IV

Again Adam drew rein and looked over the brown hills of Maryland. No

wealth of bursting blossoms greeted him; the trees were bare of

leaves, their naked branches shivering in the keen November wind; in

the dips of the uneven roads the water lay in pools; above hung a

dull, gray sky telling of the coming cold; long lines of crows were

flying southward, while here and there a deserted cabin showed the

havoc the years of war had wrought--a havoc which had spared neither

friend nor foe.

None of these things disturbed Adam nor checked the flow of his

spirits. The cold would not reach his heart; there was a welcome

ahead--of eye and hand and heart. No word of him had reached her ears.

If she had forgiven him, thought of him at all, it was as across the

sea in some unknown land. Doubtless she still believed he had

forgotten her and their early days. This would make the surprise he

held in store for her all the more joyous.

As he neared the brow of the hill he began to con over in his mind the

exact words he would use when he was ushered into her presence. He

would pretend at first to be a wayfarer and ask for a night's lodging,

or, perhaps, it might be best to inquire for young Phil, who must now

be a great strapping lad. Then he began thinking out other surprises.

Of course she would know him--know him before he opened his lips. How

foolish, then, the pretence of deceiving her. What was really more

important was the way in which he would enter the house; some care

must therefore be exercised. If he should approach by the rear and

meet either Dinah or old Bundy, who must still be alive, of course

they would recognize him at once before he could caution them, the

back door being near the old kitchen. The best way would be to signal

Bundy and call to him before the old man could fully identify him. He

could then open the door softly and step in front of her.

Perhaps another good way would be to leave his horse in the stable,

and wait until it grew quite dark--the twilight was already

gathering--watch the lights being lit, and in this way discover in

which room she was sitting. Then he would creep under the window and

sing the old song they had listened to so often together, "Weep no

mo', me lady." She would know then who had come all these miles to see

her!

Soon his mind ran riot over the gown she would wear; how her hair

would be dressed--would she still be the same slight, graceful woman,

or had the years left their mark upon her? The eyes would be the same,

he knew, and the lips and dazzling teeth; and she would greet him with

that old fearless look in her face--courage and gentleness

combined--but would there be any lines about the dear mouth and under

the eyes? If so would she be willing to let him smooth them out? She

was free now! Both were--free to come and go without restraint. What

would he not do for her! All her future and his own would hereafter be

linked together. His life, his triumphs, his honors--everything would

be hers!

As these thoughts filled his mind something of the spring and buoyancy

of his earlier youth came back to him. He could hardly restrain

himself from shouting out in glee as he had done in the old days when

they had scampered through the woods together. With each familiar spot

his enthusiasm increased. There was the brook where they fished that

morning for gudgeons, when little Phil came so near falling into the

water; and there was the turn of the road that led to the

school-house; and the little cabin near the spring. It would not be

long now before he looked into her eyes!

The few friends who knew him as a grave and thoughtful man of purpose

and achievement would never have recognized him could they have

watched his face as he sat astride his horse, his whole body quivering

with expectancy, the hope that had lain dormant so long awake once

more. Now it was his turn to be glad.

He had reached the hill. Another moment and he would pass the mass of

evergreens to the left, and then the quaint dormer-windows and

chimneys of Derwood Manor would greet him.

At the bend of the road, on the very verge of the hill, he checked

his horse so suddenly as almost to throw him back on his haunches. A

sudden chill seized him, followed by a rush that sent the blood

tingling to the roots of his hair. Then he stood up in his stirrups as

if to see the better.

Below, against the background of ragged trees, stood two gaunt

chimneys. All about was blackened grass and half-burned timbers.

Derwood Manor had been burned to the ground!

Staggered by the sight, almost reeling from the saddle, he drove the

spurs into his horse, dashed through the ruined gate, and drew rein at

the one unburned cabin. A young negro woman stood in the door.

For an instant he could hardly trust himself to speak.

"I am Mr. Gregg," he said in a choking voice, "and was here ten years

ago. When did this happen?" and he pointed to the blackened ruins. He

had thrown himself from his saddle and stood looking into her face,

the bridle in his hand.

"In de summer time--las' August, I think."

"Where's your mistress? Was she here when the house was burned?"

"I ain't got no mist'ess--not now. Oh, you mean de young mist'ess what

used to lib here? Aunt Dinah cooked for 'em--she b'longed to 'em."

"Yes, yes," urged Gregg.

