IV

WITHIN three months two events had set the studio building talking.

Stanwell had painted a full-length portrait of Mrs. Archer Millington,

and Caspar Arran had received an order to execute his group in marble.

The name of the sculptor's patron had not been divulged. The order came

through Shepson, who explained that an American customer living abroad,

having seen a photograph of the group in one of the papers, had at once

cabled home to secure it. He intended to bestow it on a public building

in America, and not wishing to advertise his munificence, had preferred

that even the sculptor should remain ignorant of his name. The group

bought by an enlightened compatriot for the adornment of a civic

building in his native land! There could hardly be a more complete

vindication of unappreciated genius, and Caspar made the most of the

argument. He was not exultant, he was sublimely magnanimous. He had

always said that he could afford to await the Verdict of Posterity, and

his unknown patron's act clearly shadowed forth that impressive

decision. Happily it also found expression in a cheque which it would

have taken more philosophy to await. The group was paid for in advance,

and Kate's joy in her brother's recognition was deliciously mingled

with the thrill of ordering him some new clothes, and coaxing him out

to dine succulently at a neighbouring restaurant. Caspar flourished

insufferably on this regime: he began to strike the attitude of the

recognized Great Master, who gives advice and encouragement to the

struggling neophyte. He held himself up as an example of the reward of

disinterestedness, of the triumph of the artist who clings obstinately

to his convictions.

"A man must believe in his star--look at Napoleon! It's the dogged

trust in one's convictions that tells--it always ends by forcing the

public into line. Only be sure you make no concessions--don't give in

to any of their humbug! An artist who listens to the critics is

ruined--they never have any use for the poor devils who do what they

tell them to. Run after fame and she'll keep you running, but stay in

your own corner and do your own work, and by George, sir, she'll come

crawling up to you and ask to have her likeness done!"

These exhortations were chiefly directed to Stanwell, partly because

the inmates of the other studios were apt to elude them, partly also

because the rumours concerning Stanwell's portrait of Mrs. Millington

had begun to disquiet the sculptor. At first he had taken a

condescending interest in the fact of his friend's receiving an order,

and had admonished him not to lose the chance of "showing up" his

sitter and her environment. It was a splendid opportunity for a fellow

with a "message" to be introduced into the tents of the Philistine, and

Stanwell was charged to drive a long sharp nail into the enemy's skull.

But presently Arran began to suspect that the portrait was not as

comminatory as he could have wished. Mungold, the most kindly of

rivals, let drop a word of injudicious praise: the picture, he said,

promised to be delightfully "in keeping" with the decorations of the

ball-room, and the lady's gown harmonized exquisitely with the

window-curtains. Stanwell, called to account by his monitor, reminded

the latter that he himself had been selected by Mungold to do the

Cupids for Mrs. Millington's ball-room, and that the friendly artist's

praise could, therefore, not be taken as positive evidence of

incapacity.

"Ah, but I didn't do them--I kicked him out!" Caspar rejoined; and

Stanwell could only plead that, even in the cause of art, one could

hardly kick a lady.

"Ah, that's the worst of it. If the women get at you you're lost.

You're young, you're impressionable, you won't mind my saying that

you're not built for a stoic, and hang it, they'll coddle you, they'll

enervate you, they'll sentimentalize you, they'll make a Mungold of

you!"

"Ah, poor Mungold," Stanwell laughed. "If he lived the life of an

anchorite he couldn't help painting pictures that would please Mrs.

Millington."

"Whereas you could," Kate interjected, raising her head from the

ironing-board where, Sphinx-like, magnificent, she swung a splendid arm

above her brother's shirts.

"Oh, well, perhaps I shan't please her; perhaps I shall elevate her

taste."

Caspar directed a groan to his sister. "That's what they all think at

first--Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came. But inside the Dark Tower

there's the Venusberg. Oh, I don't mean that you'll be taken with

truffles and plush footmen, like Mungold. But praise, my poor

Ned--praise is a deadly drug! It's the absinthe of the artist--and

they'll stupefy you with it. You'll wallow in the mire of success."

Stanwell raised a protesting hand. "Really, for one order, you're a

little lurid!"

"One? Haven't you already had a dozen others?"

"Only one other, so far--and I'm not sure I shall do that."

"Not sure--wavering already! That's the way the mischief begins. If the

women get a fad for you they'll work you like a galley-slave. You'll

have to do your round of 'copy' every morning. What becomes of

inspiration then? How are you going to loaf and invite the soul? Don't

barter your birthright for a mess of pottage! Oh, I understand the

temptation--I know the taste of money and success. But look at me,

Stanwell. You know how long I had to wait for recognition. Well, now

it's come to me I don't mean to let it knock me off my feet. I don't

mean to let myself be overworked; I have already made it known that I

will not be bullied into taking more orders than I can do full justice

to. And my sister is with me, God bless her; Kate would rather go on

ironing my shirts in a garret than see me prostitute my art!"

