VI

By noon the next day half the occupants of the old studio building

came in to see the new portrait. He had not told of this one, but the

brother painter had spread the news of the "find" through the

building.

It was not the first time Adam Gregg's "finds" had been the subject of

discussion among his fellows. The sketch by Velasquez--now the pride

of the gallery that owned it--and which had been discovered by him in

a lumber-room over a market, and the Romney which had been doing duty

as a chimney-screen, had been the talk of the town for weeks.

"Looks more like a Sully than a Stuart," said the brother painter, his

eyes half closed to get the better effect. "Got all Sully's coloring."

"Stunning girl, anyway; doesn't make any difference who painted it,"

suggested another. "That kind seem to have died out. You read about

them in books, but I've never met one."

"Wonderful flesh," remarked a third with meaning in his voice. "If it

isn't by Sully it's by somebody who believed in him."

No one suspected Gregg's brush. His style had changed with the

years--so had his color: that palette had been set with the yellow,

red, and blue of sunshine, blossom and sky, and the paints had been

mixed with laughter. Nor did he tell them he himself had painted it.

This part of his life was guarded with the same care with which he

would have guarded his mother's secrets. Had he owned a shrine he

would have placed the picture over its altar that he might kneel

before it.

"These blue-eyed blondes," continued the first speaker meditatively

with his eyes on the portrait, "send a lot of men to the devil."

Gregg looked up, but made no reply. Both the tone of the man and his

words jarred on him.

"You can forget a brunette," he went on, "no matter how bewitching she

may be, but one of these peaches-and-cream girls--the blue-eyed,

red-lipped, white-skinned combination--takes hold of a fellow. This

man knew all about it--" and he waved his hand at the portrait.

"Is that all you see in it?" rejoined Gregg coldly. "Is there nothing

under the paint that appeals to you? Something of the soul of the

woman?"

"Yes, and that's just what counts in these blondes; that 'soul' you

talk about. That's what makes 'em dangerous. That's what captured

Hartman, I guess. Mrs. Bowdoin's got just that girl's coloring--not so

pretty," and he glanced at the canvas, "but along her lines. Old man

Bowdoin says he's ruined his home."

"Yes, and it's pretty rough I tell you on the old man," remarked a

third. "I saw him yesterday. The poor fellow is all broken up. There's

going to be a row, and a hot one, I hear. Pistols, divorce; the air's

blue; all sorts of things. Old fellow blusters, but he looks ten years

older."

Gregg had risen from his chair and stood facing the speaker, his brown

eyes flashing, his lips quivering. The talk had drifted in a direction

that set his blood to tingling.

"You tell me that Hartman has at last run away with Mrs. Bowdoin!" he

exclaimed angrily, his voice rising in intensity as he proceeded. "Has

he finally turned scoundrel and made an outcast of himself and of her?

I have been expecting something of the kind ever since I saw him in

Bowdoin's studio at his last reception. And do you really mean to tell

me that he has actually run off with her?"

"Well, not exactly run off--she's gone to her mother. She's only half

Bowdoin's age, you know. Hartman, of course, pooh-poohs the whole

thing."

"And he's Bowdoin's friend, I suppose you know!" Gregg continued in a

restrained, incisive tone.

"Yes, certainly, studied with him; that's where he met her so often."

Gregg began pacing the floor. Stopping short in his walk he turned and

faced the group about the fire:

"Does he realize," he burst out in a voice that rang through the room

and fastened every eye upon him--"what his cowardly weakness will

bring him? The misery it will entail; the sleepless nights, the fear,

the remorse that will follow? The outrage on Bowdoin's home, on his

children? Has he thought of the humiliation of the man deserted--the

degradation of the man who caused it? Does he know what it is to live

a life where every decent woman brands you as a scoundrel, and every

decent man looks upon you as a thief?"

The outburst astounded the room. One or two arose from their chairs

and stood looking at him in amazement. Gregg was often outspoken;

right was right with him, and wrong was wrong, and he never minced

matters. They loved him for his frankness and courage, but this

outbreak seemed entirely uncalled for by anything that had been said

or done. Surely there must be a personal side to his attitude. Had any

friend of his any such experience that he should explode so suddenly?

What made it all the more unaccountable was that he never talked

gossip, and never allowed any man to speak ill of a friend in his

presence, no matter what the cause--and Hartman was his friend. Why,

then, should he pounce upon him without proof of any kind other than

the gossip of the studios?

"Well, my dear Gregg, don't blame me," laughed the painter who had

borne the brunt of the outbreak and whom Adam had singled out to

listen to his attack. "I haven't run off with pretty Mrs. Bowdoin, or

made love to her either, have I?"