"She's daid!"

"My God! Not when the house was burned?"

"No, she warn't here. She was down in Baltimo'--she went dar after de

Jedge died. But she's daid, fo' sho', 'cause Aunt Dinah was wid her,

and she tol' me."

Adam dropped upon a bench outside the door of the cabin and began

passing his hand nervously over his forehead as if he would relieve a

pain he could not locate. A cold sweat stood on his brow; his knees

shook.

The woman kept her eyes on him. Such incidents were not uncommon.

Almost every day strangers on their way South had passed her cabin,

looking for friends they would never see again--a woman for her

husband; a mother for her son; a father for his children. Unknown

graves and burned homes could be found all the way to the Potomac and

beyond. This strong man who seemed to be an officer, was like all the

others.

For some minutes Adam sat with his head in his hand; his elbows on his

knees, the bridle still hooked over his wrist. Hot tears trickled

between his closed fingers and dropped into the dust at his feet. Then

he raised his head, and with a strong effort pulled himself together.

"And the little boy--or rather the son--he must be grown now. Philip

was his name--what has become of him?" He had regained something of

his old poise--his voice and manner showed it.

"I ain't never yeard what 'come 'o him. Went in de army, I reck'n.

Daid, I spec'--mos' ev'ybody's daid dat was here when I growed up."

Adam turned his head and looked once more at the blackened ruins.

What further story was yet to come from their ashes?

"One more question, please. Were you here when the fire came?"

"Yes, suh, me and my husban' was both here. He ain't home to-day. We

was takin' care of de place when it ketched fire--dat's how we come to

save dis cabin. Dere warn't no water and nobody to help, and dis was

all we could do."

Again Adam bowed his head. Was there nothing left?--nothing to recall

even her smile? Then slowly, as if he feared the result:

"Was anything saved--any furniture, or--pictures--or----"

"Nothin' but dem two chairs inside dar--and dat bench what you's

settin' on. Dey was on de lawn and dat's how we come to git 'em."

For some minutes Adam sat looking into the ground at his feet, his

eyes blurred with tears.

"Thank you," was all he said.

And once more he turned his horse's head towards the North.

V

A thin, shabby little man, with stooping shoulders, hooked nose and

velvet tread, stood before the card rack in the lower corridor of the

old studio building on Tenth Street. He was scanning the names,

beginning at the top floor and going down to the basement. Suddenly

his eyes glistened:

"Second floor," he whispered to himself. "Yes, of course; I knew it

all the time--second floor," and "second floor" he kept repeating as

he helped his small body up the steps by means of the hand-rail.

The little man earned his living by obtaining orders for portraits

which he turned over to the several painters, fitting the price to

their reputations, and by hunting up undoubted old masters, rare

porcelains, curios and miniatures for collectors. He was reasonably

honest, and his patrons followed his advice whenever it was backed by

somebody they knew. He was also cunning--softly, persuasively

cunning--with all the patience and philosophy of his race.

On this morning the little man had a Gilbert Stuart for sale, and what

was more to the point he had a customer for the masterpiece: Morlon,

the collector, of unlimited means and limited wall space, would buy it

provided Adam Gregg, the distinguished portrait painter, Member of

the International Jury, Commander of the Legion of Honor, Hors

Concours in Paris and Munich, etc., etc., would pronounce it genuine.

The distinguished painter never hesitated to give his services in

settling such matters. He delighted in doing it. Just as he always

delighted in criticising the work of any young student who came to him

for counsel--a habit he had learned in his life abroad--and always

with a hand on the boy's shoulder and a twinkle in his brown eyes that

robbed his words of any sting.

When dealers sought his help he was not so gracious. He disliked

dealers--another of his foreign prejudices. Tender-hearted as he was

he generally exploded with dynamic force--and he could explode when

anything stirred him--whenever a dealer attempted to make him a party

to anything that looked like fraud. He had once cut an assumed Corot

into ribbons with his pocket-knife--and this since he had been home in

New York, fifteen years now--and had then handed the strips back to

the dealer with the remark:

"Down in the Treasury they brand counterfeits with a die; I do it with

a knife. Send me the bill."

The little man, with the cunning of his race, knew this peculiarity,

and he also knew that ten chances to one the great painter would

receive him with a frigid look, and perhaps bow him out of the door.

