When the men had resumed their customary seats and the room had once more settled to work–it had only been a question of sex that had destroyed the equilibrium, a question no longer of value now that the fair intruder could really PAINT–Oliver bent over her and said in his most gallant manner:
“If the Countess Kovalski will be gracious enough to excuse Bianchi (he had never left her elbow) I will try and make a burgomaster of him. Perhaps you will help me tie this around his neck,” and he held out the white ruff. He had put on his coat despite her protest.
“What, dear Bianchi in a ruff! Oh! how perfectly charming! That’s really just what he looks like. I’ve always told him that Rembrandt ought to have seen him. Come, you sweet man, hold up your beautiful Dutch face.”
As she spoke she caught the ruff from Oliver’s hand and stretched out her bare arms toward Blanch.
“No, I’m not going to pose now,” protested the Pole, pushing back her hands. “You can get me any time. Take the Countess, Horn. She’d make a stunner.”
“Yes! Yes! Please do,” she laughed, springing from her seat and clapping her hands with all the gayety and joyousness of a child over some expected pleasure.
Oliver hesitated for an instant, as he looked down into her eyes, wondering whether his brush could do justice to their depth. Then he glanced at her supple figure and white skin in contrast to the black velvet, its edge softened by the fall of lace, the dominant, insistent note of the red japonica in her blue- black hair, the flesh tones brilliant under the gas-jets. The color scheme was exactly what he had been looking for all winter–black, white, and a touch of red.
“I have never been so honored, Madame. Nothing could give me greater pleasure,” he answered, with a dry smile. “May I escort your ladyship to the platform?” And he held out his hand and conducted her to the stand facing the big easel.
Then there followed a scene such as many of the Stone Mugs had not shared in since they left the Latin Quarter.
The Countess stood erect on the raised platform, with head up and slightly turned, the full glare of the gas-jets falling upon her neck and throat, made all the more brilliant by reason of the dark green walls of Fred’s studio, which formed the background behind her. One arm was partly raised, a lighted cigarette between her fingers; the other was lost in the folds of the velvet gown. She posed as naturally and as easily as if she had done nothing else all her life, and with a certain bravado and swing that enchanted everybody in the room.
One talent demanded of the artist members of the club when they sought admission, and insisted upon by the Committee, was the ability, possessed in a marked degree by Oliver, of making a rapid, telling sketch from life, and at night. So expert had most of the members become that many of their pictures made under the gas-light were as correct in their color-values as those done in the day-time. In this Oliver was past-master. Most of his own work had to be done under artificial light during the long years of his struggle.
The men–they were again on their feet–crowded closer, forming a circle about the easel. They saw that the subject appealed to Oliver, and they knew how much better he could paint when his heart was in his work. His picture of Margaret Grant in the Tam- o’-Shanter cap, the best portrait at the last exhibition, had proved that.
Oliver saw the interest shown in his work and put himself on his mettle. He felt that not only his own reputation, but the honor of the Stone Mugs, was at stake. He felt, too, a certain pride and confidence in the sureness of his touch–a touch that the woman he loved believed in–one she had really taught him herself, He began by blocking in with a bit of charcoal the salient points of the composition. Fred stood on his left hand holding a cigar-box filled with tubes of color, ready to unscrew their tops and pass them to Oliver as he needed them.
As the dark background of greenish black, under the vigorous strokes of his brush, began to relieve the flesh tones, and the coloring of the lips and the japonica in the hair took their places in the color- scheme, a murmur of applause ran through the room. No such piece of night-work had ever been painted since the club had come together, and certainly not before.
“A Fortuny, by thunder!” burst out Waller. He had been the first man to recognize Oliver’s talent in the old days and had always felt proud of his foresight.
For two hours Oliver stood before his canvas, the Countess resting now and then, floating over to the piano, as Simmons had done, running her fingers over its keys, or breaking out into Polish, Hungarian, or French songs at the pleasure of the room. During these rests Oliver turned the picture to the wall. He did not wish her to see it until it was finished. He was trying some brush tricks that Madge loved, some that she had learned in Couture’s atelier, and whose full effect could only be recognized in the finished work.
When the last touches of Oliver’s brush had been laid on the canvas, and the modest signature, O. H., as was the custom, had been affixed to its lower left- hand corner, he made a low salaam to the model and whirled the easel in front of her.
The cry of delight that escaped her lips was not only an expression of her pleasure, but it convinced every man in the club that the Countess’s technical knowledge of what constituted a work of art equalled her many other accomplishments. She sat looking at it with thoughtful, grave face, and her whole manner changed. She was no longer the woman who had so charmed the room. She was the connoisseur, the expert, the jury of last resort. Oliver watched her with absorbing interest as he sat wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Monsieur Horn,” she said, slowly, as if weighing each word, “if you come to my country they will cover you all over with medals. I had no idea anyone in this new land could paint as you do. You are a master. Permit me, Monsieur, to make you my obeisance–” and she dipped back on one foot and swept the floor with her skirts.
Oliver laughed, returned the bow with a mock flourish, and began rolling down his shirt-cuffs; a thrill quivering through him–that thrill only felt by a painter when he is conscious that some work of his brush has reached the high-water mark of his abilities. For only the artist in him had been at work. What stirred him was not the personality of the Countess–not her charm nor beauty but the harmony of the colors playing about her figure: the reflected lights in the blue-black of her hair; the soft tones of the velvet lost in the shadows of the floor, and melting into the walls behind her; the high lights on the bare shoulder and arms divided by the severe band of black; the subdued grays in the fall of lace uniting the flesh tones and the bodice; and, more than all, the ringing note of red sung by the japonica tucked in her hair and which found its only echo in the red of her lips–red as a slashed pomegranate with the white seed-teeth showing through. The other side of her beautiful self–the side that lay hidden under her soft lashes and velvet touch, the side that could blaze and scorch and burn to cinders–that side Oliver had never once seen nor thought of.
