Tracy made slow progress with his work, for his mind wandered a good
deal. Many things were puzzling him. Finally a light burst upon him all
of a sudden—seemed to, at any rate—and he said to himself, “I’ve got
the clew at last—this man’s mind is off its balance; I don’t know how
much, but it’s off a point or two, sure; off enough to explain this
mess of perplexities, anyway. These dreadful chromos which he takes for
old masters; these villainous portraits—which to his frantic mind
represent Rossmores; the hatchments; the pompous name of this
ramshackle old crib—Rossmore Towers; and that odd assertion of his,
that I was expected. How could I be expected? that is, Lord Berkeley.
He knows by the papers that that person was burned up in the New
Gadsby. Why, hang it, he really doesn’t know _who_ he was expecting;
for his talk showed that he was not expecting an Englishman, or yet an
artist, yet I answer his requirements notwithstanding. He seems
sufficiently satisfied with me. Yes, he is a little off; in fact I am
afraid he is a good deal off, poor old gentleman. But he’s
interesting—all people in about his condition are, I suppose. I hope
he’ll like my work; I would like to come every day and study him. And
when I write my father—ah, that hurts! I mustn’t get on that subject;
it isn’t good for my spirits. Somebody coming—I must get to work. It’s
the old gentleman again. He looks bothered. Maybe my clothes are
suspicious; and they are—for an artist. If my conscience would allow me
to make a change, but that is out of the question. I wonder what he’s
making those passes in the air for, with his hands. I seem to be the
object of them. Can he be trying to mesmerize me? I don’t quite like
it. There’s something uncanny about it.”
The colonel muttered to himself, “It has an effect on him, I can see it
myself. That’s enough for one time, I reckon. He’s not very solid, yet,
I suppose, and I might disintegrate him. I’ll just put a sly question
or two at him, now, and see if I can find out what his condition is,
and where he’s from.”
He approached and said affably:
“Don’t let me disturb you, Mr. Tracy; I only want to take a little
glimpse of your work. Ah, that’s fine—that’s very fine indeed. You are
doing it elegantly. My daughter will be charmed with this. May I sit
down by you?”
“Oh, do; I shall be glad.”
“It won’t disturb you? I mean, won’t dissipate your inspirations?”
Tracy laughed and said they were not ethereal enough to be very easily
discommoded.
The colonel asked a number of cautious and well-considered
questions—questions which seemed pretty odd and flighty to Tracy—but
the answers conveyed the information desired, apparently, for the
colonel said to himself, with mixed pride and gratification:
“It’s a good job as far as I’ve got with it. He’s solid. Solid and
going to last, solid as the real thing.”
“It’s wonderful—wonderful. I believe I could—petrify him.” After a
little he asked, warily “Do you prefer being here, or—or there?”
“There? Where?”
“Why—er—where you’ve been?”
Tracy’s thought flew to his boarding-house, and he answered with
decision.
“Oh, _here_, much!”
The colonel was startled, and said to himself, “There’s no uncertain
ring about that. It indicates where _he’s_ been to, poor fellow. Well,
I am satisfied, now. I’m glad I got him out.”
He sat thinking, and thinking, and watching the brush go. At length he
said to himself, “Yes, it certainly seems to account for the failure of
my endeavors in poor Berkeley’s case. _He_ went in the other direction.
Well, it’s all right. He’s better off.”
Sally Sellers entered from the street, now, looking her divinest, and
the artist was introduced to her. It was a violent case of mutual love
at first sight, though neither party was entirely aware of the fact,
perhaps. The Englishman made this irrelevant remark to himself,
“Perhaps he is not insane, after all.” Sally sat down, and showed an
interest in Tracy’s work which greatly pleased him, and a benevolent
forgiveness of it which convinced him that the girl’s nature was cast
in a large mould. Sellers was anxious to report his discoveries to
Hawkins; so he took his leave, saying that if the two “young devotees
of the colored Muse” thought they could manage without him, he would go
and look after his affairs. The artist said to himself, “I think he is
a little eccentric, perhaps, but that is all.” He reproached himself
for having injuriously judged a man without giving him any fair chance
to show what he really was.
p204.jpg (29K)
Of course the stranger was very soon at his ease and chatting along
comfortably. The average American girl possesses the valuable qualities
of naturalness, honesty, and inoffensive straightforwardness; she is
nearly barren of troublesome conventions and artificialities,
consequently her presence and her ways are unembarrassing, and one is
acquainted with her and on the pleasantest terms with her before he
knows how it came about. This new acquaintanceship—friendship,
indeed—progressed swiftly; and the unusual swiftness of it, and the
thoroughness of it are sufficiently evidenced and established by one
noteworthy fact—that within the first half hour both parties had ceased
to be conscious of Tracy’s clothes. Later this consciousness was
re-awakened; it was then apparent to Gwendolen that she was almost
reconciled to them, and it was apparent to Tracy that he wasn’t. The
re-awakening was brought about by Gwendolen’s inviting the artist to
stay to dinner. He had to decline, because he wanted to live, now—that
is, now that there was something to live for—and he could not survive
in those clothes at a gentleman’s table. He thought he knew that. But
he went away happy, for he saw that Gwendolen was disappointed.
