than he had planned. He had mechanically spoken to passing
acquaintances. He had saluted Mrs. Larce, over whose portrait he was
laboring, with a vacant regard and flamboyant hat. Then he emerged
from his engulfing spleen and hastily ascended Delmonico’s steps. It
was his day of disappointments. All the windows in the café were
occupied; nothing remained except a large table in the centre of the
room, decidedly an unpleasant spot, with people passing and repassing.
He hesitated and would have gone away when he remembered that this hour
always saw a mob of hungry folk at any establishment. And Benedict, his
favorite waiter, whispered to him that he would assiduously attend to
monsieur’s wants. The bored painter sank heavily into his chair.
The meal was not an enlivening one. Like most artists educated in
Paris, Vincent never took anything save coffee and rolls before one
o’clock. He was not an early riser; he deplored morning work, being
lazy and indifferent; but he soon discovered that if he were to keep
pace with the desperate pace of New York artistic life he dared not
waste the first half of the day. Mrs. Larce, for example, insisted
upon a ten-o’clock sitting. At that precise hour he wished himself a
writer with liberty to work at midnight; then he might indulge in more
tobacco, dreams, and later uprisings. In the meantime he was munching
his fish without noting its flavor, a fact that Benedict witnessed with
disappointed eyes.
He had achieved coffee and cognac and was about to light a black cigar
when a man hurried in, and, after gazing at the coveted window-tables,
sat himself opposite Serle with a short nod, though hardly looking
at him. The match burned Serle’s fingers and he struck a fresh one.
Instinctively he stood up, searching the room for another place. The
garçon asked if he desired his account. Vincent shook his head and
fumingly demanded a newspaper; behind it he swallowed his brandy and
puffed his cigar. The fine print melted into a blurred mass before his
eyes and his hands trembled. He could feel the beating of blood at his
wrists and temple. He did not peep over the paper rampart because of
his discomposed features.
“Damn him!” he thought, “I wonder if he knows me yet?”
The newcomer calmly ate his omelette with the air of a man intent
upon some problem. He was not so tall, so dark as Serle, but older,
wirier and of a type familiar to Fifth Avenue after four o’clock on
fine afternoons:--a lawyer, broker, an insurance officer, but never an
artist. He did not glance at his table companion until the other had
folded his newspaper, and then without a gleam of recognition.
“He doesn’t know me,” reflected Serle; “so much the better, I’ll not go
away. I’ll watch him. It will be interesting.”
He sardonically hoped that the absorbed man would choke as he swallowed
his chop. Then he smiled at his vindictive temper, smiled bitterly
because of his childishness--after all the fellow was not to blame; he
had been a mere accomplice of a stronger, a more unprincipled will.
Yet, slowly studying the face, he could not call it a foolish one. Its
owner showed by his concentrated pose, the stern expression of his
mask, that he was not a weakling.
“But,” mused the painter, “I’ve seen men with jaws as if modelled in
granite, eyes that imperiously reminded you that they were your master,
men whose bearing recalled that of a triumphant gladiator; well,
these same individuals, artists, despots, brutes, bankers, were like
whipped dogs in the presence of some woman. No. Hector Marden’s outward
semblance is not an indication of the real man. We are all consummate
actors in our daily lives, none more so than those who have much to
conceal.”
Hector Marden--and had he not much to conceal--the beast! Vincent’s
clinched fists were drumming on the table. “Come,” he pondered,
“I’ll have to cease this baby game or I’ll end by making a scene and
consequently an ass of myself.” He stared at Benedict just as Marden
raised his finger. The waiter hurried to the table and presented his
memoranda to the men. Serle frowned. He was in a nasty humor.
“What’s this, Benedict?” He tendered the embarrassed garçon his slip of
paper.
“Pardon, a thousand times pardon, monsieur! I made a mistake.” Marden
looked up smiling.
“I fear I have the bill intended for you,” he said, in a conciliating
tone.
“It’s nothing,” murmured Serle. Both men bowed. The accounts were
soon settled and Benedict nervously retreated to the background. But
neither one stirred. Vincent, without pausing to analyze his action,
offered Marden the newspaper. It was politely refused. Possibly because
of the mellowness of the moment, or the ample repose that follows
luncheon, Marden was not averse from entering into conversation, one
of hazy indirectness, equally suggestive and non-committal. He made a
few commonplace remarks about the unseasonable heat, the deplorable
twilight of New York’s tower-begirt highways, and soon, against the
prompting of his inner spirit, Serle chimed an accordance. They
chatted. Benedict discreetly moved nearer. Presently Serle asked his
neighbor if he would have a cigar or perhaps a liqueur.