This may have been because, while his fingers worked on, his thoughts were somewhere else, and that he saw another face as he mixed his colors, and not that of the siren before him. Or it may have been that, as he looked into the eyes of the Countess, he saw too deeply into the whirlpool of passion and pain which made up the undercurrent in this beautiful woman’s strange life.
Not so the others. Many of whom were the most serious-minded of men where women were concerned. Crug–who, to quote Waller, had drifted into a state of mind bordering on lunacy–was so completely taken off his feet that he again led her ladyship by her finger-tips to the piano, and, with his hand on his heart, and his eyes upraised, begged her to sing for him some of the songs of her native land and in the tongue of her own people; the Countess complying so graciously and singing with such consummate taste and skill, throwing her soul into every line, that the men soon broke out in rounds of applause, crowding about her with the eagerness of bees around a hive–all except Waller and Oliver, who sat apart, quietly watching her out of the corners of their eyes.
The portrait was forgotten now; so were the sketches and tiles, and the work of the evening. So was everything else but the woman who dominated the room. She kept her seat on the piano-stool, the centre of the group, as a queen of the ballet sits on a painted throne, flashing her eyes from one to the other, wheeling about to dash off an air from some unknown opera–unknown to those who listened– laying her lighted cigarette on the music-rack as she played, and whirling back again to tell some anecdote of the composer who wrote it, or some incident connected with its production in Vienna or Warsaw or St. Petersburg–the club echoing her every whim.
It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that the staid and sober-minded Stone Mugs, under these conditions, completely lost their heads, and that when Oliver picked up an empty beer-mug, the symbol of the club used in all ceremonies, and began filling it with the names of the members which he had written on slips of paper, preparatory to the drawing of the lottery for the picture which he had just finished–every meeting-night a lottery was drawn, the lucky winner possessing the picture of the evening–Crug and Munson should have simultaneously sprung to their feet, and, waving their hands over their heads, have proposed, in one and the same breath, that “Our distinguished visitor” should have the privilege of adding her own name to those in Oliver’s mug–the picture to be her own individual property should her patronymic be the first to be drawn from its open mouth.
Waller started to his feet to object, and the words of protest were half out of his mouth when Oliver stopped him. A woman was always a woman to Oliver, no matter what her past or present station in life might be. It was her sex that kept him loyal when any discourtesy was involved.
“Keep still, old man,” he whispered. “They’ve gone crazy, but we can’t help it. Get on your feet and vote.”
When the sound of the “ayes” adopting Crug and Munson’s motion had died away, Oliver inscribed her initials upon a small piece of paper, dropped it in the mug, held it high above the lady’s head, and asked her to reach up her dainty fingers and pick out the name of the lucky possessor of “The Woman in Black,” as the picture had now been christened. The white arm went up, the jewelled fingers felt about nervously among the little ballots, and then the Countess held up a twisted bit of paper.
A burst of applause filled the room. The scrap of paper bore the initials of the Countess! “The Woman in Black” was her property.
But the most extraordinary part by far of the evening’s performance was still to come.
When the hour of midnight had arrived–the hour of dispersal, a rule rarely broken–the Countess called to Bianchi and directed him to go out into the hall and bring in her long black stockings and stout shoes, which she had taken off outside Fred’s door, and which she had left hanging on a nail.
I can see her now–for I, too, was leaning over the same table, Oliver beside me, watching this most extraordinary woman of another world, a woman who had been the idol of almost every capital in Europe, and whom I knew (although Oliver did not) had been quietly conducted out of some of them between dark and daylight–I can see her now, I say, sitting on the piano-stool, facing the group, the long, black silk stockings that Bianchi had brought her in her hands. I remember just the way in which, after loosening her dainty, red-heeled slippers, she swept aside her skirts, unfastened her garters, and, with the same unconsciousness and ease with which she would have slipped a pair of rubbers over a pair of shoes, drew the long black stockings over her flesh-colored ones, refastening the garters again, talking all the time, first to one and then the other; pausing only to accentuate some sentence with a wave of her shoe or stocking or cigarette, as the action suited the words.
That the group about her was composed solely of men made not the slightest difference. She was only trying to save those precious, flesh-colored silk stockings that concealed her white skin from the slush and snow of the streets. As to turning her back to her hosts during this little change of toilet–that was the last thing that entered her head. She would as soon have stepped into a closet to put on her gloves.
And then again, why should she be ashamed of her ankles and her well-turned instep and dainty toes, as compact in their silk covering as peas in a pod! She might have been, perhaps, in some one of the satin- lined drawing-rooms around Madison Square or Irving Place, but not here, breathing the blue smoke of a dozen pipes and among her own kind–the kind she had known and loved and charmed all her life.
After all it was but a question of economy. Broadway was a slough of mud and slush, and neither she nor Bianchi had the price of a carriage to spare.
Oliver watched her until the whole comedy was complete; then, picking up his wet sketch and handing it with the greatest care to Bianchi, who was to conduct her ladyship to her lodgings, he placed the long black cloak with the fur-trimming and watermelon- colored silk lining about her beautiful, bare shoulders, and, with the whole club following and waving their hands good-night, our young gentleman bowed her out and downstairs with all the deference and respect he would have shown the highest lady in the land.