And whither did he go? He went straight to a slopshop and bought as
neat and reasonably well-fitting a suit of clothes as an Englishman
could be persuaded to wear. He said—_to_ himself, but _at_ his
conscience—“I know it’s wrong; but it would be wrong _not_ to do it;
and two wrongs do not make a right.”
This satisfied him, and made his heart light. Perhaps it will also
satisfy the reader—if he can make out what it means.
The old people were troubled about Gwendolen at dinner, because she was
so distraught and silent. If they had noticed, they would have found
that she was sufficiently alert and interested whenever the talk
stumbled upon the artist and his work; but they didn’t notice, and so
the chat would swap around to some other subject, and then somebody
would presently be privately worrying about Gwendolen again, and
wondering if she were not well, or if something had gone wrong in the
millinery line. Her mother offered her various reputable patent
medicines, and tonics with iron and other hardware in them, and her
father even proposed to send out for wine, relentless prohibitionist
and head of the order in the District of Columbia as he was, but these
kindnesses were all declined—thankfully, but with decision. At bedtime,
when the family were breaking up for the night, she privately looted
one of the brushes, saying to herself, “It’s the one he has used, the
most.”
The next morning Tracy went forth wearing his new suit, and equipped
with a pink in his button-hole—a daily attention from Puss. His whole
soul was full of Gwendolen Sellers, and this condition was an
inspiration, art-wise. All the morning his brush pawed nimbly away at
the canvases, almost without his awarity—awarity, in this sense being
the sense of being aware, though disputed by some authorities—turning
out marvel upon marvel, in the way of decorative accessories to the
portraits, with a felicity and celerity which amazed the veterans of
the firm and fetched out of them continuous explosions of applause.
Meantime Gwendolen was losing her morning, and many dollars. She
supposed Tracy was coming in the forenoon—a conclusion which she had
jumped to without outside help. So she tripped down stairs every little
while from her work-parlor to arrange the brushes and things over
again, and see if he had arrived. And when she was in her work-parlor
it was not profitable, but just the other way—as she found out to her
sorrow.
She had put in her idle moments during the last little while back, in
designing a particularly rare and capable gown for herself, and this
morning she set about making it up; but she was absent minded, and made
an irremediable botch of it. When she saw what she had done, she knew
the reason of it and the meaning of it; and she put her work away from
her and said she would accept the sign. And from that time forth she
came no more away from the Audience Chamber, but remained there and
waited. After luncheon she waited again. A whole hour. Then a great joy
welled up in her heart, for she saw him coming. So she flew back up
stairs thankful, and could hardly wait for him to miss the principal
brush, which she had mislaid down there, but knew where she had mislaid
it. However, all in good time the others were called in and couldn’t
find the brush, and then she was sent for, and she couldn’t find it
herself for some little time; but then she found it when the others had
gone away to hunt in the kitchen and down cellar and in the woodshed,
and all those other places where people look for things whose ways they
are not familiar with. So she gave him the brush, and remarked that she
ought to have seen that everything was ready for him, but it hadn’t
seemed necessary, because it was so early that she wasn’t expecting—but
she stopped there, surprised at herself for what she was saying; and he
felt caught and ashamed, and said to himself, “I knew my impatience
would drag me here before I was expected, and betray me, and that is
just what it has done; she sees straight through me—and is laughing at
me, inside, of course.”
Gwendolen was very much pleased, on one account, and a little the other
way in another; pleased with the new clothes and the improvement which
they had achieved; less pleased by the pink in the buttonhole.
Yesterday’s pink had hardly interested her; this one was just like it,
but somehow it had got her immediate attention, and kept it. She wished
she could think of some way of getting at its history in a properly
colorless and indifferent way. Presently she made a venture. She said:
“Whatever a man’s age may be, he can reduce it several years by putting
a bright-colored flower in his button-hole. I have often noticed that.
Is that your sex’s reason for wearing a boutonniere?”
“I fancy not, but certainly that reason would be a sufficient one. I’ve
never heard of the idea before.”
“You seem to prefer pinks. Is it on account of the color, or the form?”
“Oh no,” he said, simply, “they are given to me. I don’t think I have
any preference.”
“They are given to him,” she said to herself, and she felt a coldness
toward that pink. “I wonder who it is, and what she is like.” The
flower began to take up a good deal of room; it obtruded itself
everywhere, it intercepted all views, and marred them; it was becoming
exceedingly annoying and conspicuous for a little thing. “I wonder if
he cares for her.” That thought gave her a quite definite pain.