The few weeks Adam Gregg spent in his father's home on his return from
Derwood Manor were weeks of suffering such as he had never known in
his short career. No word had come from Olivia, and none had gone from
him in return. He dared not trust himself to write; he made no
inquiries. He made no mention, even at home, of his visit, except to
say that he had painted Judge Colton's wife and had then retraced his
steps. It was not a matter to be discussed with any one--not even with
his mother, to whom he told almost every happening of his life. He had
seen a vision of transcendent beauty which had filled his soul. Then
the curtain had fallen, blotting out the light and leaving him in
darkness and despair. What was left was the memory of a tear-stained
face and two pleading eyes. These would haunt him all his days.
At the end of the year he found himself in London: Gainsborough,
Romney and Lawrence beckoned to him. He must master their technique,
study their color. The next year was spent in Madrid studying
Velasquez and Goya. It was the full brush that enthralled him now--the
sweep and directness of virile methods. Then he wandered over to
Granada, and so on to the coast and Barcelona, and at last to Paris.
When his first salon picture was exhibited it could only be properly
seen when the crowd opened, so great was the throng about it. It was
called "A Memory," and showed the figure of a young girl standing in
the sunlight with wreaths of blossoms arched above her head. On her
golden hair was a wide hat which half shaded her face; one beautiful
arm, exquisitely modelled and painted, rested on the neck of a black
horse. A marvellous scheme of color, the critics said, the blossoms
and flesh tones being wonderfully managed. No one knew the
model--English, some suggested; others concluded that it was the
portrait of some lady of the court in a costume of the thirties.
The day after the opening of the salon Clairin called and left his
card, and the day following Fortuny mounted the stairs to shake his
hand, although he had never met Gregg before. When, later on,
Honorable Mention was awarded him by the jury, Boisseau, the art
dealer, rang his bell and at once began to inquire about the price of
portraits. Madame X. and the Countess M. had been captivated, he said,
by "A Memory," and wanted sittings. If the commissions were sufficient
the dealer could arrange for very many orders, not only for many women
of fashion, but of members of the Government.
The following year his portrait of Baron Chevrail received the Gold
Medal and he himself a red ribbon, and a few months later his picture
of "Columbus before the Council" took the highest honors at Genoa, and
was bought by the Government.
During almost all the years of his triumphal progress he lived alone.
So seldom was he seen outside of his studio that many of his brother
painters were convinced that he never spent more than a few days at a
time in Paris. They would knock, and knock again, only to be told by
the concierge that monsieur was out, or in London, or on the Riviera.
His studio in London and his occasional visits to Vienna, where he
shared Makart's atelier while painting a portrait of one of the
Austrian grand dukes, helped in this delusion. The truth was that he
had no thought for things outside of his art. The rewards of fame and
money never appealed to him. What enthralled him was his love of
color, of harmony, of the mastering of subtleties in composition and
mass. That the public approved of his efforts, and that juries awarded
him honors, caused him no thrill of exultation. He knew how far short
his brush had come. He was glad they liked the picture. Next time he
would do better. These triumphs ruffled his surface--as a passing wind
ruffles a deep pool.
As he grew in years there came a certain dignity of carriage, a
certain poise of bearing. The old-time courtliness of manner was
strengthened; but the sweetness of nature was still the same--a nature
that won for him friends among the best about him. Not many--only
three or four who had the privilege of knocking with three light taps
and one loud one at his door, a signal to which he always
responded--but friends whose proudest boast was their intimacy with
Adam Gregg.
The women smiled at him behind their lorgnons as they passed him
riding in the Bois, for he had never given up this form of out-door
exercise, his erect military figure, fine head and upturned mustache
lending him a distinction which attracted attention at once; but he
seldom did more than return their salutations. Sometimes he would
accept an invitation to dinner, but only on rare occasions. When he
did it was invariably heralded in advance that "Gregg was coming," a
fact which always decided uncertain guests to say "Yes" to their
hostess's invitation.
And yet he was not a recluse in the accepted sense of the word, nor
did he lead a sad life. He only preferred to enjoy it alone, or with
one or two men who understood him.