CHAPTER XXII
“MARGARET GRANT–TOP FLOOR”
One spring morning, some time after the visit of the Countess to the club and the painting of her portrait by Oliver–the incident had become the talk of the studios before the week was out–Oliver sat in his own rooms on the top floor, drinking his coffee– the coffee he had boiled himself. The janitor had just slipped two letters through a slit in the door. Both lay on the floor within reach of his hand. One was from his mother, bearing the postmark of his native city; the other was from a prominent picture- dealer on Broadway, with a gallery and big window looking out on the street.
Oliver broke the seal of his mother’s letter, and moved his chair so that the light from the overhead skylight would fall on its pages.
It read as follows:
“My Darling Boy: Your father goes to you to- morrow. Mr. Cobb was here last night with a letter from some gentleman of means with whom he has been corresponding. They want to see the motor, so your father and Nathan leave on the early train.
“This man’s continued kindness is a constant surprise to me. I have always thought it was he who prevented the mortgage from being foreclosed, but I never knew until yesterday that he had written his name under my own the second time the note was to be renewed, and that he has kept it there ever since. I cannot speak of this to him, nor must you, if you see him, for poor old Mr. Steiger told me in confidence. I am the more glad now that we have always paid the interest on the note. The next payment, which you have just sent me, due on the first of the month, is now in my bureau-drawer ready for the bank, but I will not have to use it now.
“Whether the mortgage can ever be paid off I do not know, for the farm is ruined, I fear. Mr. Mowbray’s cousin, who drove over last week to see what was left of the plantations in that section, writes me that there is nothing remaining of your grandfather’s place but the bare ground and the house. All the fences have been burned and many of the beautiful trees cut down for firewood. The Government still occupies the house and one of the outbuildings, although most of the hospital stores have been moved away. The last half-year’s rent which was held back, owing to some new ruling from Washington, came, I am thankful to say, two days ago in a check from the paymaster here, owing to Mr. Cobb’s intercession. He never loses an opportunity to praise you for what you did for that poor young soldier, and Mr. Steiger told me that when those in authority heard from Mr. Cobb which Mrs. Horn it was, they ordered the rent paid at once. He is always doing just such kindnesses for us. But for this rental I don’t know how we would have been able to live and take care of those dependent upon us. We little knew, my son, when we both strove so hard to save the farm that it would really be our only support. This rent, however, will soon cease and I tremble for the future. I can only pray my Heavenly Father that something will come out of this visit to New York. it is our only hope now.
“Don’t lose sight of your father for a moment, my son. He is not well and gets easily fatigued, and although he is greatly elated over his promised success, as we all are–and he certainly deserves to be–I think you will see a great change in him these last few months. I would not have consented to his going had not Nathan gone with him. Nathan insists upon paying the expenses of the trip; he says it is only fair that he should, as your father has given him an interest in the motor. I earnestly hope for some results, for I shall have no peace until the whole amount of the mortgage is paid back to the bank and you and Mr. Cobb are released from the burden, so heavy on you, my boy.
“There is no other news to tell you. Sue Clayton brought her boy in to-day. He is a sweet little fellow and has Sue’s eyes. She has named him John Clayton, after her father. They have made another attempt to find the Colonel’s body on the battle-field, but without success. I am afraid it will never be recovered.
“Lavinia sends her love. She has been much better lately. Her army hospital work has weighed upon her, I think. Three years was too long.
“I have the last newspaper notices of your academy picture pinned on my cushion, and I show them to everybody who comes in. They always delight me. You have had a hard fight, my son, but you are winning now. No one rejoices more than I do in your success. As you said in your last letter, the times have really changed. They certainly have for me. Sorrow and suffering have made me see many things in a different light these last few years.
“Malachi and Hannah are well, but the old man seems quite feeble at times.
“Your loving mother,
“Sallie T. Horn.”
Dear lady, with your soft white hair and deep brown eyes that have so often looked into mine! How dreary were those long days of hate and misery! How wise and helpful you were to every living soul who sought your aid, friend and foe alike. Your great heart sheltered and comforted them all.
Oliver read the letter through and put his lips to the signature. In all his life he had never failed to kiss his mother’s name at the bottom of her letters. The only difference was that now he kissed them with an added reverence. The fact of his having proved himself right and her wrong in the choice of his profession made loyalty with him the more tender.
“Dear, dear mother!” he said to himself. “You have had so much trouble lately, and you have been so plucky through it all.” He stopped, looked dreamily across the room, and added with a sigh: “But she has not said one word about Madge; not one single word. She doesn’t answer that part of my letter; she doesn’t intend to.”
Then he opened the other communication which read:
“Dear Mr. Horn: Please call here in the morning. I have some good news for you.
“John Snedecor.”
Oliver turned the picture-dealer’s letter over, peered into the envelope as if he expected to find some trace of the good news tucked away in its corners, lifted the tray holding his frugal breakfast, and laid it on the floor outside his door ready for the janitor’s morning round. Then, picking up his hat, he locked his door, hung an “out card” on the knob, and, strolling downstairs, stepped into the fresh morning air. He knew the dealer well. He had placed two of old Mr. Crocker’s pictures with him–one of which had been sold.
When he reached Snedecor’s gallery he found the big window surrounded with a crowd gazing intently at an upright portrait in a glittering gold frame, to which was affixed an imposing-looking name-plate bearing the inscription:
“THE WOMAN IN BLACK,
BY OLIVER HORN”
So this was Snedecor’s good news!