Kate's glance radiantly confirmed this declaration of independence, and

Stanwell, with his evasive laugh, asked her if, meanwhile, she should

object to his investing a part of his ill-gotten gains in theatre

tickets for the party that evening.

It appeared that Stanwell had also been paid in advance, and well paid;

for he began to permit himself various mild distractions, in which he

generally contrived to have the Arrans share. It seemed perfectly

natural to Kate that Caspar's friends should spend their money for his

recreation, and by one of the most touching sophistries of her sex she

thus reconciled herself to the anomaly of taking a little pleasure on

her own account. Mungold was less often in the way, for she had never

been able to forgive him for proposing that Caspar should do Mrs.

Millington's Cupids; and for a few radiant weeks Stanwell had the

undisputed enjoyment of her pride in her brother's achievement.

Stanwell had "rushed through" Mrs. Millington's portrait in time for

the opening of her new ball-room; and it was perhaps in return for this

favour that she consented to let the picture be exhibited at a big

Portrait Show which was held in April for the benefit of a fashionable

charity.

In Mrs. Millington's ball-room the picture had been seen and approved

only by the distinguished few who had access to that social sanctuary;

but on the walls of the exhibition it became a centre of comment and

discussion. One of the immediate results of this publicity was a visit

from Shepson, with two or three orders in his pocket, as he put it. He

surveyed the studio with fresh disgust, asked Stanwell why he did not

move, and was impressed rather than downcast on learning that the

painter had not decided whether he would take any more orders that

spring.

"You might haf a studio at Newport," he suggested. "It would be rather

new to do your sitters out of doors, with the sea behind them--showing

they had a blace on the gliffs!"

The picture produced a different and less flattering effect on the

critics. They gave it, indeed, more space than they had ever before

accorded to the artist's efforts, but their estimate seemed to confirm

Caspar Arran's forebodings, and Stanwell had perhaps never despised

them so little as when he read their comments on his work. On the

whole, however, neither praise nor blame disquieted him greatly. He was

engrossed in the contemplation of Kate Arran's happiness, and basking

in the refracted warmth it shed about her. The doctor's

prognostications had come true. Caspar was putting on a pound a week,

and had plunged into a fresh "creation" more symbolic and encumbering

than the monument of which he had been so opportunely relieved. If

there was any cloud on Stanwell's enjoyment of life, it was caused by

the discovery that success had quadrupled Caspar's artistic energies.

Meanwhile it was delightful to see Kate's joy in her brother's

recovered capacity for work, and to listen to the axioms which, for

Stanwell's guidance, she deduced from the example of Caspar's heroic

pursuit of the ideal. There was nothing repellent in Kate's borrowed

didacticism, and if it sometimes bored Stanwell to hear her quote her

brother, he was sure it would never bore him to be quoted by her

himself; and there were moments when he felt he had nearly achieved

that distinction.

Caspar was not addicted to the visiting of art exhibitions. He took

little interest in any productions save his own, and was moreover

disposed to believe that good pictures, like clever criminals, are apt

to go unhung. Stanwell therefore thought it unlikely that his portrait

of Mrs. Millington would be seen by Kate, who was not given to

independent explorations in the field of art; but one day, on entering

the exhibition--which he had hitherto rather nervously shunned--he saw

the Arrans at the end of the gallery in which the portrait hung. They

were not looking at it, they were moving away from it, and to

Stanwell's quickened perceptions their attitude seemed almost that of

flight. For a moment he thought of flying too; then a desperate resolve

nerved him to meet them, and stemming the crowd, he made a circuit

which brought him face to face with their retreat.

The room in which they met was momentarily empty, and there was nothing

to intervene between the shock of their inter-changed glances. Caspar

was flushed and bristling: his little body quivered like a machine from

which the steam has just been turned off. Kate lifted a stricken

glance. Stanwell read in it the reflexion of her brother's tirade, but

she held out her hand in silence.

For a moment Caspar was silent too; then, with a terrible smile: "My

dear fellow, I congratulate you; Mungold will have to look to his

laurels," he said.

The shot delivered, he stalked away with his seven-league stride, and

Kate moved tragically through the room in his wake.

V

SHEPSON took up his hat with a despairing gesture.

"Vell, I gif you up--I gif you up!" he said.

"Don't--yet," protested Stanwell from the divan.

