THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER.
The winter went merrily on. Elise and Judy worked diligently at
Julien's, the hard academic drawing being good for them and helping to
counteract a tendency both had to rather slipshod methods. They gave
only the morning to the school and in the afternoon looked at pictures
or painted at home, if they could get a model among their acquaintances.
Judy made some charming memory sketches of the Paris streets. Seeing
some bit that took her fancy, going or coming, she would burn to get her
impression on canvas. She could hardly wait to get her hat and coat off,
but would come tearing into the studio, pulling off her wraps as she
came, hair flying, cheeks glowing, looking very like Brer Rabbit, Molly
declared, when he ran down the hill with the six tin plates fer the
chillun to sop outen; and the six tin cups fer the chillun to drink
outen; the coffee pot fer the fambly; and the hankcher fer hisself,
hollerin': "Gimme room, gimme room". They gave her room, all right,
especially if her medium happened to be water color, as Judy was a grand
splasher and spared neither water nor paint.
Elise was delighting in her steady work, the first she had ever been
allowed to do. She lacked Judy's sense of color but on the other hand
was very clever at sketching and getting a likeness, and had inherited
her father's inimitable powers of caricature.
"Oh," sighed Judy, "if I could only get the people in my memory sketches
to stand on their legs and seem to move as yours do, Elise, how happy I
should be!"
"And I," said Elise, "would give anything if I could see and put on
canvas the lovely colors that you can. I can't see anything but drab,
somehow. It must be a somberness of disposition that affects my
eyesight."
"But, Elise," broke in Molly, "you are not somber at all. You are full
of jokes and _bon mots_."
"Oh, that is just my way here with all of you lovely, good, happy
people. I am usually very dull and sober. Mamma says I can be the
stupidest company in all the world, and I am sure she is right."
Elise had indeed blossomed in the congenial atmosphere in which she
found herself for the first time in her life. Mr. Kinsella watched her
eagerly, seeing many things about her to remind him of his old friend
George O'Brien; and when the girl occasionally let drop some of the
worldly cynicism that she had perforce learned from her mother, the sad
look in his eyes would make her quickly repent her bitterness, and her
endeavors to bring back his rarely sweet smile were almost pathetic in
their eagerness. Mrs. Brown understood the girl thoroughly and did
everything in her power to make her feel that she was one of the little
coterie and a valued member; but Elise found it difficult to look upon
herself as anything but an outsider. She was sensitively afraid of being
in the way where Molly's and Judy's intimacy was concerned, and the
girls often had to force her to join them on a lark unless Mrs. Brown
was one of the party.
Pierce was "making good," as he expressed it, at the school. He had gone
through several years of hard drawing at the League in New York, so
decided that he could give his time to the painting that was to be his
life's work. His uncle was delighted with his progress, and felt that
his own youth was not lost at all but reincarnated in the glowing genius
of his beloved nephew.
Molly was studying at the Sorbonne, where her Cousin Philippe d'Ochtè
had duly installed her. It did not seem like studying, but more like
going to the theater for several hours a day. The lecturers were so
charming, so vivacious; their delivery was so dramatic, their gestures
so animated. She drank in every word and found herself understanding
French as she had never dreamed that she could.
She wrote on her stories when she was not attending the lectures. The
Latin Quarter had given her several good plots and she was eager to work
them out before Professor Green should put in his appearance, as she was
anxious to let him see she had accomplished something during her Paris
winter. That poor young man was still teaching the young idea how to
shoot at Wellington and saw no hope of his release before March.
Kent Brown wrote cheerful letters from Kentucky. He was very busy in his
chosen field of architecture and was learning French in a night class to
fit himself for the Beaux Arts when he would finally be able to get to
Paris. Aunt Clay was fighting the Trust vindictively as only she could
fight and was dying hard, but Kent predicted that the end was near; and
as soon as the suit was settled, he intended to take the first steamer
abroad.
Mrs. Brown was not concerning herself in the least about her financial
affairs. She felt sure that sooner or later she would realize on the
sale of oil lands, and in the meantime the economy she and Molly were
compelled to practice was rather exciting and interesting than annoying.
Mrs. Brown had the happy faculty of adaptability, and living on Rue Brea
she found there were many American students who were compelled to
exercise the greatest thrift to exist.