Oliver made his way through the crowd and into the open door of the shop–the shop was, in front, the gallery in the rear–and found the proprietor leaning over a case filled with artists’ supplies.
“Has she had it FRAMED, Snedecor?” asked Oliver, with a light laugh.
“Not to any alarming extent! I made that frame for Mr. Peter Fish. She sent it here for sale, and Fish bought it. He’s wild about it. Says it’s the best thing since Sully. He wants you to paint his daughter; that’s what I wanted to see you about. Great card for you, Mr. Horn. I congratulate you!”
Oliver gave a low whistle. His own good fortune was for the moment forgotten in his surprise at the woman’s audacity. Selling a sketch painted by one of the club! one which had virtually been GIVEN to her.
“Poor Bianchi! He does pick up the queerest people. I wonder if she was out of stockings,” he said half-aloud.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about the Madame; she won’t suffer for clothes as long as she’s got that pair of eyes in her head. You just ought to have seen her handle old Fish. It was beautiful. But, see here now, you don’t want to make old Peter a present of this portrait of his daughter. He’s good for a thousand, I tell you. She got a cracking price for that one,” and he pointed to the picture.
Again Oliver laughed.
“A cracking price? She must have needed the money bad.” The more he thought of it the funnier it seemed.
Snedecor looked surprised. He was thinking of Fish’s order and the amount of his commission. Most of Oliver’s remarks were unintelligible to him–especially his reference to the stockings.
“What shall I say to him?” Snedecor asked at last.
“Oh, nothing in particular. Just send him to my studio. I’ll be in all to-morrow morning.”
“Well, but don’t you think you’d better go and see him yourself now? He’s too big a bug to run after people. That kind of thing don’t come every day, you know; you might lose it. Why, he lives right near you in that swell house across the Square.”
“Oh, I know him very well,” said Oliver, nodding his head. “No, let him come to-morrow to me; it won’t hurt him to walk up three flights of stairs. I’m busy to-day. Now I think of it, there’s one thing, though, you CAN tell him, and please be particular about it–there will be no advance over my regular price. I don’t care to compete with her ladyship.”
Without waiting to hear the dealer’s protest he stepped outside the shop and joined the crowd about the window, elbowing each other for a better view of the portrait. No one recognized him. He was too obscure for that. They might after this, he thought with an exultant throb, and a flush of pride crossed his face.
As he walked down Broadway a sense of the humor of the whole situation came over him. Here for years he had been working day and night; running the gauntlet of successive juries and hanging committees, with his best things rejected or skied until his Tam-o’-Shanter girl made a hit; worrying, hoping against hope, racking his brain as to how and when and where he would find the path which would lead him to commercial success–a difficult task for one too proud to beg for favors and too independent to seek another’s aid–and here, out of the clear sky, had come this audacious Bohemienne, the pet of foyer and studio–a woman who presented the greatest number of contrasts to the things he held most dear in womankind–and with a single stroke had cleared the way to success for him. And this, too, not from any love of him, nor his work, nor his future, but simply to settle a board-bill or pay for a bonnet.
Again Oliver laughed, this time so loudly that the man in front turned and looked at him.
“A cracking price,” he kept repeating to himself, “a cracking price, eh? and out of old Peter Fish! Went fishing for minnows and hooked a whale, and another little fish for me! I wonder what she baited her hook with. That woman’s a genius.”
Suddenly he caught sight of the sign of a Long Island florist set up in an apothecary’s window between the big green and red glass globes that lined its sides.
Turning on his heel he entered the door.
“Pick me out a dozen red japonicas,” he said to the boy behind the counter.
Oliver waited until each short-stemmed blossom was carefully selected, laid on its bed of raw cotton, blanketed with the same covering, and packed in a paper box. Then, taking a card from his pocket, he wrote upon its back: “Most grateful thanks for my share of the catch,” slipped it into an envelope, addressed it to “The fair Fisher, The Countess Kovalski,” and, with a grim smile on his face, kept on down Broadway toward the dingy hotel, the resort of all the Southerners of the time, to arrange for rooms for his father and Nathan Gill.
Having, with his card and his japonicas, dismissed the Countess from his mind, and to a certain extent his obligations, the full importance of this new order of Peter Fish’s began to take possession of him. The color rose in his cheeks and an old-time spring and lightness came into his steps. He knew that such a commission, and from such a man, would at once gain for him a recognition from art patrons and a standing among the dealers. Lasting success was now assured him in the line he had chosen for his life’s work. It only remained for him to do the best that was in him. Better than all, it had come to him unasked and without any compromising effort on his own part.
He knew the connoisseur’s collection. It filled the large gallery adjoining his extensive home on Washington Square and was not only the best in the city, containing as it did examples of Sir Thomas Lawrence, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Chrome, Sully, and
many of the modern French school–among them two fine Courbets and a Rousseau–but it had lately been enriched by one or more important American landscapes, notably Sanford Gifford’s “Catskill Gorge” and Church’s “Tropics”–two canvases which had attracted more than usual attention at the Spring Exhibition of the Academy. An order, therefore, for a family portrait from so distinguished a patron not only gave weight and dignity to the work of any painter he might select, but it would unquestionably influence his many friends and acquaintances to go and do likewise.