While casual acquaintances--especially those in carriages--were denied
access when he was absorbed on some work of importance, the younger
painters--those who were struggling up the ladder--were always
welcome. For these the concierge was given special instructions. Then
everything would be laid aside; their sketches gone over and their
points settled, no matter how long it took or how many hours of his
precious time were given to their service. Many of these lads--not
alone his own countrymen, but many who could not speak his
language--often found a crisp, clean bank-note in their hands when the
painter's fingers pressed their own in parting. Of only one thing was
he intolerant, and that was sham. The insincere, the presuming and the
fraudulent always irritated him; so did the slightest betrayal of a
trust. Then his dark-brown eyes would flash, his shoulders straighten,
and there would roll from his lips a denunciation which those who
heard never forgot--an outburst all the more startling because coming
from one of so gentle and equable a temperament.
During all the years of his exile no word had come from Olivia. He had
once seen Judge Colton's name in one of the Paris papers in connection
with a railroad case in which some French investors were interested,
but nothing more had met his eye.
Had he been of a different temperament he would have forgotten her and
that night in the improvised studio, but he was not constituted to
forget. He was constituted to remember, and to remember with all his
soul. Every day of his life he had missed her; never was there a night
that she was not in his thoughts before he dropped to sleep. What
would have been his career had fate brought them together before the
blight fell upon her? What intimacies, what enjoyment, what ideals
nurtured and made real. And the companionship, the instant sympathy,
the sureness of an echo in her heart, no matter how low and soft his
whisper! These thoughts were never absent from his mind.
Moreover, his life had been one of standards: the greatest painter,
the greatest picture, the finest piece of bronze. It was so when he
looked over curios at the dealer's: it was the choicest of its kind
that he must have; anything of trifling value, or anything
commonplace--he ignored. Olivia had also fixed for him a standard.
Compared to her, all other women were trite and incomplete. No matter
how beautiful they might be, a certain simplicity of manner was
lacking, or the coloring was bad, or the curve of the neck ungraceful.
All of these perfections, and countless more, made up Olivia's
personality, and unless the woman before him possessed these several
charms she failed to interest him. The inspection over and the mental
comparison at an end, a straightening of the shoulders and a knitting
of the brow would follow, ending in a far-away look in his brown eyes
and an unchecked sigh--as if the very hopelessness of the comparison
brought with it a certain pain. As to much of the life of the Quartier
about him, he shrank from it as he would from a pestilence. Certain
men never crossed his threshold--never dared.
One morning there came to him the crowning honor of his career. A new
hotel de ville was about to be erected in a neighboring city, and the
authorities had selected him to paint the great panel at the right of
the main entrance. As he threw the letter containing the proposition
on his desk and leaned back in his chair a smile of supreme
satisfaction lighted up his face. He could now carry out a scheme of
color and massing of figures which had been in his mind for years, but
which had heretofore been impossible owing to the limited area covered
by the canvases of his former orders. This space would give him all
the room he needed. The subject was to be an incident in the life of
Rochambeau, just before the siege of Yorktown. Gregg had been
selected on account of his nationality. Every latitude was given him,
and the treatment was to be distinctly his own.
It was while searching about the streets and cafes of Paris for types
to be used in the preliminary sketches for this, the supreme work so
far of his life, that he took a seat one afternoon in the early autumn
at a table outside one of the cheap cafes along the Seine. He could
study the faces of those passing, from a position of this kind. In his
coming picture there must necessarily be depicted a group of the great
Frenchman's followers, and a certain differentiation of feature would
be necessary. On this afternoon, then, he had taken his sketch-book
from his breast pocket and was about to make a memorandum of some type
that had just attracted him, when a young man in a student's cap
twisted his head to get a closer view of the work of Gregg's pencil.
An intrusion of this kind from any one but a student would have been
instantly resented by Adam. Not so, however, with the young fellow at
his elbow; these were his wards, no matter where he met them.
"Come closer, my boy," said Gregg in a low voice. "You belong to the
Quartier, do you not?"
