As the World Sees
It was three days after the incidents just related when an automobile from
Fairlands Heights stopped at the home of Aaron King and the novelist.
Mrs. Taine, dressed in black and heavily veiled, went, alone, to the
house, where Yee Kee appeared in answer to her ring.
There was no one at home, the Chinaman said. He did not know where the
artist was. He had gone off somewhere with Mr. Lagrange and the dog.
Perhaps they would return in a few minutes; perhaps not until dinner time.
Mrs. Taine was exceedingly anxious to see Mr. King. She was going away,
and must see him, if possible, before she left. She would come in, and, if
Yee Kee would get her pen and paper, would write a little note,
explaining--in case she should miss him. The Chinaman silently placed the
writing material before her, and disappeared.
Before sitting down to her letter, the woman paced the floor restlessly,
in nervous agitation. Her face, when she had thrown back the veil,
appeared old and worn, with dark circles under the eyes, and a drawn look
to the weary, downward droop of the lips. As she moved about the room,
nervously fingering the books and trifles upon the table or the mantle,
she seemed beside herself with anxiety. She went to the window to stand
looking out as if hoping for the return of the artist. She went to the
open door of his bedroom, her hands clenched, her limbs trembling, her
face betraying the agony of her mind.
With Louise, she was leaving that evening, at four o'clock, for the
East--with the body of her husband. She could not go without seeing again
the man whom, as Mr. Taine had rightly said, she loved--loved with the
only love of which--because of her environment and life--she was capable.
She still believed in her power over him whose passion she had besieged
with all the lure of her physical beauty, but that which she had seen in
his face as he had watched the girl musician the night of the dinner,
filled her with fear. Presently, in her desperation, when the artist did
not return, she seated herself at the table to put upon paper, as best she
could, the things she had come to say.
Her letter finished, she looked at her watch. Calling the Chinaman, she
asked for a key to the studio, explaining that she wished to see her
picture. She still hoped for the artist's return and that her letter would
not be necessary. She hoped, too, that in her portrait, which she had not
yet seen, she might find some evidence of the painter's passion for her.
She had not forgotten his saying that he would put upon the canvas what he
thought of her, nor could she fail to recall his manner and her
interpretation of it as he had worked upon the picture.
In the studio, she stood before the easel, scarce daring to draw the
curtain. But, calling up in her mind the emotions and thoughts of the
hours she had spent in that room alone with the artist, she was made bold
by her reestablished belief in his passion and by her convictions that
were founded upon her own desires. Under the stimulating influence of her
thoughts, a flush of color stole into her cheeks, her eyes grew bright
with the light of triumphant anticipation. With an eager hand she boldly
drew aside the curtain.
The picture upon the easel was the artist's portrait of Sibyl Andrés.
With an exclamation that was not unlike fear, Mrs. Taine drew back from
the canvas. Looking at the beautiful painting,--in which the artist had
pictured, with unconscious love and an almost religious fidelity, the
spirit of the girl who was so like the flowers among which she stood,--the
woman was moved by many conflicting emotions. Surprise, disappointment
admiration, envy, jealousy, sadness, regret, and anger swept over her.
Blinded by bitter tears, with a choking sob, in an agony of remorse and
shame, she turned away her face from the gaze of those pure eyes. Then, as
the flame of her passion withered her shame, hot rage dried her tears, and
she sprang forward with an animal-like fierceness, to destroy the picture.
But, even as she put forth her hand, she hesitated and drew back, afraid.
As she stood thus in doubt--halting between her impulse and her fear--a
sound at the door behind her drew her attention. She turned to face the
beautiful original of the portrait Instantly the woman of the world had
herself perfectly in hand.
Sibyl Andrés drew back with an embarrassed, "I beg your pardon. I
thought--" and would have fled.
But Mrs. Taine, with perfect cordiality, said quickly, "O how do you do,
Miss Andrés; come in."
