Rid of them all, Jean was tormented by a host of replies and courses of
action, any one of which, she believed, would have blunted the edge of
Julie's suspicion. For she was suspicious! There could be no doubt of
it. To Craig she longed to offer some explanation, but her love bade
her reject anything short of the whole truth, even as it told her that
the whole truth was impossible. Every hour of her wedded happiness
heaped proof on proof of the joy he took in the belief that he alone
had filled her heart. And was he not right? Had not his dear image
persisted--canonized, enshrined, worshiped--since their forest meeting!
Paul had never displaced it. In truth, it had shone the brighter
because of Paul. But how put this holy mystery in words!
She took refuge in an opportunism not unlike Amy's. Did not time and
chance rule the world! Yet her peace of mind was fitful, and she
shunned the Copley Studios with a fear which hearkened to no argument.
It was useless to remind herself that Satterlee was a man of many
interests. Her imagination always figured him as haunting the room
where she had come upon him. There he waited, a rotund bomb by the
mantelpiece, with the explosive "Bartlett" in his subconsciousness
ready to destroy her the instant her face should at last apply the
fatal spark. So it fell out that, pleading her own work whenever Craig,
himself absorbed in the Hepworth portrait, asked her opinion of his
sister's ideas, the new studio's furnishing went forward without her
and in unhampered accord with Julie's ambitious plans.
How far-reaching these plans were she first adequately perceived
through MacGregor, whose card came up to her one evening when both
Atwood and Mrs. Van Ostade were out.
"I counted on finding you alone," he owned with characteristic
bluntness. "Craig has gone to the Salmagundi doings, of course,--I'm
due there later; while I happen to know that Julie is dining with her
mother-in-law. I met Julie this afternoon at the Copley Studios."
"Then you saw Craig's new quarters?"
"Yes. Have you seen them?"
"Why do you ask that question?"
"I gathered that you hadn't."
"I went there the day Craig took the place."
"And have not returned! Why?"
"I am working hard with Richter."
"So he tells me. Don't overwork. Art isn't everything."
"Aren't you inconsistent?" she laughed.
"Lord, yes! Consistently inconsistent. Life would lose half its
sparkle, if I weren't. But the new studio; you should have a look in;
it would interest you. I don't often trouble the pink-tea district,
but an errand took me into the Copley building to-day just as Julie
entered, and she offered to show me through."
His meditations became irksome.
"Well?" Jean prompted.
"Julie should have been a stage-manager," he said. "Her scenic instinct
is remarkable. She sees Craig's place peopled with a fashionable
portrait-painter's clientele, and has set her properties accordingly.
His Italian finds,--his tapestries, his old furniture, his Pompeian
bronzes,--the new grand piano, and the various other newnesses, all
present themselves as background for society drama. I take off my hat
to her. She, too, is an artist, an artist of imagination. It is all
perfectly done. Nothing lacks but the fashionable portrait-painter."
"And the drama?" Jean suggested.
"Oh, that is being looked after. She plans a house-warming of some
sort. You haven't been consulted?"
"No."
"Neither has Craig, I dare say. Perhaps the idea only took shape
while she talked with me. I can't give you the technical name of the
function, but it will be worthy of the manager's reputation. The scheme
is to get Mrs. Joyce-Reeves's portrait, Miss Hepworth's, and mine--yes,
mine!--before as many as possible of the opulent beings who itch to
hand their empty faces down to posterity. By the way, I want to see the
Hepworth portrait."
She took him to the billiard-room and brought the unfinished picture to
the easel. MacGregor turned off a warring light, chose a view-point,
bestrode a chair, and lapsed into a long silence. Jean tried to read
his rugged face, but finding it inscrutable, herself studied the
canvas. Fuller knowledge of Craig's sitter had failed to reveal the
qualities of mind he found so stimulating; but now, confronting the
immobile counterfeit, she hit with disturbing certainty upon the truth
that Virginia Hepworth's appeal was physical, and to men as men.
A moment afterward MacGregor confirmed her intuition.
"I don't know her any better," he said. "Outwardly she is the same
neurotic creature I've seen all along. Apathetic with other women,
she stirs to life and takes her tints from the particular male with
whom she chances to be. Craig has missed an opportunity to dissect a
chameleon."
"You think it's a failure!"
