Bertram feared that he knew, before the portrait was hung, that it was
a failure. He was sure that he knew it on the evening of the twentieth
when he encountered the swiftly averted eyes of some of his artist
friends, and saw the perplexed frown on the faces of others. But he
knew, afterwards, that he did not really know it--till he read the
newspapers during the next few days.
There was praise--oh, yes; the faint praise that kills. There was some
adverse criticism, too; but it was of the light, insincere variety that
is given to mediocre work by unimportant artists. Then, here and there,
appeared the signed critiques of the men whose opinion counted--and
Bertram knew that he had failed. Neither as a work of art, nor as a
likeness, was the portrait the success that Henshaw's former work would
seem to indicate that it should have been. Indeed, as one caustic pen
put it, if this were to be taken as a sample of what was to follow--then
the famous originator of “The Face of a Girl” had “a most distinguished
future behind him.”
Seldom, if ever before, had an exhibited portrait attracted so much
attention. As Bertram had said, uncounted eyes were watching for it
before it was hung, because it was a portrait of the noted beauty,
Marguerite Winthrop, and because two other well-known artists had failed
where he, Bertram Henshaw, was hoping to succeed. After it was hung, and
the uncounted eyes had seen it--either literally, or through the eyes
of the critics--interest seemed rather to grow than to lessen, for other
uncounted eyes wanted to see what all the fuss was about, anyway. And
when these eyes had seen, their owners talked. Nor did they, by any
means, all talk against the portrait. Some were as loud in its praise as
were others in its condemnation; all of which, of course, but helped to
attract more eyes to the cause of it all.
For Bertram and his friends these days were, naturally, trying ones.
William finally dreaded to open his newspaper. (It had become the
fashion, when murders and divorces were scarce, occasionally to
“feature” somebody's opinion of the Henshaw portrait, on the first
page--something that had almost never been known to happen before.)
Cyril, according to Marie, played “perfectly awful things on his piano
every day, now.” Aunt Hannah had said “Oh, my grief and conscience!”
so many times that it melted now into a wordless groan whenever a new
unfriendly criticism of the portrait met her indignant eyes.
Of all Bertram's friends, Billy, perhaps not unnaturally, was the
angriest. Not only did she, after a time, refuse to read the papers,
but she refused even to allow certain ones to be brought into the house,
foolish and unreasonable as she knew this to be.
As to the artist himself, Bertram's face showed drawn lines and his eyes
sombre shadows, but his words and manner carried a stolid indifference
that to Billy was at once heartbreaking and maddening.
“But, Bertram, why don't you do something? Why don't you say something?
Why don't you act something?” she burst out one day.
The artist shrugged his shoulders.
“But, my dear, what can I say, or do, or act?” he asked.
“I don't know, of course,” sighed Billy. “But I know what I'd like to
do. I should like to go out and--fight somebody!”
So fierce were words and manner, coupled as they were with a pair of
gentle eyes ablaze and two soft little hands doubled into menacing
fists, that Bertram laughed.
“What a fiery little champion it is, to be sure,” he said tenderly. “But
as if fighting could do any good--in this case!”
Billy's tense muscles relaxed. Her eyes filled with tears.
“No, I don't suppose it would,” she choked, beginning to cry, so that
Bertram had to turn comforter.
“Come, come, dear,” he begged; “don't take it so to heart. It's not
so bad, after all. I've still my good right hand left, and we'll hope
there's something in it yet--that'll be worth while.”
“But _this_ one isn't bad,” stormed Billy. “It's splendid! I'm sure, I
think it's a b-beautiful portrait, and I don't see _what_ people mean by
talking so about it!”
Bertram shook his head. His eyes grew sombre again.
“Thank you, dear. But I know--and you know, really--that it isn't a
splendid portrait. I've done lots better work than that.”
“Then why don't they look at those, and let this alone?” wailed Billy,
with indignation.
“Because I deliberately put up this for them to see,” smiled the artist,
wearily.
Billy sighed, and twisted in her chair.
“What does--Mr. Winthrop say?” she asked at last, in a faint voice.
Bertram lifted his head.
“Mr. Winthrop's been a trump all through, dear. He's already insisted on
paying for this--and he's ordered another.”
“Another!”
“Yes. The old fellow never minces his words, as you may know. He came
to me one day, put his hand on my shoulder, and said tersely: 'Will you
give me another, same terms? Go in, boy, and win. Show 'em! I lost
the first ten thousand I made. I didn't the next!' That's all he said.
Before I could even choke out an answer he was gone. Gorry! talk about
his having a 'heart of stone'! I don't believe another man in the
country would have done that--and done it in the way he did--in the face
of all this talk,” finished Bertram, his eyes luminous with feeling.