As Oliver, his eyes aglow, his whole heart filled with joy, stepped quickly down the street the beauty of the day made him throw back his shoulders and drink in long deep breaths, as if he would fill his very pores with its vitality. These early spring days in New York–the most beautiful the world over; not even in Italy can one find better skies–always affected him in this way. There was a strength-giving quality in the ozone, a brilliancy in the sunshine, and a tempered coolness in the air to be found nowhere else. There was, too, a certain picturesqueness in the sky-line of the houses–a sky-line fringed with jets of white steam from the escape-pipes of numerous fires below, which appealed to his artistic sense. These curling plumes that waved so triumphantly in the sparkling morning light, or stirred by the wind, flapped like milk-white signal flags, breaking at last into tatters and shreds, blurring the edges of chimney and cornice, were a constant source of delight to the young painter. He would often stop to watch their movements, and as often determine to paint them at the first opportunity. They seemed to express to him something of the happy freedom of one released from pent-up toil; a freedom longed for in his own heart, and which had rarely been his since those blessed days under Moose Hillock, when he and Margaret roamed the woods together.
Still a third cause of rejoicing–and this sent a flutter around his heart–was the near prospect of meeting his dear old father, whom he had not seen for months; not since his last visit home, and whose long years of struggle and waiting seemed now to be so nearly ended.
With these last joyous thoughts filling his mind, he stepped quickly through the corridor of the hotel, approached the desk, and had just given the names of his father and Nathan to the clerk, when a man behind the counter interrupted him with:
“Just arrived. Got in this morning. There they are by the window.”
Two quaint-looking old gentlemen were gazing out upon the rush of Broadway–two old gentlemen so unusual that even the habitues of the place, those who sat tilted back all day chipping the arms of their chairs with their pen-knives, or sipping countless toddies and juleps, were still staring at them in undisguised astonishment. One–it was Nathan–wore a queer hat, bushy, white hair, and long, pen-wiper cloak: it was the same cloak, or another just like it; the same, no doubt; few new clothes had been bought during the war. And the other–and this was his own dear father–wore a buff waistcoat, high white silk scarf, and brown frock coat, with velvet collar. Neither of them were every-day sights around the corridors of the New York Hotel: even among a collection of human oddities representing every State in the South.
“We thought it best to take the night train, my son,” said Richard, starting up at Oliver’s caressing touch–he had put both hands on his father’s shoulders. “You got your dear mother’s letter of course. Oh, I’m so glad to see you! Sit down here alongside of us. How well you are looking, my son,” and he patted him lovingly on the arm. “What a whirl it all is! Nathan and I have been here for hours; we arrived at six o’clock. Did you ever see anything like it? The people never seem to stop coming. Ah! this is the place for you, my boy. Everything is so alive, so full of purpose, so intense, so delightful and inspiring to me. And such a change in the years since I was here.”
He had brought the motor with him. It lay at the moment in a square box inside the office-railing. Not the big one which he had just perfected–that one was at home under the window in the old shop, in the back yard in Kennedy Square–but a smaller working model made of pine wood, with glass-tumblers for jars and imitation magnets wrapped round with thread instead of wire–the whole unintelligible to the layman, but perfectly clear to the scientist. He had with him, too, packed in a small carpet-bag, which lay within reach of his hand, all the patents which had been granted him as the work progressed–besides a huge bundle of papers, such as legal documents, notices from the scientific journals, and other data connected with the great Horn Galvanic Motor, which was soon to revolutionize the motive power of the world. Tucked away in his inside pocket, ready for instant use, was Amos Cobb’s letter, introducing “the distinguished inventor, Mr. Richard Horn, of Kennedy Square,” etc., etc., to the group of capitalists who were impatiently waiting his arrival, and who were to furnish the unlimited sums of money necessary in its development–unlimited sums being ready for any scheme, no matter how chimerical, in the flush times through which the country was then passing.
“I have succeeded at last, my boy, as I wrote you,” continued Richard, with glowing eyes. “Even that small motor at home–the one you know–that one has a lifting power of a hundred pounds. All that is necessary now is to increase the size of the batteries and the final result is assured. Let me show you this”–and, oblivious of the many eyes fastened on him, he drew toward him the black carpet-bag and took out a sheet of paper covered with red and blue lines. “You see where the differences are. And you see here”–and he pointed out the details with his thin white finger–“what I have done since I explained to you the new additions. This drawing,
when carried out, will result in a motor with a lifting capacity of ten tons. Ah, Oliver, I cannot tell you what a great relief has come to me now that I know my life’s work is crowned with success.”
Nathan was quite as happy. Richard was his sun- god. When the light of hope and success flashed in the inventor’s quiet, thoughtful face, Nathan basked in its warmth and was radiant in its glow. He needed all the warmth he could get, poor old man. The cold chill of the days of fear and pain and sorrow had well- nigh shrivelled him up; he showed it in every line of his body. His shoulders were much more bent; his timid, pipe-stem legs the more shaky; the furrows about his face deeper; the thin nose more transparent. All during the war he had literally lived in Richard. The cry of the “extras” and the dull tramp of marching troops, and the rumbling of cars laden with army supplies had jarred on his sensitive ear as would discordant notes in a quartette. Days at a time he would hide himself away in Richard’s workshop, helping him with his bellows or glue-pot, or piling the coals on the fire of his forge. The war, while it lasted, paralyzed some men to inaction–Nathan was one of them.
“At last, Oliver, at last!” Nathan whispered to Oliver when Richard’s head was turned for a moment. “Nothing now but plain sailing. Ah! it’s a great day for dear Richard! I couldn’t sleep last night on the train for thinking of him.”
As Oliver looked down into Nathan’s eyes, glistening with hope and happiness, he wondered whether, after all these long years of waiting, his father’s genius was really to be rewarded? Was it the same old story of success–one so often ending in defeat and gloom, he thought, or had the problem really been solved? He knew that the machine had stood its initial test and had developed a certain lifting power; his father’s word assured him of that; but would it continue to develop in proportion to its size?