"But you still shake hands with Hartman, don't you?"

"Of course I do. I couldn't show him the door, could I? He's made an

ass of himself, but it's none of my business. They'll have to patch it

up between them. Don't get excited, Gregg, and don't forget that the

jury meets this afternoon at four o'clock in my studio."

"I will be there," replied Adam curtly, "but I cannot stay very long.

I have an appointment at four."

* * * * *

The room was full of his brother painters when, some hours later, his

red Spanish _boina_ on his head--he always wore it when at work--Gregg

entered the studio on the floor below his own. It was the first

informal meeting of the Jury of the Academy, and an important one.

Some of the men were grouped about the fire, smoking, or lolling in

their chairs; others were stretched out on the lounges; two or three

were looking over some etchings that had been brought in by a

fellow-member. All had been awaiting Adam's arrival. Those who had

been gathered about the portrait were discussing Gregg's denunciation

of Hartman. All agreed that with their knowledge of the man's

universal kindness and courtesy that the outburst was as unaccountable

as it was astounding.

Gregg shook hands with the group, one by one, those who were reclining

rising to their feet and the others pressing forward to greet him;

then drawing out a chair at the end of the long table, he called the

meeting to order. As he took his seat a man of thirty in an overcoat,

his hat in his hand, walked hurriedly in through the open door, and

stood for a moment looking about him, a sickly, wavering expression on

his face, as if uncertain of his welcome. It was Hartman.

He was a member of the Council, and therefore privileged to attend any

meeting.

Gregg pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, a certain flash of

indignation in his eyes that few of his friends had ever seen.

"Stop where you are, Mr. Hartman," he said in low, cutting tones. "I

prefer to conduct this meeting without you."

"And I prefer to stay where I am," answered Hartman in an unsteady

voice, gazing about as if in search of some friendly eye. "I have as

much right to be at this meeting as you have," he continued, advancing

towards the pile of coats and hats.

Adam was in front of him now, his big, broad frame almost touching the

intruder. The quick, determined movement meant danger. No one had ever

seen Gregg so stirred.

"You will do as I tell you, sir! Leave the room--now--at once! Do you

hear me!"

Every man was on his feet. Those who had heard Gregg's outburst a few

hours before knew the reason. Others were entirely ignorant of the

cause of his wrath.

"You are not responsible for me or my actions. I'm a man who can----"

"Man! You are not a man, sir! You are a thief, one who steals into a

brother painter's home and robs him of everything he holds dear. Get

out of here! Go and hide yourself in the uttermost parts of the earth

where no man you ever saw will know you! Jump into the sea--destroy

yourself! Go, you leper! Savages protect their women!"

He had his fingers in Hartman's collar now and was backing him towards

the door. One or two men tried to stop him, but Gregg's voice rang out

clear:

"Keep your hands off! Out he goes, if I have to throw him downstairs.

Stand back, all of you--" and with a mighty effort he caught the

younger and apparently stronger man under the armpits and hurled him

through the open doorway.

For some seconds no one spoke. The suddenness of the attack, the

uncontrollable anger of the distinguished painter--so gentle and

forbearing always--the tremendous strength of the man; the cowering

look on Hartman's face--a look that plainly told of his guilt--had

stunned every one in the room.

Gregg broke the silence. He had locked the door on Hartman and was

again in his chair by the table, a flushed face and rumpled shirt the

only marks of the encounter.

"I owe you an apology, gentlemen," he said, adjusting his cuffs and

speaking in the same voice with which he would have asked for a match

to light his cigar. "I did not intend to disturb the meeting, but

there are some things I cannot stand. We have curs prowling around in

society, walking in and out of decent homes, trusted and believed in,

that are twice as dangerous as mad dogs. Hartman is one of them. When

they bite they kill. The only way is to shut your doors in their

faces. That I shall do whenever one crosses my path. And now, if you

will excuse me, I will ask one of you to fill my place and let me go

back to my studio. I have an appointment at four, as I told you this

morning, and I'm late."

Once in the corridor he stepped to the rail, looked over the banisters

as if in expectation of seeing the object of his wrath, and slowly

mounted the stairs to his studio. As he approached the velvet curtain

he heard through the half-closed door a heavy step. Some one was

walking about inside. Was Hartman waiting for him to renew the

conflict? he wondered. Pushing aside the curtain he stepped boldly in.