So he had studied out and arranged a little game. Only the day before

he had obtained an order for a portrait to be painted by the best

man-painter of his time. The picture was to be full length and to

hang in the directors' room of a great corporation. This order he had

in his pocket in writing, signed by the secretary of the board.

Confirmations were sometimes valuable.

As the little man's body neared the great painter's door a certain

pleasurable sensation trickled through him. To catch a painter on a

hook baited with an order, and then catch a great collector like

Morlon on another hook baited with a painter, was admirable fishing.

With these thoughts in his mind he rapped timidly on Adam Gregg's

door, and was answered by a strong, cheery voice calling:

"Come in!"

The door swung back, the velvet curtains parted, and the little man

made a step into the great painter's spacious studio.

"Oh, I have such a fine sitter for you!" he whispered, with his hand

still grasping the curtain. "Such a distinguished-looking man he

is--like a pope--like a doge. It will make a great Franz Hal; such a

big spot of white hair and black coat and red face. He's coming

to-morrow and----"

"Who is coming to-morrow?" asked Gregg. His tone would have swamped

any other man. He had recognized the dealer with a simple

"Good-morning," and had kept his place before his easel, the overhead

light falling on his upturned mustache and crisp gray hair.

The little man rubbed his soft, flabby hands together, and tiptoed to

where Gregg stood as noiseless as a detective approaching a burglar.

"The big banker," he whispered. "Did you not get my letter? The price

is no object. I can show you the order." He had reached the easel now

and was standing with bent head, an unctuous smile playing about his

lips.

"No, I don't want to see it," remarked Gregg, squeezing a tube on his

palette. "I can't reach it for some time, you know."

"Yes, I have told them so, but the young gentleman wants to have the

entry made on the minutes and have the money appropriated. I had great

confidence, you see, in your goodness," and the little man touched his

forehead with one skinny finger and bowed obsequiously.

"I thought you said he had white hair."

"So he has. The portrait is to hang up in the directors' room of one

of the big copper companies. The young gentleman is a member of the

banking firm that is to pay for the picture, and is quite a young man.

He buys little curios of me now and then, and he asked me whom I would

recommend to paint the director's portrait, and, of course, there is

but one painter--" and the dealer bowed to the floor. "He's coming

to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock and will stay but a moment, for

he's a very busy man. You will, I know, receive him."

Gregg made no reply. Rich directors did not appeal to him; they were

generally flabby and well fed and out of drawing. If this one had

some color in him--and the dealer knew--some of the sort of vigor and

snap that would have appealed to Franz Hal, the case might be

different. The little man waited a moment, saw that Gregg was absorbed

in some brush stroke, and stepped back a pace or two. Better wait

until the master's mind was free. Then again he could sweep his eyes

around the interior without being detected--there was no telling what

might happen: some day there might be a sale, and then it would be

just as well to know where things like these could be found. Again he

tiptoed across the spacious room, stopping to gaze at the rich

tapestries lining the walls, examining with eye-glass held close the

gold snuffboxes and rare bits of Sevres and Dresden on the shelves of

the cabinet, and testing with his nervous fingers the quality of the

rich Utrecht velvet screening the door of an adjoining room.

Gregg kept at work, his square, strong shoulders, well-knit back and

straight limbs--a fulfilment of the promise of his youth--in

silhouette against the glare of the overhead light, its rays silvering

his iron-gray hair and the tips of his upturned mustache.

The tour of the room complete, the little man again bowed to the floor

and said in his softest voice:

"And you will receive him at four o'clock?"

"Yes, at four o'clock," answered Gregg, his eyes still on the canvas.

Again the little man's head bent low as he backed from the room. There

was no need of further talk. What Adam Gregg meant he said, and what

he said he meant. As he reached the velvet curtain through which he

had entered, he stopped.

"And now will you do something for me?"

Gregg lifted his chin with the movement of a big mastiff throwing up

his head when he scents danger. "I was waiting for that; then there is

a string to it?" he laughed.

The little man reddened to his eyebrows. The fish had not only seen

the hook under the bait, but knew who held the line.

"No, only that you come with me to Schenck's to see a portrait by

Gilbert Stuart," he pleaded. "I quite forgot--it is not often I do

forget; I must be getting old. It's to be sold to-morrow; Mr. Morlon

will buy it if you approve; he said so. I'm just from his house."

"I have a sitter at three."

"Yes, I know, but you always have a sitter. You must come--it means

something to me. I'll go and get a cab. It will not take half an hour.

