The Hand Writing on the Wall
It was November. Nearly a year had passed since that day when the young
man on the Golden State Limited--with the inheritance he had received from
his mother's dying lips, and with his solemn promise to her still fresh in
his mind--looked into the eyes of the woman on the platform of the
observation car. That same day, too, he first saw the woman with the
disfigured face, and, for the first time, met the famous Conrad Lagrange.
Aaron King was thinking of these things as he set out, that evening, with
his friend, for the home of Mrs. Taine. He remarked to the novelist that
the time seemed, to him, many years.
"To me, Aaron," answered the strange man, "it has been the happiest
and--if you would not misunderstand me--the most satisfying year of my
life. And this"--he added, his deep voice betraying his emotion--"this has
been the happiest day of the year. It is your independence day. I shall
always celebrate it as such--I--I have no independence day of my own to
celebrate, you know."
Aaron King did not misunderstand.
As the two men approached the big house on Fairlands Heights, they saw
that modern palace, from concrete foundation to red-tiled roof, ablaze
with many lights. Situated upon the very topmost of the socially graded
levels of Fairlands, it outshone them all; and, quite likely, the
glittering display was mistaken by many dwellers in the valley below for a
new constellation of the heavenly bodies. Quite likely, too, some lonely
dweller, high up among the distant mountain peaks, looked down upon the
sparkling bauble that lay for the moment, as it were, on the wide lap of
the night, and smiled in quiet amusement that the earth children should
attach such value to so fragile a toy.
As they passed the massive, stone pillars of the entrance to the grounds,
Conrad Lagrange said, "Really, Aaron, don't you feel a little ashamed of
yourself?--coming here to-night, after the outrageous return you have made
for the generous hospitality of these people? You know that if Mrs. Taine
had seen what you have done to her portrait, you could force the pearly
gates easier than you could break in here."
The artist laughed. "To tell the truth, I don't feel exactly at home. But
what the deuce can I do? After my intimacy with them, all these months, I
can't assume that they are going to make my picture a reason for refusing
to recognize me, can I? As I see it, they, not I, must take the
initiative. I can't say: 'Well, I've told the truth about you, so throw me
out'."
The novelist grinned. "Thus it is when 'Art' becomes entangled with the
family of 'Materialism.' It's hard to break away from the flesh-pots--even
when you know you are on the road to the Promised Land. But don't
worry--'The Age' will take the initiative fast enough when she sees your
portrait of her. Wow! In the meantime, let's play their game to-night, and
take what spoils the gods may send. There will be material here for
pictures and stories a plenty." As they went up the wide steps and under
the portal into the glare of the lights, and caught the sound of the
voices within, he added under his breath, "Lord, man, but 'tis a pretty
show!--if only things were called by their right names. That old
Babylonian, Belshazzar, had nothing on us moderns after all, did he? Watch
out for the writing upon the wall."
When Aaron King and his companion entered the spacious rooms where the
pride of Fairlands Heights and the eastern lions were assembled, a buzz of
comment went round the glittering company. Aside from the fact that Mrs.
Taine, with practised skill, had prepared the way for her protege, by
subtly stimulating the curiosity of her guests--the appearance of the two
men, alone, would have attracted their attention The artist, with his
strong, splendidly proportioned, athletic body, and his handsome,
clean-cut intellectual face--calmly sure of himself--with the air of one
who knows that his veins are rich with the wealth of many generations of
true culture and refinement; and the novelist--easily the most famous of
his day--tall, emaciated, grotesquely stooped--with his homely face seamed
and lined, world-worn and old, and his sharp eyes peering from under his
craggy brows with that analyzing, cynical, half-pathetic half-humorous
expression--certainly presented a contrast too striking to escape notice.