He turned again toward Richard. The dear face was a-light with a new certainty; the eyes brilliant, the smiles about the lips coming and going like summer clouds across the sun. Such enthusiasm was not to be resisted. A fresh hope rose in the son’s heart. Could this now almost assured success of his father’s help him with Madge? Would their long waiting come any nearer to being ended? Would the sum of money realized be large enough to pay off the dreaded mortgage, and there still be enough for the dear home and its inmates?
He knew how large this hoped-for sum must be, and how closely his own and his mother’s honor were involved in its cancellation. Her letter had indeed stated the facts–this motor was now their only hope outside the work of his own brush.
Perhaps, after all, his lucky day had come. The first gleam of light had been this order of Peter Fish’s to paint his daughter, and now here, sitting beside him, was his father with a letter in his pocket addressed to Amos Cobb from one of the richest men in New York, who stood ready to pay a small fortune for the motor. Then he thought of his mother. What a delight it would be when she could be freed from the millstone that had hung around her neck for years.
He must go and tell Margaret and take his father and Nathan with him. Yes, his lucky day HAD come.
Soon the two delighted and astonished old gentlemen, under Oliver’s guidance, were making their way up Broadway ostensibly to see his picture at Snedecor’s, but really to call upon the distinguished painter, Margaret Grant, whom everyone was talking about, both in New York and in Kennedy Square, for one of her pictures graced Miss Clendenning’s boudoir at that very moment. Our young Romeo had waited too many months for someone from Kennedy Square to see the woman he loved, and now that the arms of his father and Nathan were linked in his own, and their legs subject to his orders, he did not intend to let many precious minutes pass before he rang Margaret’s studio bell.
When Snedecor’s window was reached Richard stopped short in amazement.
“Yours, Oliver! Marvellous! Marvellous!” Richard exclaimed, when the three had wedged their way into the crowd to see the better. “A fine strong picture, and a most superb looking woman. Why, I had no idea! Really! Really”–and his voice trembled. He was deeply touched. The strength of the coloring, the masterly drawing, the admiring crowd about the window, greatly surprised him. While he had been closeted with his invention, thinking only of its success and bending every energy for its completion, this boy of his had become a master.
“I didn’t do my full duty to you, my son,” he said, with a tone of sadness in his voice, when they had resumed their walk up Broadway. “You lost much time in finding your life’s work. I should have insisted years ago that you follow the trend of your genius. Your dear mother was not willing and I let it go, but it was wrong. From something she said to me the other night I feel sure she sees her mistake now, but I never mention it to her, and do you never let her know I told you. Yes! You started too late in life, my boy.”
“No, dear old daddy; I started just in the nick of time and in the right way.”
How could he have thought anything else on this lovely spring morning, with the brightest of skies overhead, his first important order within his grasp, his dear old father and Nathan beside him, and the loveliest girl in the world or on the planets beyond waiting for him at the top of her studio stairs!
“It’s most kind of you to say so,” continued Richard, dodging the people as he talked, “but couldn’t you have learned to work by following your own tastes?”
“No dad. I was too confounded lazy and too fond of fun. And then the dear mother wanted me to go to work, and that was always enough for me.”
“Oh, my son, it does me good to hear you say so” –and a light shone on the old gentleman’s face. “Yes! you ALWAYS considered your mother. You can’t think how she has suffered during these terrible years. But for the good offices of Mr. Cobb whose kindness I shall never forget, I do not see how she could have gone through them as she has. Isn’t it fine, my son, to think it is all over? She will never have to worry again–never–never. The motor will end all her troubles. She did not believe in it once, but she does now.
They continued on up Broadway, Oliver in the middle, Richard’s arm in his; he hurrying them both along; steering them across the streets; avoiding the trucks and dragging them past the windows they wanted to look into, with promises of plenty of time for that to-morrow or next week. Only once did he allow them to catch their breath, and that was when they passed the big bronze statue overlooking Union Square, and then only long enough for the two to take in its outlines, and from its pedestal to fix their eyes on the little windows of Miss Teetum’s boarding- house, where he’ had spent so many happy and unhappy days.
Soon the two breathless old gentlemen and equally breathless young guide–the first condition due to the state of the two old gentlemen’s lungs and the second due entirely to the state of this particular young gentleman’s heart–stood in a doorway just off Madison Square, before a small bell-pull bearing above it a tiny sign reading: “Margaret Grant. Top Floor.”
“Miss Grant has been at home only a few months,” Oliver burst out as he rang the bell and climbed the stairs. “Since her father’s death she has been in Paris with her mother, her cousin, Higbee Shaw the sculptor, and her brother John. A shell injured the drum of John’s ear, and while she painted he was under the care of a French specialist. He is still there with his mother. If you think I can paint just wait until you see Miss Grant’s work. Think, dad! she has taken two medals in Munich, and last year had honorable mention at the Salon. You remember her brother, of course, don’t you, Uncle Nat, the one Malachi hid over father’s shop?”
Uncle Nat nodded his head as he toiled up the steps. He remembered every hour of the hideous nightmare. He had been the one other man besides Richard and the Chief of Police to shake Oliver’s hand that fatal night when he was exiled from Kennedy Square.
