"MARGARET GRANT--TOP FLOOR"
One spring morning, some time after the visit of the Countess to the
club and the painting of her portrait by Oliver--the incident had
become the talk of the studios before the week was out--Oliver sat in
his own rooms on the top floor, drinking his coffee--the coffee he had
boiled himself. The janitor had just slipped two letters through a slit
in the door. Both lay on the floor within reach of his hand. One was
from his mother, bearing the postmark of his native city; the other was
from a prominent picture-dealer on Broadway, with a gallery and big
window looking out on the street.
Oliver broke the seal of his mother's letter, and moved his chair so
that the light from the overhead skylight would fall on its pages.
It read as follows:
"My Darling Boy: Your father goes to you to-morrow. Mr. Cobb was here
last night with a letter from some gentleman of means with whom he has
been corresponding. They want to see the motor, so your father and
Nathan leave on the early train.
"This man's continued kindness is a constant surprise to me. I have
always thought it was he who prevented the mortgage from being
foreclosed, but I never knew until yesterday that he had written his
name under my own the second time the note was to be renewed, and that
he has kept it there ever since. I cannot speak of this to him, nor
must you, if you see him, for poor old Mr. Steiger told me in
confidence. I am the more glad now that we have always paid the
interest on the note. The next payment, which you have just sent me,
due on the first of the month, is now in my bureau-drawer ready for the
bank, but I will not have to use it now.
"Whether the mortgage can ever be paid off I do not know, for the farm
is ruined, I fear. Mr. Mowbray's cousin, who drove over last week to
see what was left of the plantations in that section, writes me that
there is nothing remaining of your grandfather's place but the bare
ground and the house. All the fences have been burned and many of the
beautiful trees cut down for firewood. The Government still occupies
the house and one of the outbuildings, although most of the hospital
stores have been moved away. The last half-year's rent which was held
back, owing to some new ruling from Washington, came, I am thankful to
say, two days ago in a check from the paymaster here, owing to Mr.
Cobb's intercession. He never loses an opportunity to praise you for
what you did for that poor young soldier, and Mr. Steiger told me that
when those in authority heard from Mr. Cobb which Mrs. Horn it was,
they ordered the rent paid at once. He is always doing just such
kindnesses for us. But for this rental I don't know how we would have
been able to live and take care of those dependent upon us. We little
knew, my son, when we both strove so hard to save the farm that it
would really be our only support. This rent, however, will soon cease
and I tremble for the future. I can only pray my Heavenly Father that
something will come out of this visit to New York. It is our only hope
now.
"Don't lose sight of your father for a moment, my son. He is not well
and gets easily fatigued, and although he is greatly elated over his
promised success, as we all are--and he certainly deserves to be--I
think you will see a great change in him these last few months. I would
not have consented to his going had not Nathan gone with him. Nathan
insists upon paying the expenses of the trip; he says it is only fair
that he should, as your father has given him an interest in the motor.
I earnestly hope for some results, for I shall have no peace until the
whole amount of the mortgage is paid back to the bank and you and Mr.
Cobb are released from the burden, so heavy on you, my boy.
"There is no other news to tell you. Sue Clayton brought her boy in
to-day. He is a sweet little fellow and has Sue's eyes. She has named
him John Clayton, after her father. They have made another attempt to
find the Colonel's body on the battle-field, but without success. I am
afraid it will never be recovered.
"Lavinia sends her love. She has been much better lately. Her army
hospital work has weighed upon her, I think. Three years was too long.
"I have the last newspaper notices of your academy picture pinned on my
cushion, and I show them to everybody who comes in. They always delight
me. You have had a hard fight, my son, but you are winning now. No one
rejoices more than I do in your success. As you said in your last
letter, the times have really changed. They certainly have for me.
Sorrow and suffering have made me see many things in a different light
these last few years.
"Malachi and Hannah are well, but the old man seems quite feeble at
times.
"Your loving mother,
"Sallie T. Horn."
Dear lady, with your soft white hair and deep brown eyes that have so
often looked into mine! How dreary were those long days of hate and
misery! How wise and helpful you were to every living soul who sought
your aid, friend and foe alike. Your great heart sheltered and
comforted them all.
Oliver read the letter through and put his lips to the signature. In
all his life he had never failed to kiss his mother's name at the
bottom of her letters. The only difference was that now he kissed them
with an added reverence. The fact of his having proved himself right
and her wrong in the choice of his profession made loyalty with him the
more tender.
"Dear, dear mother!" he said to himself. "You have had so much trouble
lately, and you have been so plucky through it all." He stopped, looked
dreamily across the room, and added with a sigh: "But she has not said
one word about Madge; not one single word. She doesn't answer that part
of my letter; she doesn't intend to."