She seemed so sincere in the welcome that was implied in her voice and
manner; while her face, together with her somber garb of mourning, was so
expressive of sadness and grief that the girl's gentle heart was touched.
Going forward, with that natural, dignity that belongs to those whose
minds and hearts are unsullied by habitual pretense of feeling and sham
emotions, Sibyl spoke a few well chosen words of sympathy.
Mrs. Taine received the girl's expression of condolence with a manner that
was perfect in its semblance of carefully controlled sorrow and grief, yet
managed, skillfully, to suggest the wide social distance that separated
the widow of Mr. Taine from the unknown, mountain girl. Then, as if
courageously determined not to dwell upon her bereavement, she said, "I
was just looking, again, at Mr. King's picture--for which you posed. It is
beautiful, isn't it? He told me that you were an exceptionally clever
model--quite the best he has ever had."
The girl--disarmed by her own genuine feeling of sympathy for the
speaker--was troubled at something that seemed to lie beneath the kindly
words of the experienced woman. "To me, it is beautiful," she returned
doubtfully. "But, of course, I don't know. Mr. Lagrange thinks, though,
that it is really a splendid portrait."
Mrs. Taine smiled with a confident air, as one might smile at a child.
"Mr. Lagrange, my dear, is a famous novelist--but he really knows very
little of pictures."
"Perhaps you are right," returned Sibyl, simply. "But the picture is not
to be shown as a portrait of me, at all."
Again, that knowing smile. "So I understand, of course. Under the
circumstances, you would scarcely expect it, would you?"
Sibyl, not in the least understanding what the woman meant, answered
doubtfully, "No. I--I did not wish it shown as my portrait."
Mrs. Taine, studying the girl's face, became very earnest in her kindly
interest; as if, moved out of the goodness of her heart, she stooped from
her high place to advise and counsel one of her own sex, who was so wholly
ignorant of the world. "I fear, my dear, that you know very little of
artists and their methods."
To which the girl replied, "I never knew an artist before I met Mr. King,
this summer, in the mountains."
Still watching her face closely, Mrs. Taine said, with gentle solicitude,
"May I tell you something for your own good, Miss Andrés?"
"Certainly, if you please, Mrs. Taine."
"An artist," said the older woman, carefully, with an air of positive
knowledge, "must find the subjects for his pictures in life. As he goes
about, he is constantly on the look-out for new faces or figures that
are of interest to him--or, that may be used by him to make pictures
of interest. The subjects--or, I should say, the people who pose for
him--are nothing at all to the artist--aside from his picture, you
see--no more than his paints and brushes and canvas. Often, they are
professional models, whom he hires as one hires any sort of service,
you know. Sometimes--" she paused as if hesitating, then continued
gently--"sometimes they are people like yourself, who happen to appeal
to his artistic fancy, and whom he can persuade to pose for him."
The girl's face was white. She stared at the woman with pleading,
frightened dismay. She made a pitiful attempt to speak, but could not.
The older woman, watching her, continued, "Forgive me, dear child. I do
not wish to hurt you. But Mr. King is _so_ careless. I told him he should
be careful that you did not misunderstand his interest in you. But he
laughed at me. He said that it was your _innocence_ that he wanted to
paint, and cautioned me not to warn you until his picture was finished."
She turned to look at the picture on the easel with the air of a critic.
"He really _has_ caught it very well. Aaron--Mr. King is so good at that
sort of thing. He never permits his models to know exactly what he is
after, you see, but leads them, cleverly, to exhibit, unconsciously, the
particular thing that he wishes to get into his picture."
When the tortured girl had been given time to grasp the full import of her
words, the woman said again,--turning toward Sibyl, as she spoke, with a
smiling air that was intended to show the intimacy between herself and the
artist,--"Have you seen his portrait of me?"
"No," faltered Sibyl. "Mr. King told me not to look at it. It has always
been covered when I have been in the studio."
Again, Mrs. Taine smiled, as though there was some reason, known only to
herself and the painter, why he did not wish the girl to see the portrait.