Mrs. Mulligan, in white apron, a French cap on her head, and looking as fresh and clean as a trained nurse, opened the door. Margaret had looked her up the very day she landed, and had placed her in charge of her apartment as cook, housekeeper, and lady’s maid, with full control of the front door and of her studio. The old woman was not hard to trace; she had followed the schools of the academy from their old quarters to the new marble building on Twenty- third Street, and was again posing for the draped-life class and occasionally lending a hand to the new janitor. Margaret’s life abroad had taught her the secret of living alone, a problem easily solved when there are Mrs. Mulligans to be had for the asking.
“Yes, Mr. Oliver, she’s insoide. Oh! it’s fri’nds ye hev wid ye!” and she started back.
“Only my father and Mr. Gill,” and he brushed past Mrs. Mulligan, parted the heavy portieres that divided Madge’s working studio from the narrow hall, thrust in his head and called out, in his cheeriest voice:
“Madge, who do you think is outside? Guess! Father and Uncle Nat. Just arrived this morning.”
Before Margaret could turn her head the two stood before her: Richard with his hat in his hand, his brown overcoat with the velvet collar over his arm– he had slipped it off outside–and Nathan close behind, still in the long, pen-wiper cloak.
“And is it really the distinguished young lady of whom I have heard so much?” exclaimed Richard with his most courtly bow, taking the girl’s outstretched hand in both of his. “I am so glad to see you, my dear, both on your own account and on account of your brother, whom we once sheltered. And how is he now? and your dear mother?”
To all of which Margaret answered in low gentle tones, her eyes never leaving Richard’s, her hand still fast in his; until he had turned to introduce Nathan so that he might pay his respects.
Nathan, in his timid halting way, stepped from behind Richard, and taking her welcoming hand, told her how much he had wanted to know her, since he had seen the picture she had painted, then hanging in Miss Lavinia’s home; both because it was the work of a woman and because too–and he looked straight into her eyes when he said it and meant every word–she was the sister of the poor fellow who had been so shamefully treated in his own city. And Margaret, her voice breaking, answered that, but for the aid of such kind friends as himself and Oliver, John might never have come back, adding, how grateful she and her whole family had been for the kindness shown her brother.
While they were talking, Richard, with a slight bow as if to ask her permission, began making the tour of the room, his glasses held to his eyes, examining each thing about him with the air of a connoisseur suddenly ushered into a new collection of curios.
“Tell me who this sketch is by,” he asked, stopping before Margaret, and pointing to a small Lambinet, glowing like an opal on the dull-green wall of the studio. “I so seldom see good pictures that a gem like this is a delight. By a Frenchman! Ah! Yes, I see the subtlety of coloring. Marvellous people, these Frenchmen. And this little jewel you have here? This bit of mezzo in color. With this I am more familiar, for we have a good many collections of old prints at home. It is, I think–yes–I thought I could not be mistaken–it is a Morland,” and he examined it closely, his nose almost touching the glass.
The next instant he had crossed the room to the window looking out over the city, the smoke and steam of a thousand fires floating over its wide expanse.
“Come here, my son,” he called to Oliver. “Look over that stretch of energy and brains. Is it not inspiring? And that band of silver, moving so quietly and resistlessly out to sea. What a power for good it all is, and what a story it will tell before the century is out.”
Margaret was by his side as he spoke. She had hardly taken her eyes from him since he entered the room–not even when she was listening to Nathan. All her old-time, prejudices and preconceived estimates of Richard were slipping away. Was this the man whom she used to think of as a dreamer of dreams, and a shiftless Southerner? This charming old gentleman with the air of an aristocrat and the keen discernment of an expert? She could hardly believe her eyes.
As for Oliver, his very heart was bursting with pride. It had all happened exactly as he had wanted it–his father and Margaret had liked each other from the very first moment. And then she had been so beautiful, too, even in her long painting- apron and her hair twisted up in a coil on her head. And the little blush of surprise and sweetness which had overspread her face when they entered, and which his father must have seen, and the inimitable grace with which she slipped from her high stool, and with a half courtesy held out her hand to welcome her visitors, and all with the savoir faire and charm of a woman of the world! How it all went straight to his heart.
If, however, he had ever thought her pretty in this working-costume, he thought her all the more captivating a few minutes later in the little French jacket –all pockets and buttons–which she had put on as soon as the greetings were over and the tour of the room had been made in answer to Richard’s delighted questions.
But it was in serving the luncheon, which Mrs. Mulligan had brought in, that his sweetheart was most enchanting. Her full-rounded figure moved so gracefully when she bent across to hand someone a cup, and the pose of the head was so delicious, and it was all so bewitching, and so precisely satisfied his artistic sense. And he so loved to hear her talk when she was the centre of a group like this, as much really to see the movement of her lips and the light in her eyes and the gracious way in which she moved her head as to hear what she said.
He was indeed so overflowing with happiness over it all, and she was so enchanting in his eyes as she sat there dispensing the comforts of the silver tray, that he must needs pop out of the room with some impromptu excuse and disappear into the little den which held her desk, that he might dash off a note which he tucked under her writing-pad–one of their hiding-places–and which bore the lines: “You were never so much my queen as you are to-day, dearest,” and which she found later and covered with kisses before he was half way down the block on his way back to the hotel with the two old gentlemen.
She was indeed beautiful. The brow was wider and whiter, perhaps, than it had been in the old days under the bark slant, and the look out of the eyes a trifle softer, and with a certain tenderness in them– not quite so defiant and fearless; but there had been no other changes. Certainly none in the gold-brown hair that Oliver so loved. That was still her glory, and was still heaped up in magnificent masses, and with the same look about it of being ready to burst its bonds and flood everything with a river of gold.
“Lots of good news to-day, Madge,” Oliver exclaimed, after they had all taken their seats, his father on Margaret’s right, with Nathan next.