Then he opened the other communication which read:
"Dear Mr. Horn: Please call here in the morning. I have some good news
for you.
"John Snedecor."
Oliver turned the picture-dealer's letter over, peered into the
envelope as if he expected to find some trace of the good news tucked
away in its corners, lifted the tray holding his frugal breakfast, and
laid it on the floor outside his door ready for the janitor's morning
round. Then, picking up his hat, he locked his door, hung an "out card"
on the knob, and, strolling downstairs, stepped into the fresh morning
air. He knew the dealer well. He had placed two of old Mr. Crocker's
pictures with him--one of which had been sold.
When he reached Snedecor's gallery he found the big window surrounded
with a crowd gazing intently at an upright portrait in a glittering
gold frame, to which was affixed an imposing-looking name-plate bearing
the inscription:
"THE WOMAN IN BLACK,
BY OLIVER HORN"
So this was Snedecor's good news!
Oliver made his way through the crowd and into the open door of the
shop--the shop was, in front, the gallery in the rear--and found the
proprietor leaning over a case filled with artists' supplies.
"Has she had it FRAMED, Snedecor?" asked Oliver, with a light laugh.
"Not to any alarming extent! I made that frame for Mr. Peter Fish. She
sent it here for sale, and Fish bought it. He's wild about it. Says
it's the best thing since Sully. He wants you to paint his daughter;
that's what I wanted to see you about. Great card for you, Mr. Horn. I
congratulate you!"
Oliver gave a low whistle. His own good fortune was for the moment
forgotten in his surprise at the woman's audacity. Selling a sketch
painted by one of the club! one which had virtually been GIVEN to her.
"Poor Bianchi! He does pick up the queerest people. I wonder if she was
out of stockings," he said half-aloud.
"Oh, you needn't worry about the Madame; she won't suffer for clothes
as long as she's got that pair of eyes in her head. You just ought to
have seen her handle old Fish. It was beautiful. But, see here now, you
don't want to make old Peter a present of this portrait of his
daughter. He's good for a thousand, I tell you. She got a cracking
price for that one," and he pointed to the picture.
Again Oliver laughed.
"A cracking price? She must have needed the money bad." The more he
thought of it the funnier it seemed.
Snedecor looked surprised. He was thinking of Fish's order and the
amount of his commission. Most of Oliver's remarks were unintelligible
to him--especially his reference to the stockings.
"What shall I say to him?" Snedecor asked at last.
"Oh, nothing in particular. Just send him to my studio. I'll be in all
to-morrow morning."
"Well, but don't you think you'd better go and see him yourself now?
He's too big a bug to run after people. That kind of thing don't come
every day, you know; you might lose it. Why, he lives right near you in
that swell house across the Square."
"Oh, I know him very well," said Oliver, nodding his head. "No, let him
come to-morrow to me; it won't hurt him to walk up three flights of
stairs. I'm busy to-day. Now I think of it, there's one thing, though,
you CAN tell him, and please be particular about it--there will be no
advance over my regular price. I don't care to compete with her
ladyship."
Without waiting to hear the dealer's protest he stepped outside the
shop and joined the crowd about the window, elbowing each other for a
better view of the portrait. No one recognized him. He was too obscure
for that. They might after this, he thought with an exultant throb, and
a flush of pride crossed his face.
As he walked down Broadway a sense of the humor of the whole situation
came over him. Here for years he had been working day and night;
running the gauntlet of successive juries and hanging committees, with
his best things rejected or skied until his Tam-o'-Shanter girl made a
hit; worrying, hoping against hope, racking his brain as to how and
when and where he would find the path which would lead him to
commercial success--a difficult task for one too proud to beg for
favors and too independent to seek another's aid--and here, out of the
clear sky, had come this audacious Bohemienne, the pet of foyer and
studio--a woman who presented the greatest number of contrasts to the
things he held most dear in womankind--and with a single stroke had
cleared the way to success for him. And this, too, not from any love of
him, nor his work, nor his future, but simply to settle a board-bill or
pay for a bonnet.
Again Oliver laughed, this time so loudly that the man in front turned
and looked at him.
"A cracking price," he kept repeating to himself, "a cracking price,
eh? and out of old Peter Fish! Went fishing for minnows and hooked a
whale, and another little fish for me! I wonder what she baited her
hook with. That woman's a genius."
Suddenly he caught sight of the sign of a Long Island florist set up in
an apothecary's window between the big green and red glass globes that
lined its sides.
Turning on his heel he entered the door.
"Pick me out a dozen red japonicas," he said to the boy behind the
counter.