Billy hesitated.
“Perhaps--his daughter--influenced him--some.”
“Perhaps,” nodded Bertram. “She, too, has been very kind, all the way
through.”
Billy hesitated again.
“But I thought--it was going so splendidly,” she faltered, in a
half-stifled voice.
“So it was--at the first.”
“Then what--ailed it, at the last, do you suppose?” Billy was holding
her breath till he should answer.
The man got to his feet.
“Billy, don't--don't ask me,” he begged. “Please don't let's talk of
it any more. It can't do any good! I just flunked--that's all. My
hand failed me. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I was tired. Maybe
something--troubled me. Never mind, dear, what it was. It can do no good
even to think of that--now. So just let's--drop it, please, dear,” he
finished, his face working with emotion.
And Billy dropped it--so far as words were concerned; but she could not
drop it from her thoughts--specially after Kate's letter came.
Kate's letter was addressed to Billy, and it said, after speaking of
various other matters:
“And now about poor Bertram's failure.” (Billy frowned. In Billy's
presence no one was allowed to say “Bertram's failure”; but a letter
has a most annoying privilege of saying what it pleases without let or
hindrance, unless one tears it up--and a letter destroyed unread remains
always such a tantalizing mystery of possibilities! So Billy let the
letter talk.) “Of course we have heard of it away out here. I do wish if
Bertram _must_ paint such famous people, he would manage to flatter them
up--in the painting, I mean, of course--enough so that it might pass for
a success!
“The technical part of all this criticism I don't pretend to understand
in the least; but from what I hear and read, he must, indeed, have made
a terrible mess of it, and of course I'm very sorry--and some surprised,
too, for usually he paints such pretty pictures!
“Still, on the other hand, Billy, I'm not surprised. William says that
Bertram has been completely out of fix over something, and as gloomy as
an owl, for weeks past; and of course, under those circumstances, the
poor boy could not be expected to do good work. Now William, being a
man, is not supposed to understand what the trouble is. But I, being a
woman, can see through a pane of glass when it's held right up before
me; and I can guess, of course, that a woman is at the bottom of it--she
always is!--and that you, being his special fancy at the moment” (Billy
almost did tear the letter now--but not quite), “are that woman.
“Now, Billy, you don't like such frank talk, of course; but, on the
other hand, I know you do not want to ruin the dear boy's career. So,
for heaven's sake, if you two have been having one of those quarrels
that lovers so delight in--do, please, for the good of the cause, make
up quick, or else quarrel harder and break it off entirely--which,
honestly, would be the better way, I think, all around.
“There, there, my dear child, don't bristle up! I am very fond of you,
and would dearly love to have you for a sister--if you'd only take
William, as you should! But, as you very well know, I never did approve
of this last match at all, for either of your sakes.
“He can't make you happy, my dear, and you can't make him happy.
Bertram never was--and never will be--a marrying man. He's too
temperamental--too thoroughly wrapped up in his Art. Girls have never
meant anything to him but a beautiful picture to paint. And they never
will. They can't. He's made that way. Listen! I can prove it to you. Up
to this winter he's always been a care-free, happy, jolly fellow, and
you _know_ what beautiful work he has done. Never before has he tied
himself to any one girl till last fall. Then you two entered into this
absurd engagement.
“Now what has it been since? William wrote me himself not a fortnight
ago that he'd been worried to death over Bertram for weeks past,
he's been so moody, so irritable, so fretted over his work, so unlike
himself. And his picture has _failed_ dismally. Of course William
doesn't understand; but I do. I know you've probably quarrelled, or
something. You know how flighty and unreliable you can be sometimes,
Billy, and I don't say that to mean anything against you, either--that's
_your_ way. You're just as temperamental in your art, music, as Bertram
is in his. You're utterly unsuited to him. If Bertram is to marry
_anybody_, it should be some quiet, staid, sensible girl who would be
a _help_ to him. But when I think of you two flyaway flutterbudgets
marrying--!
“Now, for heaven's sake, Billy, _do_ make up or something--and do it
now. Don't, for pity's sake, let Bertram ever put out another such a
piece of work to shame us all like this. Do you want to ruin his career?
“Faithfully yours,
“KATE HARTWELL.
“P. S. _I_ think William's the one for you. He's devoted to you, and
his quiet, sensible affection is just what your temperament needs. I
_always_ thought William was the one for you. Think it over.
“P. S. No. 2. You can see by the above that it isn't you I'm objecting
to, my dear. It's just _you-and-Bertram_.
“K.”