Poor Polly Perkins was a sad example of the unproductive consumer. He
had never earned a cent in his life and it looked as though he never
would earn one, but still he stayed on in Paris, hoping against hope
that his luck would change and that he could either sell a picture or
that his cubist theories would become so popular that pupils would flock
to him to sit at the feet of learning. He had a small monthly remittance
from home that enabled him to pay his rent and by the strictest economy
to clothe himself in the artistic garb of the Quarter (velveteen is
fortunately very durable and not very costly); also to feed and partly
nourish his far from robust little body. Mrs. Brown and Molly felt very
sorry for Polly.
"He is such a sad little fellow," said Molly, "and he is very kind and
good and takes Jo's teasing and bossing so patiently. He is really
sincere about his art, and just because we can't see his way, we ought
not to laugh at him. I believe Jo likes him a lot more than she knows
she does. It nearly kills her for him to make himself ridiculous. I am
crazy to see his portrait of Mrs. Pace. I do hope I can keep my face
straight when he unveils it for us."
"Mrs. Pace declares it is wonderful. She told your Cousin Sally and me
that it was a speaking likeness."
"Well, any likeness of Mrs. Pace would have to be a speaking likeness,"
laughed Molly.
Mrs. Brown and Molly were having one of their confidential talks, rather
rare at that time, as Judy and Elise were usually at home when Molly
was; or if mother and daughter did have a few moments alone, they were
interrupted by callers: the Kinsellas or the d'Ochtès, Jo Williams or
Polly Perkins or some of the new acquaintances they had made among the
students.
"Mother, don't you notice a kind of sadness about Elise lately? She does
not seem to me to be quite herself. Sometimes that old bitter way of
talking gets hold of her and although she knows it pains Mr. Kinsella,
she takes especial delight in giving vent to this satire when he is
present. I am glad he has gone off to the Riviera for a change. She is
devoted and grateful to him for influencing her mother to let her have
the winter in Paris, but she has taken a strange way to show her
gratitude in the last week or so.
"Did you see an almost noisy flirtation she was having with Philippe the
last time we had all of them in to tea? She was not a bit like her
sincere self, the natural, well-bred Elise that we all love so much, but
more like her mother with her smart-set manner and flippant witticisms.
I thought Cousin Sally was a little concerned about her precious
Philippe. Cousin Sally is much more Frenchified in her soul than she
dreams. I believe she is going to control the destiny of her son just as
much as any mother in France."
Mrs. Brown smiled. She had an idea that she knew what Sally Bolling's
plans for her son were: namely, her own Molly Brown. But since Molly
herself had no idea of it, she was the last woman in the world to
suggest it to her. She felt sure of her Molly, sure that no rank or
wealth would influence her in choosing a mate (if choose one she must).
She was confident that Molly liked Professor Green better than any man
she knew, and that Philippe d'Ochtè with all his charm and good looks,
wealth and position, did not appeal to her little daughter as did Edwin
Green, the quiet, scholarly professor with no wealth at all. She had
mentioned the professor only casually to her cousin, Sally d'Ochtè, as
she did not feel it was incumbent upon her to speak of him as Molly's
lover, since Molly herself did not consider him as one.
As for Philippe's heart, she did not think there was any danger of its
being broken. She had carefully observed her young cousin and could see
no sign of the languishing lover. That young man seemed to find
difficulty in deciding which young lady he considered the most
attractive. Molly was all that was lovely and sweet and delightful; Judy
had a singular charm for him, with her vivacious manner and originality;
Elise O'Brien evidently amused him and interested him greatly; and now a
new star had come on his horizon: Frances Andrews, whom he had met at
the Browns' and found very fascinating, a mixture of American and
French. Philippe had, in truth, met too many charmers in too short a
space of time and they had proved an embarrassment of riches, as it
were.
His Cousin Mildred Brown knew what safety in numbers there was for him,
and hoped he would not come to the conclusion that her Molly was the one
of all others for him. Not that she did not like him. She was very fond
of him and fully appreciated all of the d'Ochtè kindness to her and her
little crowd of girls; but she had in a measure given her word to Edwin
Green: that if he would not speak to Molly of his love for her for a
year, he would find her daughter still unattached. She felt that she had
done right in asking this of Professor Green. She was confident that she
knew Molly's inmost thoughts and feelings, and that if she had any
preference at all, it was for the young professor.
