Ever since her conversation with Dorothy Winslow, Ruth had wondered
whether it would not be better if she had taken painting and composition
instead of portrait painting in the morning. But she didn’t like to give
up the portrait painting and she knew that if she suggested attending
one of the evening classes Gloria would object that she was working too
hard. Of course she was her own mistress, but it wasn’t pleasant to meet
with opposition nevertheless.
She spoke to Dorothy about it.
“You can’t get everything in a year, and it all counts. I don’t think
one can tell exactly what one’s forte is until one has studied for some
time. Better keep on as you are. Certainly don’t give up the portrait
class. Bridgelow is wonderful,” Dorothy had assured her, “and you may
not get a chance to study under him again.”
It seemed to Ruth that she was living a sort of double life, her hours
among the art students were so separate from her life with the people at
the house on Gramercy Square. And in a way she was not actually a part
of either life. Among the students she felt a certain reticence, because
they were most of them, at least the ones she had met, very obviously
poor. They were paying their own way by working at things far removed
from art. One of the girls painted stereopticon slides for illustrated
songs, and some of the boys worked at night as waiters. They lived in
studios and cooked their own meals, and Ruth was ashamed to let them
know exactly where or how she lived. She heard their chatter of parties
to which she had not been invited, and she could not control the feeling
that she was inferior to these people because she had an assured income.
The morning following the opening of Terry Riordan’s play Ruth had left
the house without seeing Gloria, and the thought of her aunt as she had
last seen her, was with her all morning. In the brief time between
classes she was glad to join the group of students who always hurried to
a little restaurant on Eighth Avenue for a bite of lunch, or a “bolt of
lunch” as Nels Zord called it. Nels was a Norwegian, possibly
twenty-five years old who spent every other year studying. He was
supposed to have a great amount of talent and he sometimes sold
things—seascapes mostly, small canvases of a delicacy that seemed
incredible in view of his huge, thick hands. When he was not in New
York, he went on long voyages as a sailor before the mast, where he
satisfied his muscles with hard work and his soul with adventure and
gathered material to be painted from half finished sketches and from
memory when he returned to New York. He had gone to sea first as a boy
of fifteen, from his home in Seattle and always chose sailing vessels
from preference. He had two passions, art and food, and had never yet
been known to give a girl anything but the most comradely attentions,
which was, perhaps, why he was so much sought after by them.
Ruth, Dorothy, and Nels walked together to the lunch room. All of the
students were talking about the water colour show that was to open at
the Academy the following Tuesday. On Monday evening there was to be a
private view, and Nels Zord, by virtue of being an exhibitor was one of
the few students who would be admitted. He was permitted one guest and
had surprised every one by inviting Dorothy Winslow. She told the news
to Ruth as they walked along.
“I didn’t,” said Nels with what seemed to Ruth unnecessary rudeness.
“You invited yourself, and I hadn’t asked any one else. Might as well
take you as any one.”
“Far be it from me to care how I get there,” said Dorothy with perfect
good nature. “It’s a shame that Ruth can’t go too. You’ve never been to
a private view at a big show like this, have you?”
“No, and I’d love to go, but I suppose there’s no chance.”
“I’ll tell you what; I think I know how you can get it,” said Nels. “I
know a chap, old fellow, one of the patrons. He always goes and he’s
always alone. I don’t see why he wouldn’t take you—he’s not one of those
old birds who goes in for young girls—not old enough I guess—and you’re
quiet looking and everything. You know he ought to be proud to take
you,” he ended up in what was for him a burst of enthusiasm, but Ruth
was rather inclined to be offended.
“Really, I’d much rather not go than to go in that way—” she began
explaining.
“Now don’t be foolish,” interrupted Dorothy. “You know that any one of
us will go in any way possible. It doesn’t matter how we get there so
long as we do get there. At the private view we’ll have a chance to
really see the pictures and to hear the criticisms of the people whose
opinion counts. Do be sensible and come with us.”
“Of course I want to go, just as all of us do,” admitted Ruth, “but not
badly enough to go as the unwelcome guest of a man I’ve never met.”
“You don’t understand,” said Nels. “He won’t be taking you there,
exactly. It’s just this way. He’s allowed one guest, I’ve never known
him to bring one. Some one might just as well use that guest card. He’s
a friend of mine and I’ll ask him for it. If it’s necessary for him to
appear with you, we can all meet at the Academy. By the way, a private
view is awfully dressy—have you got evening things?”
Ruth wasn’t surprised at the question. She knew that lots of the
students considered themselves lucky to possess one costume suitable for
the street. She knew two girls who shared a studio and one evening gown
together. They wore the gown turn about, and couldn’t both accept an
invitation to the same party. Knowing these things she nodded without
comment.