For an instant, as comrades side by side upon a battle-field might do,
they glanced over the scene. To the painter's eye, the assembled guests
appeared as a glittering, shimmering, scintillating, cloud-like mass that,
never still, stirred within itself, in slow, graceful restless
motions--forming always, without purpose new combinations and groupings
that were broken up, even as they were shaped, to be reformed; with the
black spots and splashes of the men's conventional dress ever changing
amid the brighter colors and textures of the women's gowns; the warm flesh
tints of bare white arms and shoulders, gleaming here and there; and the
flash and sparkle of jewels, threading the sheen of silks and the filmy
softness of laces. Into the artist's mind--fresh from the tragic
earnestness of his day's work, and still under the enduring spell of his
weeks in the mountains--flashed a sentence from a good old book; "For what
is your life? It is even a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and
then vanisheth away."
Then they were greeting, with conventional nothings their beautiful
hostess; who, with a charming air of triumphant--but not too
triumphant--proprietorship received them and passed them on, with a low
spoken word to Aaron King; "I will take charge of you later."
Conrad Lagrange, before they drifted apart, found opportunity to growl in
his companion's ear; "A near-great musician--an actress of divorce court
fame--an art critic, boon companion of our friend Rutlidge--two free-lance
yellow journalists--a poet--with leading culture-club women of various
brands, and a mob of mere fashion and wealth. The pickings should be
good. Look at 'Materialism', over there."
In a wheeled chair, attended by a servant in livery, a little apart from
the center of the scene,--as though the pageant of life was about to move
on without him,--but still, with desperate grip, holding his place in the
picture, sat the genius of it all--the millionaire. The creature's wasted,
skeleton-like limbs, were clothed grotesquely in conventional evening
dress. His haggard, bestial face--repulsive with every mark of his wicked,
licentious years--grinned with an insane determination to take the place
that was his by right of his money bags; while his glazed and sunken eyes
shone with fitful gleams, as he rallied the last of his vital forces, with
a devilish defiance of the end that was so inevitably near.
As Aaron King, in the splendid strength of his inheritance, went to pay
his respects to the master of the house, that poor product of our age was
seized by a paroxysm of coughing, that shook him--gasping and
choking--almost into unconsciousness. The ready attendant held out a glass
of whisky, and he clutched the goblet with skinny hands that, in their
trembling eagerness, rattled the crystal against his teeth. In the
momentary respite afforded by the powerful stimulant, he lifted his
yellow, claw-like hand to wipe the clammy beads of sweat that gathered
upon his wrinkled, ape-like brow; and the painter saw, on one bony,
talon-like finger, the gleaming flash of a magnificent diamond.
Mr. Taine greeted the artist with his husky whisper "Hello, old chap--glad
to see you!" Peering into the laughing, chattering, glittering, throng he
added, "Some beauties here to-night, heh? Gad! my boy, but I've seen the
day I'd be out there among them! Ha, ha! Mrs. Taine, Louise, and Jim tried
to shelve me--but I fooled 'em. Damn me, but I'm game for a good time yet!
A little off my feed, and under the weather; but game, you understand,
game as hell!" Then to the attendant--"Where's that whisky?" And, again,
his yellow, claw-like hand--with that beautiful diamond, a gleaming point
of pure, white light--lifted the glass to his grinning lips.
When Mrs. Taine appeared to claim the artist, her husband--huddled in his
chair, an unclean heap of all but decaying flesh--watched them go, with
hidden, impotent rage.
A few moments later, as Mrs. Taine and her charge were leaving one group
of celebrities in search of another they encountered Conrad Lagrange.
"What's this I see?" gibed the novelist, mockingly. "Is it 'Art being led
by Beauty to the Judges and Executioners'? or, is it 'Beauty presenting an
Artist to the Gods of Modern Art'?"
"You had better be helping a good cause instead of making fun, Mr.
Lagrange," the woman retorted. "You weren't always so famous yourself that
you could afford to be indifferent, you know."
Aaron King laughed as his friend replied, "Never fear, madam, never
fear--I shall be on hand to assist at the obsequies."
In the shifting of the groups and figures, when dinner was announced, the
young man found himself, again, within reach of Conrad Lagrange; and the
novelist whispered, with a grin, "Now for the flesh-pots in earnest. You
will be really out of place in the next act, Aaron. Only we artists who
have sold our souls have a right to the price of our shame. _You_ should
dine upon a crust, you know. A genius without his crust, huh! A devil
without his tail, or an ass without his long ears!"