"Yes."
"Are you English?"
"No, an American. I am from Maryland."
"From Maryland, you say!" exclaimed Adam with a sudden start, closing
his sketch-book and slipping it into his pocket. The name always
brought with it a certain rush of blood to his cheek--why, he could
never tell. "How long have you been in Paris, my lad?" He had moved
back now so that the stranger could find a seat beside him.
"Only a few months, sir. I was in London for a time and then came over
here. I'm working at Julian's"--and the young fellow squeezed himself
into the chair Adam had pulled out for him.
"Are you from one of the cities?"
"No, from Montgomery County, sir."
"That's next to Frederick, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
Both question and answer set his pulses to beating. Instantly there
rushed into his mind the picture he never forgot--the figure in white
standing at the head of the porch steps. He recalled the long curl
that lay next her throat, the light in her eyes, the warm pressure of
her hand; the wealth of bursting blossoms, their perfume filling the
spring air. How many years had passed since he had ridden through
those Maryland orchards!
For some minutes Adam sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the line
of trees fringing the parapet of the Seine. The boy kept silent; it
was for the older man to speak first again. Soon an overwhelming,
irresistible desire to break through the reserve of years surged over
the painter. He could ask this lad questions he had never asked any
one before--not that he had ever had an opportunity, for he had seen
no one who knew, and he had determined never to write. Here was his
chance.
"Perhaps you can tell me about some of the old residents. I visited
your part of the State many years ago--in the spring, I remember--and
met a few of the people. What has become of Major Dorsey, Mr. Talbot
and"--there was a slight pause--"and Judge Colton?"
"I don't know, sir. I've heard my father speak of them, but I never
saw any of them except Judge Colton. He used to stay at our house when
he held court. He lived up in Frederick County--a thin, solemn-looking
man, with white hair. He's dead now."
Gregg's fingers tightened convulsively. "Judge Colton dead! Are you
sure?"
"Yes--died the week I left home. Father went up to his funeral. He
rode in the carriage with Mrs. Colton, he told us when he came home.
They're pretty poor up there, too; the Judge lost all his money, I
heard."
Gregg paid for his coffee, rose from his seat, shook hands with the
boy, gave him his name and address in case he ever wanted advice or
help and continued his walk under the trees overlooking the river. The
news had come to him out of the sky, and in a way that partook almost
of the supernatural. There was no doubt in his mind of the truth. The
boy's Southern accent and his description of the man who ten years
before had denounced Olivia and himself, was confirmation enough.
As he forged along, elbowing his way among the throng that crowded the
sidewalk, the scene in the garret the night he parted from Olivia took
possession of him--the one scene in all their past relation on which
he never allowed himself to dwell. He recalled the tones of her voice,
the outline of her figure crouching at his knees, the squares of
moonlight illumining the floor and the room, and now once again he
listened to the story she had poured into his ears that fatal night.
By the time he had reached his studio his mind was made up. Olivia was
in trouble, perhaps in want. In the conditions about her she must be
threatened by many dangers and must suffer many privations. The old
ungovernable longing again gripped him, and with renewed force.
What was there in life but love? he said to himself. What else
counted? What were his triumphs, his honors, his position among his
brother painters, his welcome among his equals, compared to the love
of this woman? What happiness had they brought him? Then his mind
reverted to his past life. How hungry had he been for the touch of a
hand, the caress of a cheek, the whispered talk into responsive ears.
No! there was nothing--nothing but love! Everything else was but the
ashes of a bitter fruit.
He must see Olivia, and at once; the long wait was over now. What her
attitude of mind might be made no difference, or what her feeling
towards him for deserting her on that terrible night. To-day she was
unprotected, perhaps in want. To help her was a matter of honor.
With these thoughts crowding out every other, and with the impetus of
the resolve hot upon him, he opened his portfolio and wrote a note,
informing the committee in charge of the Rochambeau picture of his
sudden departure for America and the consequent impossibility of
executing the commission with which they had honored him.
Three days later, with a new joy surging through his veins, he set
sail for home.