At the outset she was rather skeptical of his faith in her. Had not
Atwood said that MacGregor saw genius in all his friends? But the
younger man now hailed him a most discerning judge.
"It's the something I divined," he declared jubilantly, "the
gold-bearing vein I believed in, but hadn't the luck to unearth. Now to
develop it! What does Mac advise?"
"One of the art schools," said Jean. "I can go evenings, it seems."
"And work days! It's a stiff programme you plan."
"But the school won't mean work," she declared. "Then, too, the posing
comes far easier than it did. Mr. MacGregor says my muscles are almost
as steady as a professional's."
"So he tells me. I'm going to insist on sharing your time. He has
monopolized you long enough."
MacGregor's monopoly did not cease at once, however. His first step on
discovering Jean's talent was to enlist Richter's expert criticism and
counsel with the practical outcome that the sculptor's door swung open
to her in the daylight hours when MacGregor worked with male models.
The clay-modeling-room at the art school was a wonderful place. Its
casts, its tools, its methods, were a revelation after the crude
shifts with which her father had had to content himself; but Richter's
studio transcended it as a university transcends a kindergarten. Here
were conceived ideas which found perpetuity in bronze!
Studio and sculptor were each unique. A little man of crippled frame,
Karl Richter delighted in the muscular and the colossal and walked a
pigmy amidst his own creations. Michael Angelo was his god; but his
manner was his own, and the Indians and cow-boys he loved best to
express were remote enough from the great Florentine's subjects to
acquit him of imitation. His frail physique notwithstanding, he had
been at pains to see for himself the primitive life he adored, and
the idler who coined "The Oasis" dubbed the sculptor's place "The
Wigwam," and spread a facetious tale that Richter went about his work
in blanket and moccasins, and habitually smoked a calumet which had
once belonged to Sitting Bull. Richter never denied this myth, which by
now had received the sanction of print, and took huge satisfaction in
the crestfallen glances unknown callers gave his conventional dress.
However, the studio itself, a transformed stable, was sufficiently
picturesque. It overflowed with spoils from ranch and tepee, and,
thanks to the Wild West show which furnished MacGregor occasional
Arabs, sometimes sheltered genuine, if sophisticated, red men.
About this time Jean left Mrs. St. Aubyn's, whose neighborhood Paul,
after dejected silence, had again begun to haunt. She had thus far
eluded him, but meet they must, she felt, if she remained; and with
Amy's abrupt departure, which now came to pass, she changed to a
boarding-house of Atwood's recommending in Irving Place.
"There are no signs of the trade about it, fashionable or
unfashionable," he said. "It's just a homelike place, neither too
large nor too small, where you will see mainly art students. Many of
them, like you, are making their own way, and all of them are dead in
earnest. All the illustrators know Mrs. Saunders. Half of us have lived
under her roof some time or other."
"You, too!"
He smiled at her tone.
"I wasn't born with a golden spoon, you know. Some New Yorkers aren't.
I inherited a little money, but I'm not a plutocrat yet, even if
editors do smile upon me. Julie and I thoroughly mastered the gentle
art of scrimping at one time. Have I ever mentioned my sister, Mrs. Van
Ostade?"
"You spoke of her the day I saw you first."
"At the birches?" he returned, surprised.
"You said she would not understand."
His eyes sobered.
"I remember," he said. "And it was true. Neither would she understand
now, I fear. She has been both wedded and widowed since. You'll see
her at the studio yet, if MacGregor ever lets us begin work together.
She surprises me there when she thinks I am neglecting my duties as a
social being. Julie has all the zeal of a proselyte in her missionary
labors for society," he added laughingly. "She married into one of the
old Dutch families."
Jean found that a tradition of Mrs. Van Ostade's residence in Irving
Place still lingered there. She was spoken of as Craig Atwood's sister,
the clever girl who had jockied for position, on nothing a year, by
cultivating fashionable charities. Settlement work, it appeared, had
been the fulcrum for her lever. No one here, however, had known her
personally, save Mrs. Saunders, who was a paragon of reticence when
gossip was afield. Indeed, a dearth of gossip, in the invidious sense
of the word, was a negative virtue to which her whole establishment
might lay claim. Mainly art students, as Atwood had predicted, the
sharpest personalities of Jean's new acquaintances dealt with the
vagaries of masters whom they furtively admired and not seldom aped.
