HARRY SITS FOR HER PICTURE
When Harry reached the _Jolly Roger_ the next forenoon Jack arose from
his place on the sunny deck and walked forward to meet her, wagging his
tail in cordial welcome. As she spoke to him Mr. Cole heard her voice
and put his head out of one of the studio windows.
“Good morning,” he said. “Come aboard. I’m just getting my things
ready.”
From the stern of the boat she saw that the little cedar tender was
floating in the water at the end of its painter and that the oars which
lay across the seats were still wet. Evidently the artist had been out
rowing.
“I’m going to ask you to sit up top,” said Mr. Cole, emerging from
the studio with an easel tucked under one arm and a paint-box in his
hand. “It’ll be cooler there, I guess, and the light’s better than down
here.” He led the way up the steps and Harry followed. “Now just make
yourself comfortable for a moment, please. You’ll find that big rocker
fairly easy, and there are some magazines on the table. I’ll be back in
a minute.”
He swung himself down the steps in two strides, and Harry heard him
singing to himself in his mellow bass as he moved about underneath.
Obediently she picked up a magazine from the willow table and perched
herself in the big green rocker, but it was far more interesting to
look around her than to study the pages of the magazine. It was so
pretty up here. The bright rugs underfoot echoed the colors of the
blossoms in the boxes around the edge. The faded awning overhead
filtered the ardent sunlight to a soft, mellow glow. Framed by the
flowers and the fluttering scallops of the canopy was a picture of blue
water aglint in the sunlight, a purple-shadowed shore and a green hill
arising to the fleece-flecked sky. It promised to be a very warm day,
but as yet the morning breeze still stole up the river. The door of
the little pilot-house was open and Harry could see the steering-wheel
with its brass hub and rim, a little shelf of folded charts and several
gleaming brass switches and pulls which she supposed connected with
the engine-room. At that moment the artist climbed the stairs again,
a clean creamy-white canvas and a bunch of brushes in one hand and a
white box in the other. He handed the box to Harry.
“I pay in advance, you see,” he said smilingly.
“Oh,” said Harry in concern, as she opened the box and glanced at the
name on the lid, “you had to go ’way down to the Cove for this! You
oughtn’t to have done that, Mr. Cole!”
“What? Why, it’s no more than a mile, I’m sure; just a nice
after-breakfast row. I enjoyed it, really. But I’m afraid the candy
isn’t very good. However, you probably know what to expect; you
doubtless know all about Silver Cove confectionery.”
As he talked he set up his easel at one side of the deck, got out his
palette and began to squeeze wonderful blots of color on to it.
“It’s very nice candy,” answered Harry earnestly. “Won’t--won’t you
have some?”
Mr. Cole glanced at his hands, the fingers of which were already
stained with paint, and hesitated. Then:
“Suppose you feed me a piece,” he said. He came over to her and leaned
down with his mouth open.
“What do you like,” laughed Harry.
“Oh, something with nuts in it, I guess,” he replied.
“Well, I think there’s a nut in this, but I’m not sure.” She popped a
chocolate into the open mouth and watched anxiously while he bit into
it. After a moment of suspense he nodded his head vigorously.
“Right,” he said, returning to his palette. “That was a good guess. Do
you know, I think they ought to mark the pieces that have nuts in them
so we could tell, don’t you?”
Harry said she thought that was a very good plan, the while she cuddled
the big four-pound box to her and munched happily at a nougat. It was
very interesting to see the paint come squirming out of the tubes.
Each succeeding tube was a new surprise. She wondered why he needed so
many, many colors to paint her since she was all in white save for the
tan shoes and stockings and the dainty blue ribbon at her waist. Then,
as a flash of orange vermilion joined the other mounds of color, she
wondered in consternation whether that was for her hair! Presently the
palette was set, the canvas on the easel and all in readiness. Then the
artist stood up and looked at his model. Harry began to feel nervous.
Maybe she wasn’t as pret--well, as nice looking this morning! Maybe he
was disappointed in her! Oh, he was, for he was frowning!
“My dear child,” he said, “what have you done to your hair?”
“N-nothing,” faltered Harry. “At least, I just put it up in a different
way. Mama thought it would look nicer. She says I always have my hair
so untidy. So I--I made it neat. Don’t you like it?”