"Psychologically, I do; technically, no. In color, texture, it is
masterly. Don't distress yourself about its success; it will be only
too successful. I think it will even have the bad luck to be popular."
Jean's loyalty rose to do battle.
"It's to Craig's credit that he could not see her truly," she retorted.
"If she takes her tints from the man with whom she talks, then he has
painted into her something of himself, something fine. But wasn't it
hers for the moment? Why, then, shouldn't he show her at her best, not
her worst?"
MacGregor laughed immoderately.
"That is stanch and wifely and nonsensical. It is not a
portrait-painter's business to supply the virtues or the vices. His
palette ought to contain neither mud nor whitewash. It is his duty to
see things as they are."
"But how can you expect Craig to see Miss Hepworth as she is? He's
not--"
"Middle-aged, like myself," suggested MacGregor, as she hesitated. "Say
it! It makes your fling concrete, personal, feminine."
Jean's wrath cooled in a smile.
"I was going to add, cynical," she said. "Is that a personality?"
"It's wide of the mark, whatever we call it. I'm no cynic. If I were, I
should merely stand by and laugh, not interfere."
"Don't put it that way."
"It amounts to interference. I can't cheat you, and I don't fool myself
into thinking my talk about Craig's work is impersonal. Neither is what
I say about Julie impersonal. Of course you've heard that she jilted
me for Van Ostade? Eh? I thought so. Don't think you must say you're
sorry," he protested hastily, as her lips parted. "I'm not sorry.
I'm thankful for my escape. That sounds bitter to you. Perhaps I am
bitter, but the bitterness is for myself, not her; and it doesn't sway
my judgment of her influence upon Craig by a hair's breadth. He thinks
it does, naturally, and he discounts my warnings. But I know, and
you _will_ know, if you don't see it yet, that he must shake her off.
Otherwise he's damned."
Jean kindled from his fiery earnestness.
"What must I do?" she asked. "Do you think the new studio is a mistake?"
"No; I don't say it is. Craig had to come uptown. I'm not maintaining,
either, that he can't paint under such conditions. Some men they
stimulate. It isn't the studio; it's the commercial campaign it stands
for which makes my gorge rise. Mind you, I don't censure Craig for not
grasping Miss Hepworth in character. His youth is responsible for that
fluke. But if he listens to Julie, he'll soon be painting everybody at
their best moments. He'll take orders like a factory--yes; and execute
then? like a factory--shallow, slap-dash, characterless vanities all
of a mould, which fools will buy and the future ignore. There is no
lost soul so tortured as the fashionable portrait-painter who has once
known honest work. You must save Craig from such a fate. Don't think he
is too strong to succumb. I've seen men with as much promise as his go
under. Help him keep his feeling fresh. See that he has time to linger
over and search out each subject. Make him paint even the mediocrities
as they are."
"How shall I begin?"
"Throw Julie overboard," answered MacGregor, instantly. "I did not come
here to mince words. I want to bring this home to you before I leave
the country. I sail for Africa day after to-morrow."
"For Africa!"
"Yes. This is good-by. A magazine has made me an offer I can't afford
to refuse."
She was oppressed by a great loneliness.
"Then I must fight it out single-handed," she said.
"You would fight single-handed if I were here, I'm afraid. Nobody can
help you much. The most I can do is to try to convince you that you
must fight. You must show Julie her place, and show her soon. Don't be
soft-hearted about it. She's not soft, trust my word. You are dealing
with an enemy--understand it clearly. She is an enemy and a clever one.
Julie could not prevent your marriage, but she may break it."
She paled at the conviction of his tone.
"I can't believe it!"
"Can't you? I tell you the process of alienation has begun. Doesn't
Craig think you indifferent about the studio?"
"Perhaps. I had reasons--"
"Chuck them away."
"And he knows I've been busy with Richter. Craig himself is lukewarm
about the studio."
"You must not be. It may be your battle-ground. I don't say it will;
but it may be, and it behooves you to look after your defences." He
glowered at the painted face a moment, then: "You may know that the
Chameleon was Julie's own choice for sister-in-law. Yes? It's a fact
worth thinking over. Good-by, Jean, and good luck! I haven't been
agreeable, but I've spoken as a friend. You feel that, I hope?"
"Yes," she answered unsteadily; "and thank you."
MacGregor winced as her voice broke.