“I don’t mind,” rejoined Marden. “The fact is I feel lazy this
afternoon. I had expected to meet a friend here--a client of mine--but
I fancy he is off somewhere wondering if New York shall ever boast
a decent sky-line. He is an architect and enthusiastic over French
Gothic.” Serle’s ears began to burn.
“Architecture in New York? That’s a tall joke. Curiously enough,
though, this very morning I was admiring the new library. It has a
stunning façade. If I were Emperor of America I’d raze every building
within the radius of ten blocks so as to give the building a chance.
Only think of the Cathedral without a house near it!”
“You are an artist, evidently,” Marden said without the faintest
trace of curiosity in his voice. Serle nodded. Benedict with clasped
hands hinted that the two gentlemen might prefer a window. There were
empty tables upon which the sun no longer shone, since the formidable
walls across the street blocked its rays. The painter shuddered. They
would surely be seen by impertinent passers-by. He sent the man away,
sharply adding that he would be called when needed. As for Marden, he
was languidly drifting on the current of his fancy. Was it pleasant or
unpleasant? The watcher could not decide. But he had made up his mind
that he would draw Marden up to the danger-line, and if discovered,
if discovered? He would at least tell him what he thought of the mean
scoundrel who had----
“I’ve noticed,” Marden broke in on Serle’s ugly revery, “that painters
seem to have lots of time on their hands. I beg your pardon. You
have quite as much reason for advancing a similar remark about a
professional man. Here I am lounging as if I had no office or desk
loaded with unanswered correspondence. But I assure you I don’t often
dissipate this way, and I take it you are of the same opinion regarding
yourself.” He paused.
“You spoke of painters loafing. What made you single out that
particular profession? I believe it may be called a profession,”
Vincent laughed.
“Oh! You said you were a painter----”
“Yes, but you were not thinking of me, I’ll wager. You’ve only seen me
half an hour.”
“You’re right; I was not thinking of painters, or of you in general,
but of a particular case that came under my personal observation.”
“Yes, yes,” eagerly responded Serle, as he mentally abused the lawyer
for his measured, pedantic delivery. “Your story interests.”
Marden glanced at the other’s flaming cheeks and replied, rather
abruptly:
“But you haven’t heard it yet. However, it’s not much of a yarn. It
happened--several years ago. A lady, a client, came to me for advice.
She was married, married, I say, to an artist, a painter--a big,
good-for-nothing fellow, who was lazy, who drank, ran after his models
and spent her money.” Marden was interrupted.
“Excuse me, you said the lady was rich?”
“Did I?”
“Certainly, spent her money was your last phrase.”
“Oh!--Well, perhaps I shouldn’t have said her money. She had no money.
I meant that her husband had money and didn’t spend it on her. A mere
slip of the tongue.”
“Good. I’m a regular cross-examiner, you see.”
“True. You might prove a difficult witness in the chair. My friend--my
client, informed me that her husband was so lazy that he remained in
bed until one or two o’clock in the afternoon; then he would slowly
dress and saunter for a walk, and often she did not see him until the
next morning.”
“How did he make a living?”
“Oh, I suppose he painted a portrait or two and managed to get on.”
“A portrait or two? That would hardly pay household expenses--that
is, unless your friend--I mean your client’s husband, was a Sargent
or a Boldini. Then they could have struggled along at the rate of one
portrait every year.” Serle laughed so harshly that Marden looked at
him wonderingly.
“I see you are acquainted with the artistic temperament, as they call
it in the newspapers,” observed the lawyer.
“Not as they call it, but as it is. My dear sir, an artist is not built
to put in a ton of coal every day. A man whose brain is delicately
adjusted, whose whole soul is in his eyes----”
“When he sees a pretty girl?” The sly tone of Marden angered the
painter.
“No, hang it! For a painter there are no pretty, no ugly girls; no
pretty, no ugly landscapes; no agreeable, no disagreeable subjects.
Only a surface to be transferred to canvas, to be truthfully rendered.
And that’s what business men, with their lack of imagination, will
never understand.” He spoke hotly.