It was winter again, and though the janitor had not forgotten the fire,

the studio gave no other evidence of its master's increasing

prosperity. If Stanwell spent his money it was not upon himself.

He leaned back against the wall, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette

between his lips, while Shepson paced the dirty floor or halted

impatiently before an untouched canvas on the easel.

"I tell you vat it is, Mr. Sdanwell, I can't make you out!" he

lamented. "Last vinter you got a sdart that vould have kept most men

going for years. After making dat hit vith Mrs. Millington's picture

you could have bainted half the town. And here you are sitting on your

divan and saying you can't make up your mind to take another order.

Vell, I can only say that if you take much longer to make it up, you'll

find some other chap has cut in and got your job. Mrs. Van Orley has

been waiting since last August, and she dells me you haven't even

answered her letter."

"How could I? I didn't know if I wanted to paint her."

"My goodness! Don't you know if you vant three thousand tollars?"

Stanwell surveyed his cigarette. "No, I'm not sure I do," he said.

Shepson flung out his hands. "Ask more den--but do it quick!" he

exclaimed.

Left to himself, Stanwell stood in silent contemplation of the canvas

on which the dealer had riveted his reproachful gaze. It had been

destined to reflect the opulent image of Mrs. Alpheus Van Orley, but

some secret reluctance of Stanwell's had stayed the execution of the

task. He had painted two of Mrs. Millington's friends in the spring,

had been much praised and liberally paid for his work, and then,

declining several recent orders to be executed at Newport, had

surprised his friends by remaining quietly in town. It was not till

August that he hired a little cottage on the New Jersey coast and

invited the Arrans to visit him. They accepted the invitation, and the

three had spent together six weeks of seashore idleness, during which

Stanwell's modest rafters shook with Caspar's denunciations of his

host's venality, and the brightness of Kate's gratitude was tempered by

a tinge of reproach. But her grief over Stanwell's apostasy could not

efface the fact that he had offered her brother the means of escape

from town, and Stanwell himself was consoled by the reflection that but

for Mrs. Millington's portrait he could not have performed even this

trifling service for his friends.

When the Arrans left him in September he went to pay a few visits in

the country, and on his return, a month later, to the studio building

he found that things had not gone well with Caspar. The little sculptor

had caught cold, and the labour and expense of converting his gigantic

offspring into marble seemed to hang heavily upon him. He and Kate were

living in a damp company of amorphous clay monsters, unfinished

witnesses to the creative frenzy which had seized him after the sale of

his group; and the doctor had urged that his patient should be removed

to warmer and drier lodgings. But to uproot Caspar was impossible, and

his sister could only feed the stove, and swaddle him in mufflers and

felt slippers.

Stanwell found that during his absence Mungold had reappeared, fresh

and rosy from a summer in Europe, and as prodigal as ever of the only

form of attention which Kate could be counted on not to resent. The

game and champagne reappeared with him, and he seemed as ready as

Stanwell to lend a patient ear to Caspar's homilies. But Stanwell could

see that, even now, Kate had not forgiven him for the Cupids. Stanwell

himself had spent the early winter months in idleness. The sight of his

tools filled him with a strange repugnance, and he absented himself as

much as possible from the studio. But Shepson's visit roused him to the

fact that he must decide on some definite course of action. If he

wished to follow up his success of the previous spring he must refuse

no more orders: he must not let Mrs. Van Orley slip away from him. He

knew there were competitors enough ready to profit by his hesitations,

and since his success was the result of a whim, a whim might undo it.

With a sudden gesture of decision he caught up his hat and left the

studio.

On the landing he met Kate Arran. She too was going out, drawn forth by

the sudden radiance of the January afternoon. She met him with a smile

which seemed the answer to his uncertainties, and he asked abruptly if

she had time to take a walk with him.

Yes; for once she had time, for Mr. Mungold was sitting with Caspar,

and had promised to remain till she came in. It mattered little to

Stanwell that Mungold was with Caspar as long as he himself was with

Kate; and he instantly soared to the suggestion that they should

prolong the painter's vigil by taking the "elevated" to the Park. In

this too his companion acquiesced after a moment of surprise: she

seemed in a consenting mood, and Stanwell augured well from the fact.