Thus the life-class girl would furrow her pretty forehead over the
drawing of a beginner at antique with the precise "Ha!" and "Not half
bad!" of the distinguished artist and critic who twice a week set her
own heart palpitating with his crisp condemnation or praise.
Illustrating, painting, sculpture, architecture, decorative design,
whatever their individual choice, life for each had its center in the
particular school of his or her adhesion. Art--always Art--was the
beginning and end of their table-talk, and even the two young men who
had other interests, a lawyer and a playwright, both embryonic, spoke
the language of the studios. To this community of interest was added
the discovery that all derived from country stock. Half a dozen states
had their nominal allegiance, and not even Mrs. Saunders, who seemed as
metropolitan as the City Hall, could boast New York as her birthplace.
They brimmed with a fine youthful confidence in their ability to wrest
success from this alien land of promise, which charged their atmosphere
electrically and spurred Jean's already abundant energy to tireless
endeavor. Her days were all too short, and Atwood, whose invitations
she repeatedly refused for her art's sake, began to caution her against
overwork.
"Philosophic frivolity, as my sister calls it, has its uses," he said.
"I usually agree with her social preachments, even if I don't observe
them very faithfully. You must know Julie. I'll ask her to call."
Whether he did so or not, Jean was unaware. At all events, Mrs. Van
Ostade did not renew her acquaintance with Irving Place, nor did Atwood
broach the subject again. If the social columns might be believed,
the lady was amply preoccupied with philosophic frivolity. MacGregor
presently turned a searching light upon her personality.
"Notice that bit of impertinent detail, the unnecessary jewel?" he
queried, stabbing with his pipe-stem at one of Atwood's drawings which
a premature Christmas magazine had reproduced in color. "Craig never
did it."
"Then who did?" Jean asked.
"His sister."
"Does she draw?"
"By proxy. I mean she suggested this as she has suggested every false,
vitiating note that's crept into his work. Left to himself, Craig never
paints the lily. But he defers to her as a younger brother often will
to a sister who has mothered or stepmothered him. It was probably a
good thing once--I admit she has brains and push; but now it's time
the coddling stopped. It did let up for a while when she went over to
the Dutch--she was too busy to bother with him; but with her husband
underground and Craig coming on, it has begun again. Artistically she's
his evil genius. Of course he can't see it, or won't. I've done my
level best to beat it into him."
"You have told him!"
"Certainly; and her too. I have known them both for years. What are you
grinning at?"
"Your candor. What did he say?"
MacGregor scowled.
"Same old rot I'm always hearing," he grumbled. "Called me a
woman-hater. What do you think?" challenging her abruptly. "You've seen
me at close quarters for some time. Do I strike you as that sort of
man? I want your unvarnished opinion."
Jean answered him with his own frankness.
"A woman-hater?" she repeated. "Never. I think you are"--she searched
for the word--"a woman-idolater."
MacGregor grimly assured himself that no sarcasm was intended.
"Expound," he directed.
"I mean it seems to me you rate Woman so high that mere women can't
realize your ideal."
"Humph!" he commented ungraciously. "Where did you learn to turn cheap
epigrams? Probably it's an echo of something you've read."
He addressed her variously as Miss Epigrams, Lady Blessington, and
Madame de Staël as the work went forward, always with profound gravity,
until finally, when he saw her color rise to his teasing, he gave his
full-lunged laugh and confessed.
"All the same, you're right, Miss Epigrams. That's one reason why I'm
still unattached. It's also why I haven't cared to see Craig take the
only sure cure. A wife would teach his sister her place, if she had the
right metal." He chuckled at the vision his words conjured. "But it
would be a battle royal."
It was spring before Jean herself saw Mrs. Van Ostade. She had posed
for Atwood frequently after Christmas, but had chanced always to be
either with MacGregor or Richter when his sister visited the studio,
until the April afternoon when Julie's knock interrupted an overdue
illustration which Atwood was toiling mightily to finish. He frowned
at the summons and answered it without putting down the maul-stick,
palette, and brushes with which his hands were cumbered; but his "You,
Julie!" at the door hinted no impatience, nor his returning step aught
but infinite leisure as he issued with his dark-eyed, dark-haired,
dark-skinned caller from behind the screen.