Oliver waited until each short-stemmed blossom was carefully selected,
laid on its bed of raw cotton, blanketed with the same covering, and
packed in a paper box. Then, taking a card from his pocket, he wrote
upon its back: "Most grateful thanks for my share of the catch,"
slipped it into an envelope, addressed it to "The fair Fisher, The
Countess Kovalski," and, with a grim smile on his face, kept on down
Broadway toward the dingy hotel, the resort of all the Southerners of
the time, to arrange for rooms for his father and Nathan Gill.
Having, with his card and his japonicas, dismissed the Countess from
his mind, and to a certain extent his obligations, the full importance
of this new order of Peter Fish's began to take possession of him. The
color rose in his cheeks and an old-time spring and lightness came into
his steps. He knew that such a commission, and from such a man, would
at once gain for him a recognition from art patrons and a standing
among the dealers. Lasting success was now assured him in the line he
had chosen for his life's work. It only remained for him to do the best
that was in him. Better than all, it had come to him unasked and
without any compromising effort on his own part.
He knew the connoisseur's collection. It filled the large gallery
adjoining his extensive home on Washington Square and was not only the
best in the city, containing as it did examples of Sir Thomas Lawrence,
Sir Joshua Reynolds, Chrome, Sully, and many of the modern French
school--among them two fine Courbets and a Rousseau--but it had lately
been enriched by one or more important American landscapes, notably
Sanford Gifford's "Catskill Gorge" and Church's "Tropics"--two canvases
which had attracted more than usual attention at the Spring Exhibition
of the Academy. An order, therefore, for a family portrait from so
distinguished a patron not only gave weight and dignity to the work of
any painter he might select, but it would unquestionably influence his
many friends and acquaintances to go and do likewise.
As Oliver, his eyes aglow, his whole heart filled with joy, stepped
quickly down the street the beauty of the day made him throw back his
shoulders and drink in long deep breaths, as if he would fill his very
pores with its vitality. These early spring days in New York--the most
beautiful the world over; not even in Italy can one find better
skies--always affected him in this way. There was a strength-giving
quality in the ozone, a brilliancy in the sunshine, and a tempered
coolness in the air to be found nowhere else. There was, too, a certain
picturesqueness in the sky-line of the houses--a sky-line fringed with
jets of white steam from the escape-pipes of numerous fires below,
which appealed to his artistic sense. These curling plumes that waved
so triumphantly in the sparkling morning light, or stirred by the wind,
flapped like milk-white signal flags, breaking at last into tatters and
shreds, blurring the edges of chimney and cornice, were a constant
source of delight to the young painter. He would often stop to watch
their movements, and as often determine to paint them at the first
opportunity. They seemed to express to him something of the happy
freedom of one released from pent-up toil; a freedom longed for in his
own heart, and which had rarely been his since those blessed days under
Moose Hillock, when he and Margaret roamed the woods together.
Still a third cause of rejoicing--and this sent a flutter around his
heart--was the near prospect of meeting his dear old father, whom he
had not seen for months; not since his last visit home, and whose long
years of struggle and waiting seemed now to be so nearly ended.
With these last joyous thoughts filling his mind, he stepped quickly
through the corridor of the hotel, approached the desk, and had just
given the names of his father and Nathan to the clerk, when a man
behind the counter interrupted him with:
"Just arrived. Got in this morning. There they are by the window."
Two quaint-looking old gentlemen were gazing out upon the rush of
Broadway--two old gentlemen so unusual that even the habitues of the
place, those who sat tilted back all day chipping the arms of their
chairs with their pen-knives, or sipping countless toddies and juleps,
were still staring at them in undisguised astonishment. One--it was
Nathan--wore a queer hat, bushy, white hair, and long, pen-wiper cloak:
it was the same cloak, or another just like it; the same, no doubt; few
new clothes had been bought during the war. And the other--and this was
his own dear father--wore a buff waistcoat, high white silk scarf, and
brown frock coat, with velvet collar. Neither of them were every-day
sights around the corridors of the New York Hotel: even among a
collection of human oddities representing every State in the South.
"We thought it best to take the night train, my son," said Richard,
starting up at Oliver's caressing touch--he had put both hands on his
father's shoulders. "You got your dear mother's letter of course. Oh,
I'm so glad to see you! Sit down here alongside of us. How well you are
looking, my son," and he patted him lovingly on the arm. "What a whirl
it all is! Nathan and I have been here for hours; we arrived at six
o'clock. Did you ever see anything like it? The people never seem to
stop coming. Ah! this is the place for you, my boy. Everything is so
alive, so full of purpose, so intense, so delightful and inspiring to
me. And such a change in the years since I was here."