Most conspicuous in the brilliant throng assembled in that banquet hall,
was the horrid figure of Mr. Taine who sat in his wheeled chair at the
head of the table; his liveried attendant by his side. Frequently--as
though compelled--eyes were turned toward that master of the feast, who
was, himself, so far past feasting; and toward his beautiful young
wife--the only woman in the room, whose shoulders and arms were not bare.
At first, the talk moved somewhat heavily. Neighbor chattered nothings to
neighbor in low tones. It was as though the foreboding presence of some
grim, unbidden guest overshadowed the spirits of the company But gradually
the scene became more animated The glitter of silver and crystal on the
board; the sparkle of jewels and the wealth of shimmering colors that
costumed the diners; with the strains of music that came from somewhere
behind a floral screen that filled the air with fragrance; concealed, as
it were, the hideous image of immorality which was the presiding genius of
the feast. As the glare of a too bright light blinds the eyes to the ditch
across one's path, so the brilliancy of their surroundings blinded the
eyes of his guests to the meaning of that horrid figure in the seat of
highest honor. But rich foods and rare wines soon loose the tongues that
chatter the thoughts of those who do not think. As the glasses were filled
and refilled again, the scene took color from the sparkling goblets.
Voices were raised to a higher pitch. Shrill or boisterous laughter rang
out, as jest and story went the rounds. It was Mrs. Taine, now, rather
than her husband, who dominated the scene. With cheeks flushed and eyes
bright she set the pace, nor permitted any laggards.
Conrad Lagrange watched, cool and cynical--his worn face twisted into a
mocking smile; his keen, baffling eyes, from under their scowling brows,
seeing all, understanding all. Aaron King, weary with the work of the past
days, endured--wishing it was over.
The evening was well under way when Mrs. Taine held up her hand. In the
silence, she said, "Listen! I have a real treat for you, to-night,
friends. Listen!" As she spoke the last word, her eyes met the eyes of the
artist, in mocking, challenging humor. He was wondering what she meant,
when,--from behind that screen of flowers,--soft and low, poignantly sweet
and thrilling in its purity of tone, came the music of the violin that he
had learned to know so well.
Instantly, the painter understood. Mrs. Taine had employed Sibyl Andrés to
play for her guests that evening; thinking to tease the artist by
presenting his mountain comrade in the guise of a hired servant. Why the
girl had not told him, he did not know. Perhaps she had thought to enjoy
his surprise. The effect of the girl's presence--or rather of her music,
for she, herself, could not be seen--upon the artist was quite other than
Mrs. Taine intended.
Under the spell of the spirit that spoke in the violin, Aaron King was
carried far from his glittering surroundings. Again, he stood where the
bright waters of Clear Creek tumbled among the granite boulders, and where
he had first moved to answer the call of that music of the hills. Again,
he followed the old wagon road to the cedar thicket; and, in the little,
grassy opening with its wild roses, its encircling wilderness growth, and
its old log house under the sheltering sycamores, saw a beautiful girl
dancing with the unconscious grace of a woodland sprite, her arms upheld
in greeting to the mountains. Once again, he was painting in the sacred
quiet of the spring glade where she had come to him with her three gifts;
where, in maidenly innocence, she had danced the dance of the butterflies;
and, later, with her music, had lifted their friendship to heights of
purity as far above the comprehension of the company that listened to her
now, as the mountain peaks among the stars that night were high above the
house on Fairlands Heights.
The music ceased. It was followed by the loud clapping of hands--with
exclamations in high-pitched voices. "Who is it?" "Where did you find
him?" "What's his name?"--for they judged, from Mrs. Taine's introductory
words, that she expected them to show their appreciation.
Mrs. Taine laughed, and, with her eyes mockingly upon the artist's face
answered lightly, "Oh, she is a discovery of mine. She teaches music, and
plays in one of the Fairlands churches."