“Of course, she has everything,” explained Dorothy.
“Well, I haven’t you know—always put on my Latin quartier clothes,
things I never dared wear in Paris, but they go big enough here,
especially when worn by an exhibitor,” said Nels.
“I don’t know what I shall wear—probably borrow a frock from some one.”
“Would you—do you think you could wear one of mine?” asked Ruth
hesitatingly.
“D’you mean to say you’ve got two?” asked Dorothy with mock amazement.
“If you think it can be arranged without too much trouble, I would like
to go,” admitted Ruth.
“Simplest thing in the world,” said Nels who was rather proud of his
influential friend.
The conversation about the water colour show drove thoughts of Gloria
out of Ruth’s mind until she started homeward from the League. She
wondered how Gloria would look, whether she would dare speak of the
happening of the night before, whether Gloria would be shut in her own
room and refuse to see her.
Gloria’s voice called joyously to her as she opened the door. She was
standing in the midst of innumerable garments, frocks, hats, shoes,
lingerie, gloves, all in a state of wild confusion, while George dragged
huge trunks into the few empty spaces on the floor, and Amy stood by,
trying to fold and classify garments as Gloria threw them about.
“I’m going to Palm Beach—want to come along?” she called cheerfully.
“I can’t very well leave school, Gloria, but if you want to close the
house I can go to an hotel for a few weeks. How long are you going to be
gone—when are you going?”
“I don’t know. I just know I’ve got to get away for a while. I hate New
York. I’m going as soon as I can get packed, but there’s no reason for
closing the house. You’re here and Billie will be here at least until
she gets an engagement, and I’ll leave George and Amy. I just thought if
you wanted to come you might.”
“Of course I’d love to go; I’ve never been to Florida, but I can’t leave
school just now. Can I help?”
“Dive in; the sooner the trunks are packed the sooner I go.”
“Have you bought a ticket and made reservations?” asked Ruth
practically.
“Time enough for that later. I can’t go today anyway you know. I just
thought of it an hour ago.”
“If Miss Mayfield will pardon a suggestion from me,” said George, “I
would suggest that Palm Beach will be very dull just now—It is too early
for the season to have begun and the hotels will be quite deserted.”
“That’s just why I’m going—I’m fed up with people,” said Gloria, and
George subsided into sullen silence.
One of the few things about Gloria that Ruth did not quite like was her
treatment of her servants. She was quite as apt to ask the advice of
George or Amy as one of her friends, and in consequence they often
offered it unsolicited. With Amy this course was all right. She would
storm and scold in true Southern negro fashion and take the resulting
scolding in good part, but if Gloria reprimanded George he would retire
sullenly to the lower regions of the house and pack his luggage and then
appear with great dignity to offer his resignation. Whereupon Gloria
would beg him to stay and he would consent to do so with apparent
reluctance. Once Ruth had seen her put her hand on his arm with a
familiar gesture while she pleaded with him to stay. The sight sent a
cold shudder over her. To Ruth there was something sinister and
repulsive about George, and she was almost sure that her feeling of
distrust and dislike was fully returned.
He went out now in answer to the ringing door bell, and returned with
Terry Riordan, who stood looking in with wide, questioning eyes. Ruth
watched his face intently, keen to see whether he would show regret at
Gloria’s going away.
“Glad I got here in time to say good-bye,” he said, smiling. “Who’s
going away?”
“I thought George told you over the ’phone that I couldn’t see any one
today,” said Gloria. “I’m packing to go to Palm Beach, and now that
you’ve satisfied your curiosity, perhaps you’ll run along.”
“Not at all; I’m going to stay to argue with you. In the first place why
go away and in the second why go to Palm Beach when there are so many
interesting places to go?”
“I’m going away because I’m tired of playwrights and actors and
actresses, and Fifth Avenue and Broadway, and if you have any better
place than Palm Beach to suggest, I will be very glad to go there—only
don’t say the North Pole, for I’ve been packing summer clothing and
don’t want to do it all over again.”
“Can’t you say anything to her?” he asked, smiling at Ruth.
She shook her head, answering him with her eyes and again she had the
feeling of a secret understanding between herself and Terry.
“Haven’t you any control over this house, George?” he asked perching on
top of one of the trunks and lighting a cigarette.
George made no answer, but Amy grinned her delight. With her mistress
gone George would assume more upper servant airs than ever and she would
have no court of justice to which she could refer in time of domestic
strife.
“Please get off that trunk, Terry; there are chairs to sit on,” said
Gloria, drawing the red flower of her lip under her white teeth.
“How can I sit on a chair when there are hats and boots on every one?”
“Here, I’ll clear one for you,” said Gloria, and sent a hat sailing
across the room.