He had brought the motor with him. It lay at the moment in a square box
inside the office-railing. Not the big one which he had just
perfected--that one was at home under the window in the old shop, in
the back yard in Kennedy Square--but a smaller working model made of
pine wood, with glass-tumblers for jars and imitation magnets wrapped
round with thread instead of wire--the whole unintelligible to the
layman, but perfectly clear to the scientist. He had with him, too,
packed in a small carpet-bag, which lay within reach of his hand, all
the patents which had been granted him as the work progressed--besides
a huge bundle of papers, such as legal documents, notices from the
scientific journals, and other data connected with the great Horn
Galvanic Motor, which was soon to revolutionize the motive power of the
world. Tucked away in his inside pocket, ready for instant use, was
Amos Cobb's letter, introducing "the distinguished inventor, Mr.
Richard Horn, of Kennedy Square," etc., etc., to the group of
capitalists who were impatiently waiting his arrival, and who were to
furnish the unlimited sums of money necessary in its
development--unlimited sums being ready for any scheme, no matter how
chimerical, in the flush times through which the country was then
passing.
"I have succeeded at last, my boy, as I wrote you," continued Richard,
with glowing eyes. "Even that small motor at home--the one you
know--that one has a lifting power of a hundred pounds. All that is
necessary now is to increase the size of the batteries and the final
result is assured. Let me show you this"--and, oblivious of the many
eyes fastened on him, he drew toward him the black carpet-bag and took
out a sheet of paper covered with red and blue lines. "You see where
the differences are. And you see here"--and he pointed out the details
with his thin white finger--"what I have done since I explained to you
the new additions. This drawing, when carried out, will result in a
motor with a lifting capacity of ten tons. Ah, Oliver, I cannot tell
you what a great relief has come to me now that I know my life's work
is crowned with success."
Nathan was quite as happy. Richard was his sun-god. When the light of
hope and success flashed in the inventor's quiet, thoughtful face,
Nathan basked in its warmth and was radiant in its glow. He needed all
the warmth he could get, poor old man. The cold chill of the days of
fear and pain and sorrow had well-nigh shrivelled him up; he showed it
in every line of his body. His shoulders were much more bent; his
timid, pipe-stem legs the more shaky; the furrows about his face
deeper; the thin nose more transparent. All during the war he had
literally lived in Richard. The cry of the "extras" and the dull tramp
of marching troops, and the rumbling of cars laden with army supplies
had jarred on his sensitive ear as would discordant notes in a
quartette. Days at a time he would hide himself away in Richard's
workshop, helping him with his bellows or glue-pot, or piling the coals
on the fire of his forge. The war, while it lasted, paralyzed some men
to inaction--Nathan was one of them.
"At last, Oliver, at last!" Nathan whispered to Oliver when Richard's
head was turned for a moment. "Nothing now but plain sailing. Ah! it's
a great day for dear Richard! I couldn't sleep last night on the train
for thinking of him."
As Oliver looked down into Nathan's eyes, glistening with hope and
happiness, he wondered whether, after all these long years of waiting,
his father's genius was really to be rewarded? Was it the same old
story of success--one so often ending in defeat and gloom, he thought,
or had the problem really been solved? He knew that the machine had
stood its initial test and had developed a certain lifting power; his
father's word assured him of that; but would it continue to develop in
proportion to its size?
He turned again toward Richard. The dear face was a-light with a new
certainty; the eyes brilliant, the smiles about the lips coming and
going like summer clouds across the sun. Such enthusiasm was not to be
resisted. A fresh hope rose in the son's heart. Could this now almost
assured success of his father's help him with Madge? Would their long
waiting come any nearer to being ended? Would the sum of money realized
be large enough to pay off the dreaded mortgage, and there still be
enough for the dear home and its inmates?
He knew how large this hoped-for sum must be, and how closely his own
and his mother's honor were involved in its cancellation. Her letter
had indeed stated the facts--this motor was now their only hope outside
the work of his own brush.
Perhaps, after all, his lucky day had come. The first gleam of light
had been this order of Peter Fish's to paint his daughter, and now
here, sitting beside him, was his father with a letter in his pocket
addressed to Amos Cobb from one of the richest men in New York, who
stood ready to pay a small fortune for the motor. Then he thought of
his mother. What a delight it would be when she could be freed from the
millstone that had hung around her neck for years.
He must go and tell Margaret and take his father and Nathan with him.
Yes, his lucky day HAD come.
Soon the two delighted and astonished old gentlemen, under Oliver's
guidance, were making their way up Broadway ostensibly to see his
picture at Snedecor's, but really to call upon the distinguished
painter, Margaret Grant, whom everyone was talking about, both in New
York and in Kennedy Square, for one of her pictures graced Miss
Clendenning's boudoir at that very moment. Our young Romeo had waited
too many months for someone from Kennedy Square to see the woman he
loved, and now that the arms of his father and Nathan were linked in
his own, and their legs subject to his orders, he did not intend to let
many precious minutes pass before he rang Margaret's studio bell.