"Buck up, buck up!" he charged. "You'll win out, sure!"
She brooded over his words till Atwood's return, but without seeing her
way, and a restless night suggested only courses too fantastic for the
light of day. She could not repeat MacGregor's warnings to Craig, nor
could she voice them as her own; while to attack Julie openly seemed
maddest of all. She could only drift and bide a time to assert herself
with dignity.
Such a chance seemed to offer at luncheon when Mrs. Van Ostade asked
Craig for suggestions regarding the decoration of the small room off
the main studio.
"It has never been done up, you know," she continued. "The last tenant
did not occupy it at all. We shall need it, however, and I think it
should be put in order at once. I'll use my own discretion, if you
don't want to be bothered."
"But that is Jean's affair," he said.
Julie's eyebrows arched.
"Really!"
"She and I settled it in the beginning that she should have that room
for her work."
His sister drew her knife through an inoffensive chop with bloodthirsty
vehemence.
"Indeed!" she returned.
"I will look after its decoration," put in Jean, quietly.
Mrs. Van Ostade's dusky skin shadowed with the dull red which marked
her infrequent flush.
"It must be in harmony with the other rooms," she said sharply. "At
times it will be necessary to throw everything open."
"Of course."
"And it should be done immediately. In fact, Mr. Satterlee promised to
look in at the studio about it at five o'clock to-day."
Jean was staggered, but she could not hesitate.
"I will meet Mr. Satterlee," she answered.
Julie's thin lips parted in a travesty of a smile.
"You are sure it would be agreeable?" she asked.
Atwood lifted his eyes at her tone.
"Agreeable, Julie?" he said. "Why do you give the word that twist? Why
shouldn't it be agreeable?"
Jean felt like an animal in a trap, but she faced Mrs. Van Ostade with
head erect and unflinching eyes.
"Yes; why?" she demanded.
Julie seemed to weigh a reply which prudent second thought bade her
check.
"How tragic you two have suddenly become," she drawled. "Isn't it
possible that the exacting Richter may have a prior claim? I am only
too happy that Jean can find time to revisit the studio--and meet Mr.
Satterlee. I hope, Craig, you will be present yourself?"
Atwood looked frankly distressed over the rancorous turn the discussion
had taken.
"If you'll wait for me, Jean," he said, "we will walk over together.
Miss Hepworth is to give me a sitting at three."
Jean went heavy-hearted to her room and flung herself down to wonder
dully how it would end. Drowsiness overtook her in these unprofitable
questionings, and, spent with her wearing night, she fell into a deep
slumber which shut out all thought till a knock called her back to face
reality smugly embodied in a servant with a card-tray.
Paul! The bit of pasteboard fluttered to the floor. What brought him
here? Then, perceiving a gleam of human curiosity light the face of the
automaton with the tray, she gripped her self-control and bade the man
tell Bartlett that she would see him.
"It's Amy," explained the dentist, rising from a respectful survey of
Mrs. Van Ostade's drawing-room. "Nothing will do her but that you must
come up to the flat. It isn't a thing I could 'phone or I wouldn't
have broken in on you like this, let alone hustling down here between
appointments and maybe missing other patients."
"But what is it?"
"The drummer. Amy thinks he means to shake her, and she's gone all to
pieces. I ran in there to ask for the rent, which is 'way behind, and
found her all in a heap. It was no place for P.B. Amy needs another
woman and needs her bad; and it seems to be up to you. I know it's
tough, asking you to go back to the Lorna Doone where every stick of
furniture--"
"I'll go," she interrupted. "If Amy didn't need me, I know you would
not have come."
"I'm afraid I can't wait to ride up with you," Paul apologized. "You
see, I'm only here between appointments, and--"
"I understand. Besides, I must see Mr. Atwood first."
She mounted hurriedly to the billiard-room where Craig must still be
at work, but hesitated on the threshold. The door was half open, and,
unseen herself, she saw both painter and sitter. Virginia Hepworth had
dropped her pose and had come behind Craig's chair. Neither spoke,
though his brush was idle. They merely faced the canvas in a silence,
the long-standing intimacy of which stabbed Jean with a jealous pang
and sent her away with her message unspoken.
She trusted Craig, but she could not trust herself, and deemed it the
part of wisdom to leave word with the dispassionate butler that a
friend's sickness would prevent her going to the studio.