Ruth would never dare throw a hat across the room, no matter how much
she felt like it. She watched Gloria in a perfect passion of admiration
that half drowned the sharp pain in her heart because she knew that
Terry also saw Gloria’s beauty and felt the charm of her.
“If you really must go away, and I can understand that too, for I’d like
to get away myself, why not take a sea voyage—that’s the real thing in
rest cures. Go to San Francisco by rail and then take one of those boats
that run to Hawaii and Samoa and on to Sydney if you don’t want to stop
at Samoa. Let me see, five days to San Francisco, eighteen days to
Sydney, not counting a long stopover in Hawaii and Samoa, and by the
time you return I’ll have a comedy written for you,—a comedy in which
the entire plot rests on the heroine’s being not less than six feet
tall—”
“Don’t tease me, Terry—it isn’t fair—you’ve been writing that comedy for
three years now—if you only would write it I wouldn’t care even if I had
to play opposite a giant from a circus—”
She was near tears, so near that Ruth could hardly restrain an impulse
to go to her and throw her arms about her, when Terry evidently with the
same impulse went to her and did throw one arm about her shoulders. Ruth
saw now that they were exactly the same height.
“My dear girl, I’m not teasing. The comedy is half finished now, only I
wanted to keep it for a surprise, and you won’t play opposite a circus
giant. If necessary I’ll play opposite you myself and wear French
heels.”
“Don’t believe him, Ruth,” said Gloria, smiling now. “He’s always
promising to write a comedy for me, but he doesn’t mean it.”
“Wait and see,” said Terry. “You do believe me, don’t you Ruth?”
But Ruth, gazing hopelessly on the splendid beauty of her aunt, and
seeing Terry’s arm across her shoulder could not answer.
“I’ll give you four weeks more to make good, Terry,” said Gloria. “Clear
all the junk away, George; I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going away for
a while.”
Terry Riordan forebore to laugh, but his eyes again sought Ruth’s in
secret understanding.
“I think I’ll go up and work a while before dinner,” she said. It was
better to leave them alone, and she must work! she must work! she must
work!
Pursuant to her conversation with Dorothy Winslow in which she had
announced her intention of painting landscapes with figures, Ruth had
begun a new canvas—a corner of the park with two children playing under
the trees. She had been trying to get an effect of sunlight falling
through green leaves. It was badly done. She could see that now.
Besides, she didn’t want to paint children. She painted them out with
great sweeps of her brush. They were stiff, horrid, complacent little
creatures. Instead she would have only one figure, a shabby, old woman
crouching on a park bench, and she would take out the sunlight too. A
thin mist of rain would be falling and the sky would be murky with a
faint, coppery glow where the sun sought to penetrate through the
clouds, but the chief interest of the picture would centre about the
figure of the old woman, holding her tattered cloak about her under the
uncertain shelter of the trees.
If only she had the colour sense of Nels Zord—she would get it in time.
It was only a question of more work and more work. Would Terry Riordan
really play opposite Gloria in the new comedy? The play was the task
that Gloria had set him and when it was produced Terry could claim his
reward. She would go to the wedding and no one would ever guess that her
heart was broken. Afterward she would live in retirement and paint; or
perhaps she would travel and one day be thirty-five years old and
beautiful with a strange, sad beauty and men would love her, but she
would refuse them all ever so gently.
She worked steadily for almost an hour and then she began to wonder
whether Amy would have a very good dinner and how many would be there.
Perhaps Terry Riordan would stay. And she decided to put on a new dinner
frock that she had bought and wondered if she could dress her hair as
Gloria did, and tried it, but found it unsuccessful and reverted to her
own simple coiffure.
When she went down she found that Terry had indeed stayed for dinner and
Gloria had changed to a gorgeous gown and Billie Irwin, who had come in
late from the hair-dresser’s, had acquired a splendid aureole of golden
hair in place of the streaked blond of yesterday, and Philip Noel was
trying out some new music and they had all promised to stay to dinner
and afterward there was a play that they simply must see, at least the
second act. There was really nothing worth listening to after the second
act, and all conversation about going away or about the new comedy
seemed to be forgotten.
“You’ll have a surprise on Sunday morning,” Terry told her.
“What kind of a surprise?” asked Ruth.
“Can’t tell now; it’s a secret. Gloria knows, though.”
“It’s a very nice surprise,” said Gloria.
Ruth glanced quickly from one to the other. Perhaps they were going to
be married and would announce the fact on Sunday.
“Can’t I guess?” she asked, trying to imitate their gay mood.
“No! you’d never guess,” said Gloria, “but it’s really a wonderful
surprise. Only you mustn’t ask questions—you’ll find out at breakfast
Sunday morning and not a moment sooner.”