When Snedecor's window was reached Richard stopped short in amazement.
"Yours, Oliver! Marvellous! Marvellous!" Richard exclaimed, when the
three had wedged their way into the crowd to see the better. "A fine
strong picture, and a most superb looking woman. Why, I had no idea!
Really! Really"--and his voice trembled. He was deeply touched. The
strength of the coloring, the masterly drawing, the admiring crowd
about the window, greatly surprised him. While he had been closeted
with his invention, thinking only of its success and bending every
energy for its completion, this boy of his had become a master.
"I didn't do my full duty to you, my son," he said, with a tone of
sadness in his voice, when they had resumed their walk up Broadway.
"You lost much time in finding your life's work. I should have insisted
years ago that you follow the trend of your genius. Your dear mother
was not willing and I let it go, but it was wrong. From something she
said to me the other night I feel sure she sees her mistake now, but I
never mention it to her, and do you never let her know I told you. Yes!
You started too late in life, my boy."
"No, dear old daddy; I started just in the nick of time and in the
right way."
How could he have thought anything else on this lovely spring morning,
with the brightest of skies overhead, his first important order within
his grasp, his dear old father and Nathan beside him, and the loveliest
girl in the world or on the planets beyond waiting for him at the top
of her studio stairs!
"It's most kind of you to say so," continued Richard, dodging the
people as he talked, "but couldn't you have learned to work by
following your own tastes?"
"No dad. I was too confounded lazy and too fond of fun. And then the
dear mother wanted me to go to work, and that was always enough for me."
"Oh, my son, it does me good to hear you say so"--and a light shone on
the old gentleman's face. "Yes! you ALWAYS considered your mother. You
can't think how she has suffered during these terrible years. But for
the good offices of Mr. Cobb whose kindness I shall never forget, I do
not see how she could have gone through them as she has. Isn't it fine,
my son, to think it is all over? She will never have to worry
again--never--never. The motor will end all her troubles. She did not
believe in it once, but she does now."
They continued on up Broadway, Oliver in the middle, Richard's arm in
his; he hurrying them both along; steering them across the streets;
avoiding the trucks and dragging them past the windows they wanted to
look into, with promises of plenty of time for that to-morrow or next
week. Only once did he allow them to catch their breath, and that was
when they passed the big bronze statue overlooking Union Square, and
then only long enough for the two to take in its outlines, and from its
pedestal to fix their eyes on the little windows of Miss Teetum's
boarding-house, where he' had spent so many happy and unhappy days.
Soon the two breathless old gentlemen and equally breathless young
guide--the first condition due to the state of the two old gentlemen's
lungs and the second due entirely to the state of this particular young
gentleman's heart--stood in a doorway just off Madison Square, before a
small bell-pull bearing above it a tiny sign reading: "Margaret Grant.
Top Floor."
"Miss Grant has been at home only a few months," Oliver burst out as he
rang the bell and climbed the stairs. "Since her father's death she has
been in Paris with her mother, her cousin, Higbee Shaw the sculptor,
and her brother John. A shell injured the drum of John's ear, and while
she painted he was under the care of a French specialist. He is still
there with his mother. If you think I can paint just wait until you see
Miss Grant's work. Think, dad! she has taken two medals in Munich, and
last year had honorable mention at the Salon. You remember her brother,
of course, don't you, Uncle Nat, the one Malachi hid over father's
shop?"
Uncle Nat nodded his head as he toiled up the steps. He remembered
every hour of the hideous nightmare. He had been the one other man
besides Richard and the Chief of Police to shake Oliver's hand that
fatal night when he was exiled from Kennedy Square.
Mrs. Mulligan, in white apron, a French cap on her head, and looking as
fresh and clean as a trained nurse, opened the door. Margaret had
looked her up the very day she landed, and had placed her in charge of
her apartment as cook, housekeeper, and lady's maid, with full control
of the front door and of her studio. The old woman was not hard to
trace; she had followed the schools of the academy from their old
quarters to the new marble building on Twenty-third Street, and was
again posing for the draped-life class and occasionally lending a hand
to the new janitor. Margaret's life abroad had taught her the secret of
living alone, a problem easily solved when there are Mrs. Mulligans to
be had for the asking.
"Yes, Mr. Oliver, she's insoide. Oh! it's fri'nds ye hev wid ye!" and
she started back.
"Only my father and Mr. Gill," and he brushed past Mrs. Mulligan,
parted the heavy portieres that divided Madge's working studio from the
narrow hall, thrust in his head and called out, in his cheeriest voice:
"Madge, who do you think is outside? Guess! Father and Uncle Nat. Just
arrived this morning."