On the mat before the fire, with his back to the door, his eyes fixed

on Olivia's portrait, stood a young man he had never seen before. As

the overhead light fell on his glossy hair and over his clean-shaven

face and well-groomed body, Gregg noticed that he belonged to the

class of prosperous business men of the day. This was not only

apparent in the way his well-cut clothes fitted his slender

body--perfect in appointment, from the bunch of violets in his

button-hole to his polished shoes--but in his quick movements.

"Have I made a mistake?" the young man asked in a crisp, decisive

voice. "This is Mr. Adam Gregg, is it not? I found your door on a

crack and thought you were not far off."

"No, you haven't made a mistake," answered Adam courteously, startled

out of his mood by the bearing and kindly greeting of the stranger.

"My name is Gregg--what can I do for you?" All trace of his former

agitation was gone now.

"Well, I am here on behalf of my special partner, Mr. Eggleston, who

is also a director in one of our companies, and who had an appointment

with you at four o'clock. He is detained at the trust company's

office, and I came in his stead. The portrait, as I suppose that

little fellow--I forget his name--has told you, is to hang up in the

office of the Portage Copper Company--that's our company. We want a

full-sized portrait--big and important. Mr. Eggleston is a good deal

of a man, you know, and there's a business side to it--business side

to most everything in the Street," this came with a half-laugh. "I'll

tell you about that later. You never saw him, of course. No?--he's so

busy he doesn't get around much uptown. Fine, large, rather

imposing-looking--white hair, red face and big hands--lots of color

about him--ought to paint him, I suppose, with his hand on a globe, or

some books. I'm not posted on these things, but you'll know when you

see him. He'll be up any day next week that you say. We want it right

away, of course. Some business in that, too," and another faint laugh

escaped his lips.

All this time Gregg had been standing in front of the stranger waiting

for an opportunity to offer him his hand and tell how sorry he was to

have kept him waiting, explaining the meeting of the jury and his

being obliged to be present, but the flow of talk had continued

without a break and in a way that began to attract his attention.

"Got a nice place here," the young man rattled on, gazing about him as

he spoke; "first time I was ever in a studio, and first time, too, I

ever met a real painter in his workshop. I'm so tied down. Valuable,

these things you've got here, too--cost a lot of money. I buy a few

myself now and then. By the bye, while I was waiting for you to come

in I couldn't help looking at the pictures and things."

He had stepped closer now, his eyes boring into Gregg's as if he were

trying to read his mind. For an instant Gregg thought an extra

cocktail on the way uptown was the cause of his garrulousness.

"Of course I know it's all right, Mr. Gregg, or you wouldn't have

it--and you needn't tell me if you don't want to--maybe I oughtn't to

ask, been so long ago and everything lost track of--but you won't feel

offended if I do, will you?" He had his hand on Gregg's shoulder now,

his lips quivering, a peculiar look in his eyes. "Come across here

with me, please. No--this way, to the fireplace. Where did you get

that portrait?"

Gregg felt a sudden relief. The man wasn't drunk--it was the beauty of

the picture which had affected him. He could forgive him that,

although he felt sure the next move would be an offer to purchase it.

He had met his kind before.

"I bought it at private sale," he answered simply.

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"Who sold it to you?"

"Schenck, the auctioneer."

"Will you sell it to me?"

"No; I never sell anything of that kind."

"Not at a large price?"

"Not any price," Gregg replied in a decided tone. It was just as he

expected. These men of business gauge everything by their bank

accounts. One of them had had the impertinence to ask him to fill up a

blank check for the contents of his studio.

"Where did it come from?"

"Schenck told me he didn't know. It was held for storage. It seems to

interest you?" There was a slight tone of resentment in Gregg's voice.

"Yes, it does, more than I can tell you, more than you can

understand." His voice had lost its nervousness now.

"It reminds you of some one, perhaps?" asked Gregg. There might, after

all, be some spark of sentiment in the young man.

"Yes, it does," he continued, devouring it with his eyes. "I haven't

seen it since I was a child."

"You know it, then!" It was Gregg's turn to be surprised. "Where did

you see it, may I ask?"

"Down in Maryland, at Derwood Manor, before it was burned."

The blood mounted to Gregg's cheeks and he was about to speak. Then he

checked himself. He did not want to know of the portrait's

vicissitudes. That it was now where he could be locked up with it,

made up for everything it had come through.

"Yes, these memories are very curious," remarked Gregg in a more

gentle tone. "It reminds me also of some one I once knew. Don't you

think it is very beautiful?"

"Beautiful! _Beautiful!_ It's the most beautiful thing in the world to

me! Why, it's my own mother, Mr. Gregg!"

"You--your own mother! What's your name?"

"Philip Colton."