"And do you come to the studio often--alone as you came to-day?" she
asked, still kindly, as though from her experience she was seeking to
counsel the girl. "I mean--have you been coming since the picture for
which you posed was finished?"
The girl's white cheeks grew red with embarrassment and shame as she
answered, falteringly, "Yes."
"You poor child! Really, I must scold Aaron for this. After my warning
him, too, that people were talking about his intimacy with you in the
mountains It is quite too bad of him! He will ruin himself, if he is not
more careful." She seemed sincerely troubled over the situation.
"I--I do not understand, Mrs. Taine," faltered Sibyl. "Do you mean that
my--that Mr. King's friendship for me has harmed him? That I--that it is
wrong for me to come here?"
"Surely, Miss Andrés, you must understand what I mean."
"No, I--I do not know. Tell me, please."
Mrs. Taine hesitated as though reluctant. Then, as if forced by her sense
of duty, she spoke. "The truth is, my dear, that your being with Mr. King
in the mountains--going to his camp as familiarly as you did, and spending
so much time alone with him in the hills--and then your coming here so
often, has led people to say unpleasant things."
"But what do people say?" persisted Sibyl.
The answer came with cruel deliberateness; "That you are not only Mr.
King's model, but that you are his mistress as well."
Sibyl Andrés shrank back from the woman as though she had received a blow
in the face. Her cheeks and brow and neck were crimson. With a little cry,
she buried her face in her hands.
The kind voice of the older woman continued, "You see, dear, whether it is
true or not, the effect is exactly the same. If in the eyes of the world
your relations to Mr. King are--are wrong, it is as bad as though it were
actually true. I felt that I must tell you, child, not alone for your own
good but for the sake of Mr. King and his work--for the sake of his
position in the world. Frankly, if you continue to compromise him and his
good name by coming like this to his studio, it will ruin him. The world
may not care particularly whether Mr. King keeps a mistress or not, but
people will not countenance his open association with her, even under the
pretext that she is a model."
As she finished, Mrs. Taine looked at her watch. "Dear me, I really must
be going. I have already spent more time than I intended. Good-by, Miss
Andrés. I know you will forgive me if I have hurt you."
The girl looked at her with the pain and terror filled eyes of some
gentle wild creature that can not understand the cruelty of the trap that
holds it fast. "Yes--yes, I--I suppose you know best. You must know more
than I. I--thank you, Mrs. Taine. I--"
When Mrs. Taine was gone, Sibyl Andrés sat for a little while before her
portrait; wondering, dumbly, at the happiness of that face upon the
canvas. There were no tears. She could not cry. Her eyes burned hot and
dry. Her lips were parched. Rising, she drew the curtain carefully to hide
the picture, and started toward the door. She paused. Going to the easel
that held the other picture, she laid her hand upon the curtain. Again,
she paused. Aaron King had said that she must not look at that
picture--Conrad Lagrange had said that she must not--why? She did not know
why.
Perhaps--if the mountain girl had drawn aside the curtain and had looked
upon the face of Mrs. Taine as Aaron King had painted it--perhaps the rest
of my story would not have happened.
But, true to the wish of her friends, even in her misery, Sibyl Andrés
held her hand. At the door of the studio, she turned again, to look long
and lingeringly about the room. Then she went out, closing and locking the
door, and leaving the key on a hidden nail, as her custom was.
Going slowly, lingeringly, through the rose garden to the little gate in
the hedge, she disappeared in the orange grove.
Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange, returning from a long walk, overtook Myra
Willard, who was returning from town, just as the woman of the disfigured
face arrived at the gate of the little house in the orange grove. For a
moment, the three stood chatting--as neighbors will,--then the two men
went on to their own home. Czar, racing ahead, announced their coming to
Yee Kee and the Chinaman met them as they entered the living-room. Telling
them of Mrs. Taine's visit, he gave Aaron King the letter that she had
left for him.
As the artist, conscious of the scrutinizing gaze of his friend, read the
closely written pages, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and shame.