Before Margaret could turn her head the two stood before her: Richard
with his hat in his hand, his brown overcoat with the velvet collar
over his arm--he had slipped it off outside--and Nathan close behind,
still in the long, pen-wiper cloak.
"And is it really the distinguished young lady of whom I have heard so
much?" exclaimed Richard with his most courtly bow, taking the girl's
outstretched hand in both of his. "I am so glad to see you, my dear,
both on your own account and on account of your brother, whom we once
sheltered. And how is he now? and your dear mother?"
To all of which Margaret answered in low gentle tones, her eyes never
leaving Richard's, her hand still fast in his; until he had turned to
introduce Nathan so that he might pay his respects.
Nathan, in his timid halting way, stepped from behind Richard, and
taking her welcoming hand, told her how much he had wanted to know her,
since he had seen the picture she had painted, then hanging in Miss
Lavinia's home; both because it was the work of a woman and because
too--and he looked straight into her eyes when he said it and meant
every word--she was the sister of the poor fellow who had been so
shamefully treated in his own city. And Margaret, her voice breaking,
answered that, but for the aid of such kind friends as himself and
Oliver, John might never have come back, adding, how grateful she and
her whole family had been for the kindness shown her brother.
While they were talking, Richard, with a slight bow as if to ask her
permission, began making the tour of the room, his glasses held to his
eyes, examining each thing about him with the air of a connoisseur
suddenly ushered into a new collection of curios.
"Tell me who this sketch is by," he asked, stopping before Margaret,
and pointing to a small Lambinet, glowing like an opal on the
dull-green wall of the studio. "I so seldom see good pictures that a
gem like this is a delight. By a Frenchman! Ah! Yes, I see the subtlety
of coloring. Marvellous people, these Frenchmen. And this little jewel
you have here? This bit of mezzo in color. With this I am more
familiar, for we have a good many collections of old prints at home. It
is, I think--yes--I thought I could not be mistaken--it is a Morland,"
and he examined it closely, his nose almost touching the glass.
The next instant he had crossed the room to the window looking out over
the city, the smoke and steam of a thousand fires floating over its
wide expanse.
"Come here, my son," he called to Oliver. "Look over that stretch of
energy and brains. Is it not inspiring? And that band of silver, moving
so quietly and resistlessly out to sea. What a power for good it all
is, and what a story it will tell before the century is out."
Margaret was by his side as he spoke. She had hardly taken her eyes
from him since he entered the room--not even when she was listening to
Nathan. All her old-time, prejudices and preconceived estimates of
Richard were slipping away. Was this the man whom she used to think of
as a dreamer of dreams, and a shiftless Southerner? This charming old
gentleman with the air of an aristocrat and the keen discernment of an
expert? She could hardly believe her eyes.
As for Oliver, his very heart was bursting with pride. It had all
happened exactly as he had wanted it--his father and Margaret had liked
each other from the very first moment. And then she had been so
beautiful, too, even in her long painting-apron and her hair twisted up
in a coil on her head. And the little blush of surprise and sweetness
which had overspread her face when they entered, and which his father
must have seen, and the inimitable grace with which she slipped from
her high stool, and with a half courtesy held out her hand to welcome
her visitors, and all with the savoir faire and charm of a woman of the
world! How it all went straight to his heart.
If, however, he had ever thought her pretty in this working-costume, he
thought her all the more captivating a few minutes later in the little
French jacket--all pockets and buttons--which she had put on as soon as
the greetings were over and the tour of the room had been made in
answer to Richard's delighted questions.
But it was in serving the luncheon, which Mrs. Mulligan had brought in,
that his sweetheart was most enchanting. Her full-rounded figure moved
so gracefully when she bent across to hand someone a cup, and the pose
of the head was so delicious, and it was all so bewitching, and so
precisely satisfied his artistic sense. And he so loved to hear her
talk when she was the centre of a group like this, as much really to
see the movement of her lips and the light in her eyes and the gracious
way in which she moved her head as to hear what she said.
He was indeed so overflowing with happiness over it all, and she was so
enchanting in his eyes as she sat there dispensing the comforts of the
silver tray, that he must needs pop out of the room with some impromptu
excuse and disappear into the little den which held her desk, that he
might dash off a note which he tucked under her writing-pad--one of
their hiding-places--and which bore the lines: "You were never so much
my queen as you are to-day, dearest," and which she found later and
covered with kisses before he was half way down the block on his way
back to the hotel with the two old gentlemen.
She was indeed beautiful. The brow was wider and whiter, perhaps, than
it had been in the old days under the bark slant, and the look out of
the eyes a trifle softer, and with a certain tenderness in them--not
quite so defiant and fearless; but there had been no other changes.