"You are a wonder," said one of the illustrious critics, admiringly. And
lifting his glass, he cried, "Here's to our beautiful and talented
hostess--the patron saint of all the arts--the friend of all true
artists."
In the quiet that followed the enthusiastic endorsement of the
distinguished gentleman's words, another voice said, "If it's a girl,
can't we see her?" "Yes, yes," came from several. "Please, Mrs. Taine,
bring her out." "Have her play again." "Will she?"
Mrs. Taine laughed. "Certainly, she will. That's what she's here for--to
amuse you." And, again, as she spoke, her eyes met the eyes of Aaron King.
At her signal, a servant left the room. A moment later, the mountain girl,
dressed in simple white, with no jewel or ornament other than a rose in
her soft, brown hair, stood before that company. Unconscious of the eyes
that fed upon her loveliness; there was the faintest shadow of a smile
upon her face as she met, in one swift glance, the artist's look; then,
raising her violin, she made music for the revelers, at the will of Mrs.
Taine. As she stood there in the modest naturalness of her winsome
beauty--innocent and pure as the flowers that formed the screen behind
her; hired to amuse the worthy friends and guests of that hideously
repulsive devotee of lust and licentiousness who, from his wheeled chair,
was glaring at her with eyes that burned insanely--she seemed, as indeed
she was, a spirit from another world.
James Rutlidge, his heavy features flushed with drink, was gazing at the
girl with a look that betrayed his sensual passion. The face of Conrad
Lagrange was dark and grim with scowling appreciation of the situation.
Mrs. Taine was looking at the artist. And Aaron King, watching his girl
comrade of the hills as she seemed to listen for the music which she in
turn drew from the instrument, felt,--by the very force of the contrast
between her and her surroundings he had never felt before, the power and
charm of her personality--felt--and knew that Sibyl Andrés had come into
his life to stay.
In the flood of emotions that swept over him, and in the mental and
spiritual exultation caused by her music and by her presence amid such
scenes; it was given the painter to understand that she had, in truth,
brought to him the strength, the purity, and the beauty of the hills; that
she had, in truth, shown him the paths that lead to the mountain heights;
that it was her unconscious influence and teaching that had made it
impossible for him to prostitute his genius to win favor in the eyes of
the world. He knew, now, that in those days when he had painted her
portrait, as she stood with outstretched hands in the golden light among
the roses, he had mixed his colors with the best love that a man may offer
a woman. And he knew that the repainting of that false portrait of Mrs.
Taine, with all that it would cost him, was his first offering to that
love.
The girl musician finished playing and slipped away. When they would have
recalled her, Mrs. Taine--too well schooled to betray a hint of the
emotions aroused by what she had just seen as she watched Aaron
King--shook her head.
At that instant, Mr. Taine rose to his feet, supporting himself by holding
with shaking hands to the table. A hush, sudden as the hush of death, fell
upon the company. The millionaire's attendant put out his hand to steady
his master, and another servant stepped quickly forward. But the man who
clung so tenaciously to his last bit of life, with a drunken strength in
his dying limbs, shook them off, saying in a hoarse whisper, "Never mind!
Never mind--you fools--can't you see I'm game!"
In the quiet of the room, that a moment before rang with excited voices
and shrill laughter, the man's husky, straining, whispered boast sounded
like the mocking of some invisible, fiendish presence at the feast.
Lifting a glass of whisky with that yellow, claw-like hand upon which the
great diamond gleamed--a spot of flawless purity; with his repulsive
features twisted into a grewsome ugliness by his straining effort to force
his diseased vocal chords to make his words heard; the wretched creature
said: "Here's to our girl musician. The prettiest--lassie that I--have
seen for many a day--and I think I know a pretty girl--when I see one too.