“I confess I have a lack of imagination when it comes to an
appreciation of the artistic temperament.” Marden said this so slyly
that Serle at once begged his pardon.
“After all, we are not at Delmonico’s just to thrash out a stale
question. Pray go on--your story interests me strangely.”
“It’s not very interesting--that’s all I know. The woman left the
man----”
“For another?” calmly interjected Vincent.
“Not at all, not at all--that is, not at the time.” The lawyer fumbled
his glass, his expression overcast.
“You know what strange creatures women are. I had the greatest
difficulty in persuading my client to make up her mind. She suffered,
yet she cared for the fellow----”
Serle impatiently asked: “But you haven’t revealed what the fellow did
to her--what his special crime! Didn’t he give her a good home?”
“My dear sir! A good home when he turned night into day! A good home
when he seldom put brush to canvas! A good home--why, I thought I told
you he was too friendly with his models.”
“His models! A portraitist! Do you mean his sitters? Did he flirt with
them? If he did so he was a fool, for he was killing the goose that
laid the--No, I’ll not be so impolite. I meant to say he would endanger
his reputation.” Marden dryly laughed.
“That’s good--reputation is good. My client informed me, and she is a
serious woman, that she never met an artist who could be relied upon.
And she knew, for she was one herself.”
Serle’s jaw dropped. “How odd! What did she do?”
“Oh, she painted a little, just enough to make pin-money and to annoy
her husband. You see, it was this way. She did not care to take money
from a man she loathed.”
“Loathed!”
“I said--loathed. She literally loathed him. She told me so.”
“Why didn’t she leave him sooner? Besides, a few moments ago you said
he never offered her money. Now, she loathed him so she wouldn’t take
any----”
“Ah! That’s not in my fable,” tartly answered Marden. Again he turned
gloomy and tapped nervously on the table.
The afternoon waned. A soft light slipped through the high curtained
windows and modulated into glancing semitones over the richly decorated
apartment. Several men entered--the vanguard of the five-o’clock
brigade of absintheurs. Serle became nervous. What if!--But he
determined to take the chance of seeing some imbecile who might salute
him by name. He leaned forward on his folded arms and asked with a show
of concern:
“And what became of your charming client?”
“My charming--Oh! Why, she married and settled down.”
“At last! Is she happy?”
“How can I tell?” The response betrayed an irritable nuance.
“I didn’t mean to put the question so bluntly. The reason I ask is a
simple one. I studied a case not unlike the one you narrated. It is
just as sordid and commonplace. My artist, also a painter, had married
a pupil whom he taught--as much as she could absorb. She hadn’t much
talent; it was the sort you see expressed on fans and bon-bon boxes.
“She might have been all right if her admiring friends had not told her
that she had more talent than her husband--really, there wasn’t enough
between them both to set the river on fire. However, she devilled him
so effectually that he took a separate studio to get away from the
sound of her voice and from their home. Like your painter, he turned
day into night, but with a difference; he made illustrations for the
magazines and newspapers, painted cheap portraits, demeaned himself
generally to get money enough to run the house. She enjoyed herself,
flirted, went into society of some sort, a cheap compromise between
Bohemia and the frayed fringe of Fifth Avenue--you may not know the
variety, as you are a member of another profession. It is diverting,
this society, because it is as false as the hair on the head of its
women. The bohemian side largely consists of bad claret, worse music,
and ghastly studio teas; its fashionable side, poverty-stricken grand
ladies with tarnished reputations. I’ve seen it all. One of the sights
of greater Gotham is this glittering set of fakirs. The woman I speak
of was whirled off her feet by the cheap show. She was a fresh, pretty
little girl when she came here from a small town up State. Her friends
were ambitious fools, she was green--and very vain. So vain! Then her
name crept into the newspapers; it’s hard work keeping out of them
nowadays. She was called ‘The beautiful Mrs. Somebody, who painted
exquisite miniatures of socially prominent ladies’; you know the style
of such rot? The horror of it! Rather you don’t, for you have never
lived in this particular set----”
“But, I do, I do!” cried Marden. “My client told me something of it.”
Serle sneered.