There were times when this anxious mother realized that one could not be
too cocksure about the heart of anyone, even of one's own flesh and
blood. Molly had noticed that Elise was not herself, and Mrs. Brown had
noticed that none of her girls were quite themselves. For the last few
days there had been a condition in the apartment in the Rue Brea of
nerves at high tension; tempers a little uncertain; feelings a little
tender. Mrs. Brown held her peace and endeavored tactfully to steer
their little _ménage_ safely over the shoals.
She thought she understood Elise. The poor girl was suffering with
jealousy of Judy, who had plunged into an intimacy with the Kinsellas,
uncle and nephew alike. She and Pierce would go on long tramps into the
country and play a kind of game of memory sketches, seeing which one
could bring home the greater number of impressions. Mr. Kinsella had
become interested in their game and had joined them on one of their
walks, becoming so fired with enthusiasm that he had actually tried to
do some painting himself. He had been quite successful, considering the
number of years that had passed since he had even so much as squeezed
paint out of a tube. They had asked Elise to join them, but she had
coldly refused. After those walks had become so popular with the trio,
then it was that Elise had begun a rather half-hearted flirtation with
Philippe d'Ochtè.
Judy was in one of her gayest and most irritating moods. "Getting ready
for what she calls 'a Judy Kean scrape,' I am afraid," thought Mrs.
Brown. "Our winter has been so peaceful and harmonious; but this mist
will clear away soon, I know."
Judy seemed to realize that she was hurting Elise in some way but to be
perfectly careless of the result. She never lost an opportunity to give
Molly a dig about Frances Andrews, and when that young woman had come to
the studio to tea, Judy had been very cold and almost rude to her.
Molly, on her side, was a little distrait and listless and very touchy.
"What is the matter with my girls?" thought poor Mrs. Brown. "For the
last week they have been like naughty children."
When Molly and her mother were having the little confidential talk
recorded above, the elder lady did not realize that two American mails
had come and that neither Judy nor Molly had received the bulky epistles
that they usually did,--Judy one from Kentucky, and Molly one from
Wellington. This was the cause of their unreasonable tempers. And had
she but known it, on the other side of the Atlantic her own son Kent was
eaten up with the green-eyed monster all because Judy had mentioned the
name of Kinsella six times in her last letter! And he, Kent, had only
that morning called his brother Paul "a conceited ass" because Paul had
on a cravat to match his socks; and he had been equally unreasonable
with a misguided waiter who brought him macaroni when he ordered
spaghetti.
As for the dignified Professor Green, he had actually "hollered" at a
poor freshman who had in reading some poetry pronounced "unshed tears"
as though unshed were in one syllable. "'Unched tears', I could almost
shed them," said the much-tried teacher; and all because a certain Molly
Brown had a cousin Philippe who was kind enough to see that she heard
all the lectures worth while at the Sorbonne.
Mrs. Brown decided to take Molly into her confidence and divulge to her
her ideas concerning Elise and Mr. Kinsella. Molly was astonished and
delighted.
"Oh, mother, how wise you are and how blind I am! I realize now how
Elise must have suffered and all for nothing. I just know Mr. Kinsella
adores her. I see it all. He went off just because he thought Elise was
serious about Philippe and he could not stay to see it. How I wish he
would come back and it could all be set right, and dear Elise could make
up to him for all the suffering her mother caused him! I do wish I could
put a flea in Judy's ear and she would behave."
"But you must not do that, my dear," said Mrs. Brown. "That would not be
quite fair to Elise. You see it is only surmise on our part."
"Right as usual, mother, but it is going to be hard to see things going
wrong when a word would right them. Judy means no harm and is really
doing nothing. She takes long walks with Mr. Kinsella and Pierce, and
Mr. Kinsella delights in Judy's frankness and originality. He likes to
be with her, but as for thinking of her in any other light than as
Pierce's playmate,--I don't believe it has entered his head."
"I am sure it hasn't; but Elise has had very few friends and has been
brought up in such a selfish world, that she is perhaps prone to see the
wrong motive. Molly, do you feel well? I have fancied you were a little
pale lately and not quite so enthusiastic as usual."
Just then there was a knock on the door and the concierge's little son
entered, bringing a stack of mail. One from Wellington was on top, and
Molly was able truthfully to tell her mother that she never felt better
in her life.