“Yes, indeed,” he answered heartily, “it looks very nice that way, but
for my purpose the other way was the better. You know, artists are
strange persons with unaccountable tastes. I don’t suppose you could
rearrange it, could you, as you wore it yesterday?”
“Oh, yes, I can; that is, I could if I had another ribbon. I guess you
wouldn’t have one, would you?”
“What kind of a ribbon?” he asked.
“Oh, just any old ribbon would do; just to tie around the end, you
know.”
“Well, now you run down and skirmish around. Maybe you’ll find
something. How would a ribbon off one of the curtains in the
sitting-room do? They’re white, but that wouldn’t matter to me.”
So Harry disappeared for a few minutes, and when she returned her
beautiful coronet was gone and her hair was once more down her back in
two shimmering red-gold braids.
“That’s more like it,” said Mr. Cole. “Now, if you’ll just sit here
in this chair. That’s it. Could you turn your head a little more
toward the side? Just make believe that you are very much interested
in something that’s going on across the river. That’s it! Fine! Just
hold it that way for a few minutes; not too stiff, or you’ll tire
the muscles. Now the hands--there, just folded loosely in the lap.
That’s stunning! Hm!” He backed away toward his easel, observing her
through half-closed eyes. “Now you must forgive me if I’m not very
entertaining, for I’m liable to forget my duties as host when I get
at work. But you might talk to me, if you like, and tell me about
yourself. I suppose you have a pretty good time living at a big boys’
school as you do?”
His voice trailed off into a murmur and Harry could hear the soft sound
of the charcoal on the canvas, although, as her head was turned away,
she could not see the rapid, deft strokes of his hand. It wasn’t hard
for Harry to talk, and here was a fine opportunity. So she made the
most of it for some little time, the artist throwing in an occasional
word or question which, if not always especially apropos, encouraged
the sitter to continue. But finally Harry noticed that the replies had
ceased and so she allowed the one-sided conversation to lapse. She
was getting rather tired of looking at the shore, across the dazzling
river, and her neck was beginning to feel stiff; also her hands simply
wouldn’t keep still in her lap. Unconsciously she emitted a deep sigh
and the man at the easel heard it, looked up quickly, smiled, and:
[Illustration: Harry sitting for her portrait]
“Rest, please,” he said. “Walk around a minute and have some more
candy.”
“Could I see it?” asked Harry as she obeyed. But the artist shook his
head.
“There’s nothing to see yet,” he replied. “You’d be disappointed and
perhaps throw up your job or demand higher wages. Wait until the
sitting’s over.”
As he talked and as Harry strolled around the deck, not forgetting to
return at frequent intervals to the box on the table, he worked on at
the canvas, shooting little glances at her and painting rapidly.
“I’m rested now,” said Harry presently. “Shall I sit down again?”
“Please, and take the same position. That’s it, only please lean the
body a little further back. Thank you. Just a little while longer now.”
Then silence fell over the _Jolly Roger_ again, broken by the movements
of the painter or the lazy stirring of Jack on the deck below. The sun
crept upward and the heat grew. After all, reflected Harry, it wasn’t
such good fun, this sitting for your picture! She knew she would have a
headache pretty soon if he didn’t let her go. She wished Roy and Dick
and Chub would come, as they had promised, and set her free. She closed
her tired eyes against the blur of the sunlit water, but:
“The eyes, please, Miss Emery,” said the artist. “Thank you.”
Another period of silence, and then:
“There!” said Mr. Cole. “That’ll do for this time. Would you like to
see it now?”
Harry stared at the canvas in bewilderment. The picture wasn’t at all
as she had expected to find it. There she sat in a green willow chair,
to be sure, and there was the river beyond and the shore beyond that,
but the green chair had turned very dark, the river was a radiant,
magical blue and the woods on the shore were just a lot of broad
blue-green brush-strokes. As for herself--well, it wasn’t finished yet,
as the painter reminded her, but if she looked anything like the girl
on the canvas she would be happy for ever and ever! And if her hair was
anywhere near as beautiful as that golden-red mass she would never be
dissatisfied with it again as long as she lived! Mr. Cole watched her
amusedly as she stood in rapt contemplation of the picture with the
color heightening in her soft cheeks. Perhaps he guessed her thoughts,
for:
“I’m afraid I haven’t done full justice to my subject,” he said, “but
the next sitting will remedy that somewhat. The detail comes later, you
know. You’re not disappointed, I trust?”