“She didn’t tell you much or you might have asked her whether there
wasn’t another side to her case. The girl I am talking about went the
pace; and, as an old philosopher on the police force remarks: ‘When
a woman is heading for hell, don’t try to stop her; it’s a waste of
time.’ Her husband saw it and he did try. Her friends knew it and
helped her on her merry way. The painter even sent her to Europe, and
with her some of her friends to keep her company, if they couldn’t keep
her straight. Well--Paris is worse than poison for such women. She was
soon back in New York, leaving behind her a sweet record, many unpaid
bills and with a half a dozen fools, picked up, God knows where, at her
heels. And then he went away. It was too much. However, being a woman,
she won all the sympathy. Her story was believed, not his, and----”
“Singular coincidence. But wasn’t the husband to blame a little?”
“Oh!” said Vincent. “Men are always to blame.”
“Could he have forgiven her?”
“He did better, he forgot her.”
“Did she go to the bad?” sympathetically inquired Marden.
“On the contrary. She married well--a professional man of some sort.”
He smiled with good-humored malice.
“And is she--is she--right now? I mean is she happy?”
“She will be happy always, a selfish little soul. You mean is her
present husband happy?”
“Yes.” Marden leaned back nonchalantly and his hands, lean-fingered,
traversed the corner of the table. To Serle the air became as dense as
a vapor-bath. He continued, mercilessly:
“Of course he is happy--her husband. Why shouldn’t he be? He doesn’t
know.”
“Doesn’t know what? Really, you set me on edge,” exclaimed Marden. He
tried to smile, but his upper lip lifted, displaying white eye-teeth.
Vincent lighted a fresh cigar. His arm did not tremble now. Then,
swallowing the last of his cold coffee, he continued:
“Her husband doesn’t dream the truth of her life in New York and
Paris. She is, as I said, very pretty and can pull the wool over any
man’s eyes. She is so interesting, so poetic, you know. She plays that
little trick of the abused wife with the artistic temperament; plays it
off on all the men she meets, on my friends----”
“Your friends?”
“My friends know her as a capricious vixen, masquerading as a delicate
oversoul. I knew her once.” (Serle was cool; he had himself well in
hand.) “And she always wins and still plays the game. At this moment
she is probably fooling her husband, taking tea with some soft-head.
She gets her wealthy male friends----”
“How does she get them? Tell me.” Marden’s voice was subdued. “Does she
say to her husband that she must secure orders for miniatures by dining
with rich fellows? Doesn’t she----”
“Really, my dear sir, I don’t know everything about this clever lady’s
method. You seem quite taken with her story. It is, I pride myself,
more exciting than your narrative of the artistic temperament.”
Vincent’s intonations were markedly sarcastic. The older man’s face was
afire.
“Who the devil----”
Benedict came to the table and placatingly asked:
“Is this Mr. Marden?”
“I’m Mr. Marden. What do you want?”
“Madame, your wife, has just arrived. She is in the large salon with a
gentleman, and she desires me to ask you to join her.” The men arose.
“It was quite a pleasant afternoon, was it not?” In his most charming
manner Serle put out his hand and Marden took it, grudgingly, his
shrewd face surly, his little eyes suspiciously fastened on the smiling
countenance of his companion. Then he followed the obsequious garçon,
and Serle went into the street, first looking after the pair. He
discerned Marden at a table on the Fifth Avenue side; with him was a
fresh-colored, graceful woman, in elaborate afternoon toilette; a big,
overdressed man sat beside her.
Once in a taxi Vincent Serle gave the order to cross over to Madison
Avenue.
“I’ll not risk passing that window,” he muttered. “It was a mean trick,
but it served the meddling fool right. I wonder which one of us lied
the more? And I never saw Amy look so bewitching!”
III
GRINDSTONES
“Yet each man kills the thing he loves,
By each let this be heard;
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword.”
--_Oscar Wilde._
It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when the young ladies entered
the fashionable boarding-house drawing-room. Madame Recamier’s, on the
upper West Side, was large enough to defy the heated spell; yet the
group seemed languid on this tepid night in June, fluttered fans and
were not disposed to chatter. No one had called. Miss Anstruther, a
brilliant brunette, cried out:
“Oh, my kingdom for a man!” Mild laughter was heard. The girl went to
the grand piano and said: “What shall it be?”
“No Chopin,” exclaimed Miss Beeslay.
“Do play a Chopin nocturne. Why, it’s the very night for nocturnes.
There’s thunder in the air,” protested Miss Pickett.
“Listen to Anne. Isn’t she poetic--” By this time the young women were
quite animated. Tea served, Madame Recamier sent down word by the
black page to ask Miss Anstruther for a little music. The dark girl
pouted, yawned, and finally began the nocturne in F minor. Before she
had played two bars the door-bell rang, and its echoes were not stilled
before a silvery gong sounded somewhere in the rear. The drawing-room
was instantly deserted.
