The blue night of the lake was embroidered with black tree forms. Silver
drops sprinkled from the lifted oars. Somewhere in the gloom of the
shore there was a dog, who from time to time raised his sad voice to the
stars.
"But still, the life of the studios----" began the girl.
Hawker scoffed. "There were six of us. Mainly we smoked. Sometimes we
played hearts and at other times poker--on credit, you know--credit. And
when we had the materials and got something to do, we worked. Did you
ever see these beautiful red and green designs that surround the common
tomato can?"
"Yes."
"Well," he said proudly, "I have made them. Whenever you come upon
tomatoes, remember that they might once have been encompassed in my
design. When first I came back from Paris I began to paint, but nobody
wanted me to paint. Later, I got into green corn and asparagus----"
"Truly?"
"Yes, indeed. It is true."
"But still, the life of the studios----"
"There were six of us. Fate ordained that only one in the crowd could
have money at one time. The other five lived off him and despised
themselves. We despised ourselves five times as long as we had
admiration."
"And was this just because you had no money?"
"It was because we had no money in New York," said Hawker.
"Well, after a while something happened----"
"Oh, no, it didn't. Something impended always, but it never happened."
"In a case like that one's own people must be such a blessing. The
sympathy----"
"One's own people!" said Hawker.
"Yes," she said, "one's own people and more intimate friends. The
appreciation----"
"'The appreciation!'" said Hawker. "Yes, indeed!"
He seemed so ill-tempered that she became silent. The boat floated
through the shadows of the trees and out to where the water was like a
blue crystal. The dog on the shore thrashed about in the reeds and waded
in the shallows, mourning his unhappy state in an occasional cry. Hawker
stood up and sternly shouted. Thereafter silence was among the reeds.
The moon slipped sharply through the little clouds.
The girl said, "I liked that last picture of yours."
"What?"
"At the last exhibition, you know, you had that one with the cows--and
things--in the snow--and--and a haystack."
"Yes," he said, "of course. Did you like it, really? I thought it about
my best. And you really remembered it? Oh," he cried, "Hollanden perhaps
recalled it to you."
"Why, no," she said. "I remembered it, of course."
"Well, what made you remember it?" he demanded, as if he had cause to be
indignant.
"Why--I just remembered it because--I liked it, and because--well, the
people with me said--said it was about the best thing in the exhibit,
and they talked about it a good deal. And then I remember that Hollie
had spoken of you, and then I--I----"
"Never mind," he said. After a moment, he added, "The confounded picture
was no good, anyhow!"
The girl started. "What makes you speak so of it? It was good. Of
course, I don't know--I can't talk about pictures, but," she said in
distress, "everybody said it was fine."
"It wasn't any good," he persisted, with dogged shakes of the head.
From off in the darkness they heard the sound of Hollanden's oars
splashing in the water. Sometimes there was squealing by the Worcester
girls, and at other times loud arguments on points of navigation.
"Oh," said the girl suddenly, "Mr. Oglethorpe is coming to-morrow!"
"Mr. Oglethorpe?" said Hawker. "Is he?"
"Yes." She gazed off at the water.
"He's an old friend of ours. He is always so good, and Roger and little
Helen simply adore him. He was my brother's chum in college, and they
were quite inseparable until Herbert's death. He always brings me
violets. But I know you will like him."
"I shall expect to," said Hawker.
"I'm so glad he is coming. What time does that morning stage get here?"
"About eleven," said Hawker.
"He wrote that he would come then. I hope he won't disappoint us."
"Undoubtedly he will be here," said Hawker.
The wind swept from the ridge top, where some great bare pines stood in
the moonlight. A loon called in its strange, unearthly note from the
lakeshore. As Hawker turned the boat toward the dock, the flashing rays
from the boat fell upon the head of the girl in the rear seat, and he
rowed very slowly.
The girl was looking away somewhere with a mystic, shining glance. She
leaned her chin in her hand. Hawker, facing her, merely paddled
subconsciously. He seemed greatly impressed and expectant.
At last she spoke very slowly. "I wish I knew Mr. Oglethorpe was not
going to disappoint us."
Hawker said, "Why, no, I imagine not."
"Well, he is a trifle uncertain in matters of time. The children--and
all of us--shall be anxious. I know you will like him."