"Those stairs!" sighed the lady. Then, observing Jean, she subjected
her to a drastic ordeal by lorgnon, which, raking her from face to
gown,--where the inquisition lingered,--returned with added intensity
upon her face.
Hot plowshares could have been no more fiery for poor Jean, who,
sufficiently aglow with the knowledge that the dress upon her back was
a piece of Mrs. Van Ostade's evening finery abandoned to the uses of
the studio, found herself tormented by the certainty that somewhere
in her vulnerable past she and this sister of Craig Atwood's had met
before.
A sympathetic reflection of her embarrassment lit the man's face.
"This is Miss Fanshaw," he interposed, "herself an artist. You have
heard me speak of her, Julie."
The lorgnon dropped and the two women exchanged a bow perceptible to
the naked eye.
"I know the face," stated Mrs. Van Ostade, with an impersonal air of
classifying scientific phenomena. "Where did I see it?"
Jean now recalled this elusive detail most vividly, but she kept her
head.
"Probably in Mr. Atwood's work," she suggested coldly.
"Of course," seconded Atwood, keen to end the incident. "You will find
Miss Fanshaw in half my recent stuff."
"The living face has no pictorial associations whatever," retorted his
sister, with decision. "I shall remember in time. But go on with your
work, Craig. I did not come to disturb you--merely to bring a piece of
news which I'll tell you as soon as I get my breath."
Atwood placed a chair and, returning to his easel, made a show of
work which Jean's trained eye knew for his usual polite pretense with
visitors who assumed themselves no hindrance; while Mrs. Van Ostade,
throwing back her furs, relegated the model to the ranks of the
inanimate studio properties, of which her leisured survey now took
stock.
"Those stairs!" she said again, pursuing her breath by the unique
method of lavishing more. "Really, Craig, you couldn't have pitched on
a more inconvenient rookery."
"We thought it a miracle for the money once," he reminded. "I dare
say I could find a more convenient workshop in one of the new
office-buildings, but then I shouldn't have my open fire."
"You could have it at the Copley Studios, and modern comforts, too."
"Up there!" he scoffed. "I don't belong in the pink-tea circle, Julie."
Mrs. Van Ostade refused to smile with him.
"The location counts," she insisted.
"With some people."
"With the helpful people. I've thought it over carefully; I've used
my eyes and ears. The studio unquestionably carries weight. It ought
to be something more than a workshop, as you call it. It should have
atmosphere. Even our friend down the street has achieved that. Barbaric
as it is, MacGregor's studio has a distinct artistic unity."
"Mac's place reflects his work. So does mine."
"Yours! It's a jumble of everything, a junk-shop."
"Of course it is," he laughed. "I've ransacked two-thirds of these
treasures from the Ghetto. But even junk-shops have atmosphere--a musty
one--and so, it logically follows, must my studio."
She indulged his trifling with a divine patience.
"Could you receive Mrs. Joyce-Reeves in such a place?" she queried
sweetly.
"Certainly; if any possible errand could bring that high and mighty
personage over the door-sill."
"There is a possible reason."
Her tone drew him round. Jean, forgotten by both, discerned that he
also attached a significance to the hypothetical visit. She was at a
loss to account for this, Mrs. Joyce-Reeves's prominence in the social
world of New York notwithstanding.
"Is this your news, Julie?" he demanded.
His sister savored his quickened interest a moment.
"Part of it," she replied. "She saw your dry-point of me at Mrs.
Quentin Van Ostade's the other day."
"The dry-point!" he deprecated. "It was only an experiment."
"So I told her. She asked if you do anything in the way of portraiture
in oil, and of course I answered yes."
"I say!"
"Well, haven't you?"
"Trash, yes; cart-loads of it."
"Perhaps you call your portrait of Malcolm MacGregor trash? Mrs.
Joyce-Reeves did not."
"She saw it!"
"I dropped casually that it had been hung with the Fifth Avenue
exhibition of MacGregor's African studies, and she took the address.
That was day before yesterday. This afternoon I met her again--met her
leaving the gallery."
"Well?" jogged Atwood, impatiently.
"She told me she had bought two of MacGregor's things," continued Mrs.
Van Ostade, not to be hurried. "She took a desert nocturne and that
queer veiled woman at a window--you remember?"