Who comes bright and fresh--from her mountains, to amuse us--and to add,
to the beauty--and grace and wit and genius--that so distinguishes this
company--the flavor and the freedom of her wild-wood home. Her music--is
good, you'll all agree--" he paused to cough and to look inquiringly
around, while every one nodded approval and smiled encouragingly. "Her
music is good--but I--maintain that she, herself, is better. To me--her
beauty is more pleasing to the eye--than--her fiddling can possibly--be to
the ear!" Again he was forced to pause, while his guests, with hand and
voice, applauded the clever words. Lifting the glass of whisky toward his
lips that, by his effort to speak, were drawn back in a repulsive grin, he
leered at the celebrities sitting nearest. "I suppose to-morrow--if we
desire the company of these distinguished artists--we will have to
follow--them to the mountains. I don't blame you, gentlemen--if I was
not--ah--temporarily incapacitated--I would certainly--go for a little
trip to the inspiring hills--myself. Even if I don't know--as much about
_music_ and _art_ as some of you." Again his words were interrupted by
that racking cough, the sound of which was lost in the applause that
greeted his witticism. Lifting the glass once more, he continued, "So
here's to our girl musician--who is her own--lovely self so much more
attractive than any music--she can ever make." He drained the glass, and
sank back into his chair, exhausted by his effort.
Aaron King was on the point of springing to his feet, when Conrad Lagrange
caught his eye with a warning look. Instantly, he remembered what the
result would be if he should yield to his impulse. Wild with indignation,
rage, and burning shame, he knew that to betray himself would be to invite
a thousand sneering questions and insinuations to besmirch the name of
the girl he loved.
In the continued applause and laughter that followed the drinking of the
millionaire's toast, the artist caught the admiring words, "Bully old
sport." "Isn't he game?" "He has certainly traveled some pace in his day."
"The girl is a beauty." "Let's have her in again." This last expression
was so insistently echoed that Mrs. Taine--who, through it all, had been
covertly watching Aaron King's face, and whose eyes were blazing now with
something more than the effect of the wine she had been drinking--was
forced to yield. A servant left the room, and, a moment later, reappeared,
followed by Sibyl.
The girl was greeted, now, by hearty applause which she, accepting as an
expression of the company's appreciation of her music, received with
smiling pleasure. The artist, his heart and soul aflame with his awakening
love, fought for self-control. Conrad Lagrange, catching his eye, again,
silently bade him wait.
Sibyl lifted her violin and the noisy company was stilled. Slowly, under
the spell of the music that, to him, was a message from the mountain
heights, Aaron King grew calm. His tense muscles relaxed. His twitching
nerves became steady. He felt himself as it were, lifted out of and above
the scene that a moment before had so stirred him to indignant anger. His
brain worked with that clearness and precision which he had known while
repainting Mrs. Taine's portrait. Wrath gave way to pity; indignation to
contempt. In confidence, he smiled to think how little the girl he loved
needed his poor defense against the animalism that dominated the company
she was hired to amuse. With every eye in the room fixed upon her as she
played, she was as far removed from those who had applauded the suggestive
words of the dying sensualist as her music was beyond their true
comprehension.
Then it was that the genius of the artist awoke. As the flash of a
search-light in the darkness of night brings out with startling clearness
the details of the scene upon which it is turned, the painter saw before
him his picture. With trained eye and carefully acquired skill, he studied
the scene; impressing upon his memory every detail--the rich appointments
of the room; the glittering lights; the gleaming silver and crystal; the
sparkling jewels and shimmering laces; the bare shoulders; the
wine-flushed faces and feverish eyes; and, in the seat of honor, the
disease-wasted form and repulsive, sin-marked countenance of Mr. Taine
who--almost unconscious with his exertion--was still feeding the last
flickering flame of his lustful life with the vision of the girl whose
beauty his toast had profaned: and in the midst of that
company--expressing as it did the spirit of an age that is ruled by
material wealth and dominated by the passions of the flesh--the center of
every eye, yet, still, in her purity and innocence, removed and apart from
them all; standing in her simple dress of white against the background of
flowers--the mountain girl with her violin--offering to them the highest,
holiest, gift of the gods--her music. Upon the girl's lovely, winsome
face, was a look, now, of troubled doubt. Her wide, blue eyes, as she
played, were pleading, questioning, half fearful--as though she sensed,
instinctively the presence of the spirit she could not understand; and
felt, in spite of the pretense of the applause that had greeted her, the
rejection of her offering.