Certainly none in the gold-brown hair that Oliver so loved. That was
still her glory, and was still heaped up in magnificent masses, and
with the same look about it of being ready to burst its bonds and flood
everything with a river of gold.
"Lots of good news to-day, Madge," Oliver exclaimed, after they had all
taken their seats, his father on Margaret's right, with Nathan next.
"Yes, and I have got lots of good news too; bushels of it," laughed
Margaret.
"You tell me first," cried Oliver bending toward her, his face beaming;
each day they exchanged the minutest occurrences of their lives.
"No--Ollie--Let me hear yours. What's it about? Mine's about a picture."
"So's mine," exclaimed Olive; his eyes brimming with fun and the joy of
the surprise he had in store for her.
"But it's about one of your OWN pictures, Ollie."
"So's mine," he cried again, his voice rising in merriment.
"Oh, Ollie, tell me first," pleaded Margaret with a tone in her voice
of such coaxing sweetness that only Richard's and Nathan's presence
restrained him from catching her up in his arms and kissing her then
and there.
"No, not until you have told me yours," he answered with mock firmness.
"Mine came in a letter."
"So did mine," cried Margaret clapping her hands. "I don't believe
yours is half as good as mine and I'm not going to wait to hear it. Now
listen--" and she opened an envelope that lay on the table within reach
of her hand. "This is from my brother John--" and she turned toward
Richard and Nathan. "He and Couture, in whose atelier I studied, are
great friends. Now please pay attention Mr. Autocrat--" and she looked
at Oliver over the edge of the letter and began to read--
"Couture came in to-day on his way home and I showed him the photograph
Ollie sent me of his portrait of you--his 'Tam-o'-Shanter Girl' he
calls it. Couture was so enthusiastic about it that he wants it sent to
Paris at once so that he can exhibit it in his own studio to some of
the painters there. Then he is going to send it to the Salon. So you
can tell that 'Johnnie Reb' to pass it along to me by the first
steamer; and you can tell him, too, that his last letter is a month
old, and I am getting hungry for another."
"There now! what do you think of that? Mr. Honorable Mention."
Oliver opened his eyes in astonishment.
"That's just like John, bless his heart!" he answered slowly, as his
glance sought the floor. This last drop had filled his cup of happiness
to the brim-- Some of it was glistening on his lashes.
"Now tell me your good news--" she continued, her eyes still dancing.
She had seen the look but misunderstood the cause.
Oliver raised his eyes--
"Oh, it's not nearly as good as yours, Madge, in one way and yet in
another it's a heap better. What do you think? Old Peter Fish wants me
to paint his daughter's portrait."
Margaret laid her hand on his.
"Oh, Oliver! Not Peter Fish! That's the best thing that has happened
yet," and her face instantly assumed a more serious expression. "I know
the girl--she will be an easy subject; she's exactly your type. How do
you know?"
"Just saw John Snedecor in answer to a letter he wrote me. Fish has
bought the 'Woman in Black.' He's delighted with it."
"Why, I thought it belonged to the Countess."
"So it did. She sold it."
"Sold it!"
"Yes. Does it surprise you?"
"No; I can't say that it does. I am glad, though, that it will stay in
the country. It's by far the best thing you or anybody else has done
this season. I was afraid she would take it back with her. Poor woman!
she has had a hard life, and it doesn't seem to get any better, from
what I hear."
"You know the original, then, my dear?" asked Richard, holding out his
second cup of tea for another lump of sugar, which Margaret in her
excitement had forgotten. He and Nathan had listened with the keenest
interest to the reading of John Grant's letter and to the discussion
that had followed.
"I know OF her," answered Margaret as she dropped it in; "and she knows
me, but I've never met her. She's a Pole, and something of a painter,
too. She studied in the same atelier where I was, but that was before I
went to Paris. Her husband became mixed up in some political conspiracy
and was sent to Siberia, and she was put across the frontier that same
night. She is very popular in Paris; they all like her, especially the
painters. There is nothing against her except her poverty." There could
be nothing against any woman in Margaret's eyes. "But for her jewels
she would have had as hard a time to get on as the rest of us. Now and
then she parts with one of her pearls, and between times she teaches
music. You must see the picture Oliver painted of her--it will delight
you."
"Oh, but I have!" exclaimed Richard, laying down his cup. "We looked at
it as we came up. It is really a great picture. He tells me it is the
work of two hours and under gas-light."
"No, not altogether, father. I had a few hours on it the next day,"
interrupted Oliver.
"Strong, isn't it?" continued Margaret, without noticing Oliver's
explanation. "It is really better in many ways than the girl in the
Tam-o'-Shanter cap--the one he painted of me. That had some of Lely's
qualities about it, especially in the flesh tones. He always tells me
the inspiration to paint it came from an old picture belonging to his
uncle. You know that of course?" and she laid a thin sandwich on
Nathan's plate.