“Disappointed!” breathed Harry. “I think it’s beautiful! Only--only--”
she paused, “I suppose artists are like photographers, aren’t they? I
mean that they sort of change things to suit themselves?”
“Change things? Oh, yes, sometimes; that is, we idealize things. What
are you thinking of, the water?”
“Yes, and--”
“I deepened it a few shades. It throws out the figure, you see. Observe
how the white gown stands out against it.”
“Ye-es,” said Harry, “and I daresay you have to flatter folks too,
don’t you? Idealize them, I mean.”
“Sometimes, but not on this occasion,” replied the artist smilingly.
Harry gave a gasp.
“Do you mean,” she cried, turning to him with wide eyes, “that I really
look like that?”
“Well, as near as I could do it, young lady, I put you into that
picture just as you are. I hope I haven’t made you vain?”
But Harry was looking raptly at the picture again. Presently:
“Yes, I guess it’s me,” she sighed, coming out of her trance, “for
there’s my horrid little snub nose!”
“A very interesting nose,” replied the artist. “Not classic, perhaps,
but human. And put there, I fancy, for a good purpose.”
“What?” asked Harry.
“To keep you from getting over-vain,” was the response. “Ah, here come
your squires.”
The _Pup_ came chugging alongside and Dick gave a hail. Harry and Mr.
Cole went to the railing.
“Come aboard,” cried the artist. “Hitch your steed and come up, and
let’s have your judgment on the picture.”
A moment later they were all clustered about the canvas, emitting
various exclamations of admiration. It was Chub who finally summed up
the sentiments of the three in one terse sentence.
“It’s a James Dandy!” he said emphatically.
“Do you think--it looks much like me?” asked Harry with elaborate
carelessness. Chub grinned at her.
“Well, it’s got your nose,” he answered.
Harry’s mouth drooped until Roy cut in with an indignant: “Don’t you
mind him, Harry. It’s a bully likeness. I’d know it anywhere!”
“So would I,” said Dick. “Chub’s just teasing.” And Chub owned up that
he was.
“Say, don’t you love the colors, though?” asked Roy eagerly. “Why, that
blue looks good enough to eat!” He turned toward the artist with a new
respect. “I guess you’re a cracker-jack, sir.”
“Oh, you’re all too flattering,” laughed Mr. Cole. “You’ll never make
art critics of yourselves unless you restrain your enthusiasm. I will
acknowledge, though, that I’ve been rather successful with this; it’s
one of the best figure studies I’ve ever done; and much of my success
has been due to my subject who proved quite a model model, if I may use
such an expression.”
Harry smiled shyly and recollecting the candy, passed it around.
“Me, I don’t care for any,” said Chub as he scooped up a handful.
Then they sat down and had a nice cozy talk up there on the roof-deck,
and ate candy to their hearts’--or rather their stomachs’--content.
Presently Chub asked:
“Wasn’t it funny, Mr. Cole, that you should meet Billy Noon here?”
“Why, yes, it was,” was the answer. “Still, Noon’s the sort of a chap
that you’re likely to come across in strange places and when you least
expect to.”
“Have you known him long?” asked Chub in politely conversational tones.
The artist suppressed a smile.
“For several years,” he replied.
“He seems to have tried all sorts of trades,” continued Chub, nothing
daunted. “He says he’s been a dentist, a clown in a circus, a
sleight-of-hand performer, a ventriloquist, a--a--”
“Book agent,” prompted Dick.
“Engineer,” supplied Roy.
“Yes,” Chub went on, “and a poet.”
“Indeed,” laughed the artist, “I’d never heard of that. How did you
find that out?”
So Chub told him about the missing bread and butter and the verses
substituted, about the fish and the poem written on birch bark, and
so worked around to Billy’s experience with the Great Indian Chief
Medicine Company.
“Well, he’s tried his hand at lots of things,” said Mr. Cole, “and
strangely enough he does everything well. I haven’t any doubt but that
if I could persuade Noon to take the _Roger_ to sell for me he’d find
a buyer inside of a week.”
“Couldn’t you?” asked Dick. The artist shook his head.
“I’m afraid not,” he answered. “He’s a pretty busy person.”
“But I should think it would pay him better than selling books,” Chub
insisted. Mr. Cole smiled mysteriously.
“Noon’s book-selling is a bigger thing than you think,” he replied.