It is such a beautiful Stuart. There's no doubt about it, not the

slightest; only you know Mr. Morlon, he's very exacting. He says, 'If

Mr. Gregg approves I will buy it.' These were his very words."

Gregg laid down his brushes. Little men like the one before him wasted

his time and irritated him. It was always this way--some underhand

business. Then the better side of him triumphed.

"All right!" he cried, the old sympathetic tone ringing out once more

in his voice. "Never mind about the cab; I need the air and the walk

will do me good; and then you know I can't see Mr. Morlon swindled,"

and he laughed merrily as he looked quizzically at the dealer.

* * * * *

The entrance of the distinguished painter into the gallery of the

auctioneer with his quick, alert manner and erect, military bearing,

the Legion of Honor in his lapel, soon attracted attention. Schenck

came up and shook Gregg's hands cordially, repeating his name aloud so

that every one could hear it--especially the prospective buyers, some

of whom gazed after him, remarking to their fellows, as they shielded

their lips with their catalogues: "That's Gregg!"--a name which needed

no further explanation.

"I have come to look at a Stuart that Mr. Morlon wants to buy if it is

genuine," said Gregg. "Tell me what you know about it. Where did it

come from?"

"I don't know; it was left on storage and is to be sold for expenses."

"Is it to be sold to the highest bidder?"

"No, at private sale."

"Where is it?"

"There--behind you."

Gregg turned and caught his breath.

Before him was a portrait of a young woman in an old-fashioned gown,

her golden hair enshrining a face of marvellous beauty, one long curl

straying down a shoulder of exquisite mould and finish, the whole

relieved by a background of blossoms held together in a quaint

earthen jar.

Strong man as he was, the shock almost overcame him. He reached out

his hand and grasped the back of a chair. Tears welled up in his eyes.

The auctioneer had been watching him closely.

"You seem to like it, Mr. Gregg."

"Yes," answered Adam in restrained, measured tones. "Yes, very much.

But you have been misinformed; it is not by Gilbert Stuart. It is by a

man I know, I saw him paint it. Tell Mr. Morlon so. Send it to my

studio, please, and credit this gentleman with the commission--I'll

buy it for old association's sake."

That night, when it grew quite dark, he took the portrait from where

the cartman had left it in his studio with its face to the wall--never

again would it suffer that indignity--and placed it under his

skylight. He wanted to see what the fading light would do--whether the

changed colors would once more unlock the secrets of a soul. Again, as

in the dim shimmer of the dawn, there struggled out from the wonderful

eyes that same pleading look--the look he had seen on its face the

morning he had left Derwood Manor--as if she needed help and was

appealing to him for sympathy. Then he flashed up the circle of gas

jets, flooding the studio with light. Instantly all her joyousness

returned. Once more there shone out the old happy smile and laughing

eyes. Loosening the nails that held the canvas, he freed the portrait

from its gaudy frame, and with the remark--"It was unframed when I

kissed it last," placed it over the mantel moving some curios out of

the way so it would rest the more firmly; then he dropped into a chair

before it.

He was in the past again--twenty-five years before, living once more

the long hours in the garret with its background of blossoms; roaming

the woods; listening to the sound of her joyous laughter when she

caught little Phil to her breast. Then there rang in his ear that

terrible moan when Judge Colton denounced them both; and the sob in

her voice as she sank at his feet that night. He could catch the very

perfume of her hair and feel the hot tears on his hand. If only the

lips would open and once more whisper his name! What had sent her

back, to soothe him with her beauty?

His whole life passed in review--his hopes, his ambitions, his

struggles; the years of loneliness, of misunderstanding, and the final

triumph--a triumph made all the more bitter by a fate which had

prevented her sharing it with him. With this there arose in his mind

the picture of two gaunt chimneys outlined against a cold, gray sky;

the trees bare of leaves, the grass shrivelled and brown--and then,

like a refrain, came the long-forgotten song:

"Weep no mo', me lady."

Raising himself to his feet he leaned over the mantel and looked long

and steadily into the eyes of the portrait.

"Olivia," he whispered--in a voice that was barely audible--"I did

not intend to be cruel. Forgive me, dear; there was nothing else to

do--it was the only way, my darling!"

He was still in his chair, the studio a blaze of light, when a brother

painter from the studio opposite, whose knock had been unheeded,

pushed open the door. Even then Gregg did not stir until the intruder

laid a hand upon his shoulder.