean," he explained eagerly, "that I want to repaint your portrait. You
remember, I wrote, when I returned Mr. Taine's generous check, that I was
not altogether satisfied with it. Give me another chance."
"You mean for me to come here again, to pose for you?--as I did before?"
"Yes," he answered, "just as you did before. I want to make a portrait
worthy of you, as this is not. Let me tell you, on the canvas, what I
cannot--" he hesitated then said deliberately--"what I _dare_ not put into
words."
The woman received his words as a veiled declaration of a passion he dared
not, yet, openly express. She thought his request a clever ruse to renew
their meetings in the privacy of his studio, and was, accordingly
delighted.
"Oh, that will be wonderful!--heavenly!" she cried, springing to her feet.
"Can we begin at once? May I come to-morrow?"
"Yes," he answered, "come to-morrow."
"And may I wear the Quaker gown?"
"Yes, indeed! I want you just as you were before--the same dress, the same
pose. It is to be the same picture, you understand, only a better one--one
more worthy of us, both. And now," he continued hurriedly "don't you
think that we should return to the house?"
"I suppose so," she answered regretfully--lingering.
The artist was already opening the door.
As they passed out, she placed her hand on his arm, and looked up into his
face admiringly. "What a clever, clever man you are, to think of it! And
what a story it will make for the papers--when my picture is shown--how
you were not satisfied with the portrait and refused to let it go--and
how, after keeping it in your studio for months, you repainted it, to
satisfy your artistic conscience!"
Aaron King smiled.
The announcement in the house that the artist was to repaint Mrs. Taine's
picture, provoked characteristic comment. Louise effervesced a frothy
stream of bubbling exclamations. James Rutlidge gave a hearty, "By Jove,
old man, you have nerve! If you can really improve on that canvas, you are
a wonder." And Mr. Taine, under the watchful eye of his beautiful wife,
responded with a husky whisper, "Quite right--my boy--quite right!
Certainly--by all means--if you feel that way about it--" his consent and
approval ending in a paroxysm of coughing that left him weak and
breathless, and nearly eliminated him from the question, altogether.
When the Fairlands Heights party had departed, Conrad Lagrange looked the
artist up and down.
"Well,"--he growled harshly, in his most brutal tones,--"what is it? Is
the dog returning to his vomit?--or is the prodigal turning his back on
his hogs and his husks?"
Aaron King smiled as he answered, "I think, rather, it's the case of the
blind beggar who sat by the roadside, helpless, until a certain Great
Physician passed that way."
And Conrad Lagrange understood.