Presently the page brought in two young men, both in evening dress.
“We should like to see Miss Anstruther and Miss Pickett,” said the
delicate-looking fellow. “Say that Mr. Harold and a friend are here.”
The page departed. Mr. Harold and his companion paced the long
apartment in a curious mood.
“Tea! They don’t drink tea, do they?” asked the other man, a tall
blond, who wore his hair like a pianist.
“I’m afraid that’s all we’ll get, Alfred; unless Madame Recamier comes
down-stairs or else is magnetized by your playing. She keeps a mighty
particular boarding-house.”
“For God’s sake, Ned, don’t ask me to touch a piano. I’ve only come
with you because you’ve raved about this dark girl and her playing.
There they are!” Two came in; introductions followed, and the
conversation soon became lively.
“We drink tea,” said Anne Pickett, “because Madame Recamier believes it
is good for the complexion.”
“You have a hygiene like a young misses’ school, haven’t you?” said
Ned, while Harold, fascinated by the rather gloomy beauty of Miss
Anstruther, watched closely and encouraged her talk. She had a square
jaw; her cheek-bones were prominent. She was not pretty. The charm of
her face--it was more compelling than charming--lay in her eyes and
mouth. Brown, with a hazel nuance, the eyes emitted a light like a
cat’s in the dark. Her mouth was a contradiction of the jaw. The lips
were full and indicated a rich, generous nature, but the mask was one
of a Madonna--a Madonna who had forsaken heaven for earth. Harold found
her extremely interesting.
“Of course, you are musical?” he asked.
“Yes; I studied at Stuttgart, and have regretted it all my life. I can
never get rid of the technical stiffness.”
“Play for me,” he begged. But playing was not to the girl’s
disposition. Sultry was the night, and a few faint flashes of
heat-lightning near the horizon told of a storm to come. Anne Pickett
was laughing very loudly at her companion’s remarks and did not appear
to notice the pair. Several times, at the other end of the long
drawing-room, eyes peeped in, and once the black page put his head in
the door and coughed discreetly.
It seemed a dull hour at Madame Recamier’s.
Suddenly Harold placed his hand on Miss Anstruther’s and said: “Come to
the piano,” and, as one hypnotized, she went with him. He lifted the
fall-board, put back the lid, glanced carelessly at the maker’s name,
and fixed the seat for the young woman. Anne Pickett was watching him
from the other side of the room.
“Who’s your friend? He acts like a piano man. There were three here
last night.”
“H’sh!” said Ned, as the pianist struck a firm chord in C-sharp minor
and then raced through the Fantaisie-Impromptu. The man beside her
listened and watched rather cynically as her strong fingers unlaced the
involved figures of the music. That he knew the work was evident. When
she had finished he congratulated her on her touch, observing: “What a
pity you don’t cultivate your rhythms!” She started.
“You are a musician, then?” Before he could answer, the page came
in and whispered in her ear: “Madame Recamier wants to know if the
gentlemen will have some wine.”
Miss Anstruther blushed, got up from the piano and walked toward the
window. Harold followed her, and Miss Pickett called out: “Ned, we can
have some champagne; old Mumsey says so.”
When Harold reached the girl she was leaning out of the window
regarding the western sky. Darkness was swallowing up the summer
stars: he put his hand on her shoulder, for she was weeping silently,
hopelessly.
“How can you stand it?” he murmured, and the ring in his voice caused
the girl to turn about and face him, her eyes blurred but full of
resentment.
“Don’t pity me--don’t pity me; whatever you feel, don’t pity me,” she
said in a low, choked voice.
“My dear Miss Anstruther, let me understand you. I admire you, but I
don’t see why I should pity you.” Harold was puzzled.
“Anne, he doesn’t know; Harold doesn’t know,” cried Miss Anstruther,
and Anne laughed, when a sharp flash of lightning almost caused the
page to drop the tray with the bottles and glasses.
It grew hot; the wine was nicely iced, so the four young people drank
and were greatly refreshed. Madame Recamier was justly proud of
her cellar. Anne pledged Ned, and Harold touched glasses with Miss
Anstruther, while the first thunder boomed in the windows, and the
other boarders out in the back conservatory shivered and thirsted.