The Park was clothed in the double glitter of snow and sunshine. They

roamed the hard white alleys to a continuous tinkle of sleigh-bells,

and Kate brightened with the exhilaration of the scene. It was not

often that she permitted herself such an escape from routine, and in

this new environment, which seemed to detach her from her daily

setting, Stanwell had his first complete vision of her. To the girl

also their unwonted isolation seemed to create a sense of fuller

communion, for she began presently, as they reached the leafless

solitude of the Ramble, to speak with sudden freedom of her brother. It

appeared that the orders against which Caspar had so heroically steeled

himself were slow in coming: he had received no commission since the

sale of his group, and he was beginning to suffer from a reaction of

discouragement. Oh, it was not the craving for popularity--Stanwell

knew how far above that he stood. But it had been exquisite, yes,

exquisite to him to find himself believed in, understood. He had

fancied that the purchase of the group was the dawn of a tardy

recognition--and now the darkness of indifference had set in again, no

one spoke of him, no one wrote of him, no one cared.

"If he were in good health it would not matter--he would throw off such

weakness, he would live only for the joy of his work; but he is losing

ground, his strength is failing, and he is so afraid there will not be

time enough left--time enough for full recognition," she explained.

The quiver in her voice silenced Stanwell: he was afraid of echoing it

with his own. At length he said: "Oh, more orders will come. Success is

a gradual growth."

"Yes, _real_ success," she said, with a solemn note in which he

caught--and forgave--a reflection on his own facile triumphs.

"But when the orders do come," she continued, "will he have strength to

carry them out? Last winter the doctor thought he only needed work to

set him up; now he talks of rest instead! He says we ought to go to a

warm climate--but how can Caspar leave the group?"

"Oh, hang the group--let him chuck the order!" cried Stanwell.

She looked at him tragically. "The money is spent," she said.

He coloured to the roots of his hair. "But ill-health--ill-health

excuses everything. If he goes away now he will come back good for

twice the amount of work in the spring. A sculptor is not expected to

deliver a statue on a given day, like a package of groceries! You must

do as the doctor says--you must make him chuck everything and go."

They had reached a windless nook above the lake, and, pausing in the

stress of their talk, she let herself sink on a bench beside the path.

The movement encouraged him, and he seated himself at her side.

"You must take him away at once," he repeated urgently. "He must be

made comfortable--you must both be free from worry. And I want you to

let me manage it for you--"

He broke off, silenced by her rising blush, her protesting murmur.

"Oh, stop, please; let me explain. I'm not talking of lending you

money; I'm talking of giving you--myself. The offer may be just as

unacceptable, but it's of a kind to which it's customary to accord it a

hearing. I should have made it a year ago--the first day I saw you, I

believe!--but that, then, it wasn't in my power to make things easier

for you. But now, you know, I've had a little luck. Since I painted

Mrs. Millington things have changed. I believe I can get as many orders

as I choose--there are two or three people waiting now. What's the use

of it all, if it doesn't bring me a little happiness? And the only

happiness I know is the kind that you can give me."

He paused, suddenly losing the courage to look at her, so that her

pained murmur was framed for him in a glittering vision of the frozen

lake. He turned with a start and met the refusal in her eyes.

"No--really no?" he repeated.

She shook her head silently.

"I could have helped you--I could have helped you!" he sighed.

She flushed distressfully, but kept her eyes on his.

"It's just that--don't you see?" she reproached him.

"Just that--the fact that I could be of use to you?"

"The fact that, as you say, things have changed since you painted Mrs.

Millington. I haven't seen the later portraits, but they tell me--"

"Oh, they're just as bad!" Stanwell jeered.

"You've sold your talent, and you know it: that's the dreadful part.

You did it deliberately," she cried with passion.

"Oh, deliberately," he interjected.

"And you're not ashamed--you talk of going on."

"I'm not ashamed; I talk of going on."

She received this with a long shuddering sigh, and turned her eyes away

from him.

"Oh, why--why--why?" she lamented.

It was on the tip of Stanwell's tongue to answer, "That I might say to

you what I am just saying now--" but he replied instead: "A man may

paint bad pictures and be a decent fellow. Look at Mungold, after all!"

The adjuration had an unexpected effect. Kate's colour faded suddenly,

and she sat motionless, with a stricken face.

"There's a difference--" she began at length abruptly; "the difference

you've always insisted on. Mr. Mungold paints as well as he can. He has

no idea that his pictures are--less good than they might be."

"Well--?"

"So he can't be accused of doing what he does for money--of sacrificing

anything better." She turned on him with troubled eyes. "It was you who

made me understand that, when Caspar used to make fun of him."

Stanwell smiled. "I'm glad you still think me a better painter than

Mungold. But isn't it hard that for that very reason I should starve in

a hole? If I painted badly enough you'd see no objection to my living

at the Waldorf!"

"Ah, don't joke about it," she murmured. "Don't triumph in it."

"I see no reason to at present," said Stanwell drily. "But I won't

pretend to be ashamed when I'm not. I think there are occasions when a

man is justified in doing what I've done."