Not only did the artist, in that moment of conception see his picture and
feel the forces that were expressed by every character in the composition,
but the title, even, came to him as clearly as if Conrad Lagrange had
uttered it aloud, "The Feast of Materialism."
Sibyl Andrés finished her music, and quickly withdrew as if to escape the
noisy applause. Amid the sound of the clapping hands and boisterous
voices, Mr. Taine, summoning the last of his wasted strength, again
struggled to his feet. With those claw-like hands he held to the table for
support; while--shaking in every limb, his features twisted into a horrid,
leering grin--he looked from face to face of the hushed and silent
company; with glazed eyes in which the light that flickered so feebly was
still the light of an impotent lust.
Twice, the man essayed to speak, but could not. The room grew still as
death. Then, suddenly--as they looked--he lifted that yellow, skinny hand,
to his wrinkled, ape-like brow, and--partially loosing, thus, his
supporting grip upon the table--fell back, in a ghastly heap of diseased
flesh and fine raiment; in the midst of which blazed the great
diamond--as though the cold, pure beauty of the inanimate stone triumphed
in a life more vital than that of its wearer.
His servants carried the unconscious master of the house from the room.
Mrs. Taine, excusing herself, followed.
In the confusion that ensued, the musicians, hidden behind the floral
screen, struck up a lively air. Some of the guests made quiet preparations
for leaving. A group of those men--famous in the world of art and
letters--under the influence of the wine they had taken so freely, laughed
loudly at some coarse jest. Others, thinking, perhaps,--if they could be
said to think at all,--that their host's attack was not serious, renewed
conversations and bravely attempted to restore a semblance of animation to
the interrupted revelries.
Aaron King worked his way to the side of Conrad Lagrange, "For God's sake,
old man, let's get out of here."
"I'll find Rutlidge or Louise or some one," returned the other, and
disappeared.
As the artist waited, through the open door of an adjoining room, he
caught sight of Sibyl Andrés; who, with her violin-case in her hand, was
about to leave. Obeying his impulse, he went to her.
"What in the world are you doing here?" he said almost roughly--extending
his hand to take the instrument she carried.
She seemed a little bewildered by his manner, but smiled as she retained
her violin. "I am here to earn my bread and butter, sir. What are you
doing here?"
"I beg your pardon," he said. "I did not mean to be rude."
She laughed, then, with a troubled air--"But is it not right for me to be
here? It is all right for me to play for these people, isn't it? Myra
didn't want me to come, but we needed the money, and Mrs. Taine was so
generous. I didn't tell you and Mr. Lagrange because I wanted the fun of
surprising you." As he stood looking at her so gravely, she put out her
hand impulsively to his arm. "What is it, oh, what is it? How have I done
wrong?"
"You have done no wrong, my dear girl," he answered "It is only that--"
He was interrupted by the cold, clear voice of Mrs. Taine, who had entered
the room, unnoticed by them. "I see you are going, Miss Andrés.
Good-night. I will mail you a check to-morrow. Your music was very
satisfactory. An automobile is waiting to take you home. Good night."
Before Aaron King could speak, the girl was gone.
"Mr. Lagrange and I were just about to go," said the artist, as the woman
faced him. "I hope Mr. Taine has not suffered severely from the excitement
of the evening?"
The woman's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were bright with feverish
excitement. Going close to him, she said in a low, hurried tone, "No, no,
you must not go. Mr. Taine is all right in his room. Every one else is
having a good time. You must not go. Come, I have had no opportunity, at
all, to have you to myself for a single moment. Come, I--"
As she had interrupted Aaron King's reply to Sibyl Andrés, the cool,
sarcastic tones of Conrad Lagrange's deep voice interrupted her. "Mrs.
Taine, they are hunting for you all over the house. Your husband is
calling for you. I'm sure that Mr. King will excuse you, under the
circumstances."