"Do I!" He spun about. "You heard that, Jean? Mrs. Joyce-Reeves has
bought 'The Lattice'! Miss Fanshaw posed for it, Julie."
"Indeed!" The lorgnon, again unsheathed at the intimate "Jean," once
more took cognizance of that young person's existence. "I don't care
for it. But, what is more important, Mrs. Joyce-Reeves mentioned your
portrait."
"Yes?"
"And this time asked for your address."
"Jove! You think--"
"I'm positive she'll give you a commission."
"Jove!" he exclaimed again, "what a chance!" and paced the studio. "Yet
she may. It's her whim to pose as a discoverer. What a chance! What
a colossal chance! It would mean--what wouldn't it mean?" He stopped
excitedly before the escritoire where Jean sat waiting to resume her
interrupted impersonation of a note-writing débutante. "It would take
nerve, no end of it. She's been painted by Sargent, Chartran, Zorn--all
the big guns. A fellow would have to find a phase they'd missed. But if
he could! You can't conceive her influence, Jean. If she buys a man's
pictures, all the little fish in her pond tumble over one another to
buy them, too. That's not the main issue, however, though I don't blink
its importance. The opportunity to paint _her_, to search out the woman
behind--that's the big thing. I have a theory. I met her once--she'd
bought an original of mine, thanks again to Julie--and something she
let fall makes me think--but I'm talking as if I had the commission in
my hands."
Jean scarcely heard. Sympathize with him as she might, Julie Van
Ostade's face, from the moment Atwood's talk ceased to be hers
exclusively, absorbed her more.
"Craig," broke in his sister, crisply, "my furs."
He touched earth blankly.
"Not going, Julie?"
"My furs," she repeated.
"But I haven't begun to thank you," he said, obeying.
"Is not that also premature?" She rustled majestically toward the door,
which he sprang before her to open. The girl was but a lay figure in
her path.
Then the door closed and Atwood, wearing a look of bewilderment,
came slowly up the studio to meet still another problem in feminine
psychology in the now thoroughly outraged Jean.
"Why did you introduce me?" she demanded bitterly. "Why couldn't
you let me remain a common model to her? I am a common model in her
eyes--common in every sense. I remember well enough where she saw me,
and she'll remember, too, never fear."
"Jean! Jean!" He came to her in distress.
"It was a drinking-place, and the girl with me had drunk too much.
We amused your sister's theater-party immensely. They were probably
slumming--seeing low life!"
He drew a calmer account from her presently.
"I know the place," he said. "It had rather a vogue before people
found out that it was only sham-German, after all. It's a perfectly
respectable rathskeller. You went with some gentleman, of course?"
Jean's passion for confession flagged.
"With a friend of Amy's from the boarding-house," she answered briefly.
Atwood gave a relieved laugh.
"You have made a mountain of a mole-hill," he told her; "but I'm
glad you mentioned the circumstances. I'll explain to Julie, if she
ever thinks of it again. Don't misjudge her, Jean. I admit she's
unsympathetic at first sight, even brusque; but there's another side,
believe me. You saw how devoted she is to my interests."
She had indeed seen, and the knowledge rankled.
"You should not have introduced me, made me share your talk," she said.
"You meant a kindness, but it was no kindness; it was a humiliation,
a--" Then the tension snapped and her head went down between her arms.
"Kindness!" He swept her stormily to himself. "Kindness, Jean! Can't
you see why I wanted you to share it with me? Can't you see that I want
you to share everything? I love you, Jean."
For a long moment she yielded; the next she had slipped from him and
the escritoire was between them.
"Don't," she forbade. "You must not say these things to me."
"Must not?"
"I can't marry you."
"Can't! Yet a moment ago--"
"I can't marry you," she repeated breathlessly.
"But your kiss--"
"Was a lie--pity--what you like. I was unstrung. I--I don't love you."
He searched her face for a perplexed instant.
"Jean," he commanded; "look at me!"
She faced him.
"Now tell me that again--straight in the eyes."
"Don't," she entreated.
"Say it!"
"You heard me."
"I want to hear it again--on your honor!" He waited.
"I--I refuse."
He strode toward her in triumph.
"You can't," he cried. "The kiss was no lie. It was the truth, the
sacred truth! What unselfish madness made you try to deceive me?"
"Remember your career," she protested; "your sister's world, which is
your world, too."
But the time for reasoning was past.