When he had finished, he faced the novelist's eyes steadily and, without
speaking, deliberately and methodically tore Mrs. Taine's letter into tiny
fragments. Dropping the scraps of paper into the waste basket, he dusted
his hands together with a significant gesture and looked at his watch.
"Her train left at four o'clock. It is now four-thirty."
"For which," returned Conrad Lagrange, solemnly, "let us give thanks."
As the novelist spoke, Czar, on the porch outside, gave a low "woof" that
signalized the approach of a friend.
Looking through the open door, they saw Myra Willard coming hurriedly up
the walk. They could see that the woman was greatly agitated, and went
quicklv forward to meet her.
Women of Myra Willard's strength of character--particularly those who have
passed through the furnace of some terrible experience as she so
evidently had--are not given to loud, uncontrolled expression of emotion.
That she was alarmed and troubled was evident. Her face was white, her
eyes were frightened and she trembled so that Aaron King helped her to a
seat; but she told them clearly, with no unnecessary, hysterical
exclamations, what had happened. Upon entering the house, after parting
from the two men at the gate, a few minutes before, she had found a letter
from Sibyl. The girl was gone.
As she spoke, she handed the letter to Conrad Lagrange who read it and
gave it to the artist. It was a pitiful little note--rather vague--saying
only that she must go away at once; assuring Myra that she had not meant
to do wrong; asking her to tell Mr. King and the novelist good-by; and
begging the artist's forgiveness that she had not understood.
Aaron King looked from the letter in his hand to the faces of his two
friends, in consternation. "Do you understand this, Miss Willard?" he
asked, when he could speak.
The woman shook her head. "Only that something has happened to make the
child think that her friendship with you has injured you; and that she has
gone away for your sake. She--she thought so much of you, Mr. King."
"And I--I love her, Miss Willard. I should have told you soon. I tell you
now to reassure you. I love her."
Aaron King made his declaration to his two friends with a simple dignity,
but with a feeling that thrilled them with the force of his earnestness
and the purity and strength of his passion.
Conrad Lagrange--world-worn, scarred by his years of contact with the
unclean, the vicious, and debasing passions of mankind--grasped the young
man's hand, while his eyes shone with an emotion his habitual reserve
could not conceal. "I'm glad for you, Aaron"--he said, adding
reverently--"as your mother would be glad."
"I have known that you would tell me this, sometime Mr. King," said Myra
Willard. "I knew it, I think, before you, yourself, realized; and I, too,
am glad--glad for my girl, because I know what such a love will mean to
her. But why--why has she gone like this? Where has she gone? Oh, my girl,
my girl!" For a moment, the distracted woman was on the point of breaking
down; but with an effort of her will, she controlled herself.
"It's clear enough what has sent her away," growled Conrad Lagrange, with
a warning glance to the artist. "Some one has filled her mind with the
notion that her friendship with Aaron has been causing talk. I think
there's no doubt as to where she's gone."
"You mean the mountains?" asked Myra Willard, quickly.
"Yes. I'd stake my life that she has gone straight to Brian Oakley. Think!
Where else _would_ she go?"
"She has sometimes borrowed a saddle-horse from your neighbor up the road,
hasn't she, Miss Willard?" asked Aaron King.
"Yes. I'll run over there at once."
Conrad Lagrange spoke quickly; "Don't let them think anything unusual has
happened. We'll go over to your house and wait for you there."
Fifteen minutes later, Myra Willard returned. Sibyl had borrowed the
horse; asking them if she might keep it until the next day. She did not
say where she was going. She had left about four o'clock.
"That will put her at Brian's by nine," said the novelist.
"And I will arrive there about the same time," added Aaron King, eagerly.
"It's now five-thirty. She has an hour's start; but I'll ride an hour
harder."
"With an automobile you could overtake her," said Myra Willard.
"I know," returned the artist, "but if I take a horse, we can ride back
together."
He started through the grove, toward the other house, on a run.