"You mean Tilghman's Lely--the one in his house in Kennedy Square? Oh,"
said Richard, lifting his fingers in appreciation, "I know every line
of it. It is one of the best Lely's I ever saw, and to me the gem of
Tilghman's collection."
"Yes; so Ollie tells me," continued Margaret. "Now this picture of the
Countess is to me very much more in Velasquez's method than in Lely's.
Broader and stronger and with a surer touch. I have always told Ollie
he was right to give up landscapes. These two pictures show it. There
is really, Mr. Horn, no one on this side of the water who is doing
exactly what Oliver is." She spoke as if she was discussing Page,
Huntington or Elliott or any other painter of the day, not as if it was
her lover. "Did you notice how the lace was brushed in and all that
work about the throat--especially the shadow tones?"
She treated Richard precisely as if he was one of the guild. His
criticisms of her own work--for he had insisted on seeing her latest
picture and had even been more enthusiastic over it than he had been
over Oliver's--and his instant appreciation of the Lambinet, convinced
her, even before he had finished the tour of the room, that the quaint
old gentleman was as much at home in her atmosphere as he was in that
of his shop at home discussing scientific problems with some savant.
"I did, my dear. It is quite as you say," answered Richard, with great
earnestness. "This 'Woman in Black,' as he calls it, is painted not
only with sureness and with an intimate knowledge of the textures, but
it seems to me he has the faculty of expressing with each stroke of his
brush, as an engraver does with his burin, the rounds and hollows of
his surfaces. And to think, too, my dear," he continued, "that most of
it was done at night. The color tones, you know"--and his manner
changed, and a more thoughtful expression came into his face--the
scientist was speaking now--"are most difficult to manage at night. The
colors of the spectrum undergo some very curious changes under
artificial light, especially from a gas consuming as much carbon as our
common carburetted hydrogen. The greens, owing to the absorption of the
yellow rays, become the brighter, and the orange and red tones, from
the same reason, the more intense, while the paler violets and, in
fact, all the tertiaries, of a bluish cast lose--"
He stopped, as he caught a puzzled expression on her face. "Oh, what a
dreadful person I am," he exclaimed, rising from his seat. "It is quite
inexcusable in me. Please forgive me, my dear--I was really thinking
aloud. Such ponderous learned words should be kept out of this
delightful abode of the Muses, and then, I assure you, I really know so
little about it, and you know so much." And he laughed softly, and made
a little bow as a further apology.
"No. I don't know one thing about it, nor does any other painter I
know," she laughed, blowing out the alcohol lamp, "not quite in the
same way. And if I did I should want you to come every day and bring
Mr. Gill with you to tell me about it." Where-upon Nathan, replying
that nothing would give him more pleasure (he had been silent most of
the time--somehow no one expected him to talk much when Richard was
present), struggled to his feet at an almost imperceptible sign from
the inventor, who suddenly remembered that his capitalists were waiting
for him, pulled his old cloak about his shoulders and, with Richard
leading the way, they all four moved out into the hall and stood in the
open doorway.
When they reached the top stair outside the studio dear Richard
stopped, took both of Margaret's hands in his, and said, in his kindest
voice and in his gravest and most thoughtful manner, as he looked down
into her face:
"My dear Miss Grant, may I tell you that I have to-day found in you the
realization of one of my day-dreams? And will you forgive an old man
when he says how proud it makes him to know a woman who is brave enough
to live the life you do? You are the forerunner of a great movement, my
dear--the mother of a new guild. It is a grand and noble thing for a
woman to sustain herself with work that she loves"--and the dear old
gentleman, lifting his hat with the air of a courtier, betook himself
down-stairs, followed by Nathan, bowing as he went.
No wonder he rejoiced! Most of the dreams of his younger days were
coining true. And now this woman--the beginning of a new era--the
opening out of a new civilization. And ahead of it a National Art that
the world would one day recognize!
He tried to express his delight to Oliver, and turned to find him, but
Oliver was not beside him nor did he join his father for five minutes
at least. That young gentleman--just as Richard and Nathan had reached
the BOTTOM of the second flight of stairs--had suddenly remembered
something of the utmost importance which he had left in the INNER room,
and which he could not possibly find until Madge, waiting by the
banister, had gone back to help him look for it, and not then, until
Mrs. Mulligan had left them both and shut the kitchen-door behind her.
Yes, it was quite five minutes, or more, before Oliver clattered
down-stairs after his guests, stopping but once to look up through the
banisters into Margaret's eyes--she was leaning over for the
purpose--his open hand held up toward her as a sign that it was always
at her command.