“Yes, and I have got lots of good news too; bushels of it,” laughed Margaret.
“You tell me first,” cried Oliver bending toward her, his face beaming; each day they exchanged the minutest occurrences of their lives.
“No–Ollie–Let me hear yours. What’s it about? Mine’s about a picture.”
“So’s mine,” exclaimed Olive; his eyes brimming with fun and the joy of the surprise he had in store for her.
“But it’s about one of your OWN pictures, Ollie.”
“So’s mine,” he cried again, his voice rising in merriment.
“Oh, Ollie, tell me first,” pleaded Margaret with a tone in her voice of such coaxing sweetness that only Richard’s and Nathan’s presence restrained him from catching her up in his arms and kissing her then and there.
“No, not until you have told me yours,” he answered with mock firmness. “Mine came in a letter.”
“So did mine,” cried Margaret clapping her hands. “I don’t believe yours is half as good as mine and I’m not going to wait to hear it. Now listen–” and she opened an envelope that lay on the table within reach of her hand. “This is from my brother John–” and she turned toward Richard and Nathan. “He and Couture, in whose atelier I studied, are great friends. Now please pay attention Mr. Autocrat–” and she looked at Oliver over the edge of the letter and began to read–
“Couture came in to-day on his way home and I showed him the photograph Ollie sent me of his portrait of you– his ‘Tam-o’-Shanter Girl’ he calls it. Couture was so enthusiastic about it that he wants it sent to Paris at once so that he can exhibit it in his own studio to some of the painters there. Then he is going to send it to the Salon. So you can tell that ‘Johnnie Reb’ to pass it along to me by the first steamer; and you can tell him, too, that his last letter is a month old, and I am getting hungry for another.”
“There now! what do you think of that? Mr. Honorable Mention.”
Oliver opened his eyes in astonishment.
“That’s just like John, bless his heart!” he answered slowly, as his glance sought the floor. This last drop had filled his cup of happiness to the brim– Some of it was glistening on his lashes.
“Now tell me your good news–” she continued, her eyes still dancing. She had seen the look but misunderstood the cause.
Oliver raised his eyes–
“Oh, it’s not nearly as good as yours, Madge, in one way and yet in another it’s a heap better. What do you think? Old Peter Fish wants me to paint his daughter’s portrait.”
Margaret laid her hand on his.
“Oh, Oliver! Not Peter Fish! That’s the best thing that has happened yet,” and her face instantly assumed a more serious expression. “I know the girl –she will be an easy subject; she’s exactly your type. How do you know?”
“Just saw John Snedecor in answer to a letter he wrote me. Fish has bought the ‘Woman in Black.’ He’s delighted with it.”
“Why, I thought it belonged to the Countess.”
“So it did. She sold it.”
“Sold it!”
“Yes. Does it surprise you?”
“No; I can’t say that it does. I am glad, though, that it will stay in the country. It’s by far the best thing you or anybody else has done this season. I was afraid she would take it back with her. Poor woman! she has had a hard life, and it doesn’t seem to get any better, from what I hear.”
“You know the original, then, my dear?” asked Richard, holding out his second cup of tea for another lump of sugar, which Margaret in her excitement had forgotten. He and Nathan had listened with the keenest interest to the reading of John Grant’s letter and to the discussion that had followed.
“I know OF her,” answered Margaret as she dropped it in; “and she knows me, but I’ve never met her. She’s a Pole, and something of a painter, too. She studied in the same atelier where I was, but that was before I went to Paris. Her husband became mixed up in some political conspiracy and was sent to Siberia, and she was put across the frontier that same night. She is very popular in Paris; they all like her, especially the painters. There is nothing against her except her poverty.” There could be nothing against any woman in Margaret’s eyes. “But for her jewels she would have had as hard a time to get on as the rest of us. Now and then she parts with one of her pearls, and between times she teaches music. You must see the picture Oliver painted of her–it will delight you.”
“Oh, but I have!” exclaimed Richard, laying down his cup. “We looked at it as we came up. It is really a great picture. He tells me it is the work of two hours and under gas-light.”
“No, not altogether, father. I had a few hours on it the next day,” interrupted Oliver.
“Strong, isn’t it?” continued Margaret, without noticing Oliver’s explanation. “It is really better in many ways than the girl in the Tam-o’-Shanter cap– the one he painted of me. That had some of Lely’s qualities about it, especially in the flesh tones. He always tells me the inspiration to paint it came from an old picture belonging to his uncle. You know that of course?” and she laid a thin sandwich on Nathan’s plate.
“You mean Tilghman’s Lely–the one in his house in Kennedy Square? Oh,” said Richard, lifting his fingers in appreciation, “I know every line of it. It is one of the best Lely’s I ever saw, and to me the gem of Tilghman’s collection.”
“Yes; so Ollie tells me,” continued Margaret. “Now this picture of the Countess is to me very much more in Velasquez’s method than in Lely’s. Broader and stronger and with a surer touch. I have always told Ollie he was right to give up landscapes. These two pictures show it. There is really, Mr. Horn, no one on this side of the water who is doing exactly what Oliver is.” She spoke as if she was discussing Page, Huntington or Elliott or any other painter of the day, not as if it was her lover. “Did you notice how the lace was brushed in and all that work about the throat–especially the shadow tones?”
She treated Richard precisely as if he was one of the guild. His criticisms of her own work–for he had insisted on seeing her latest picture and had even been more enthusiastic over it than he had been over Oliver’s–and his instant appreciation of the Lambinet, convinced her, even before he had finished the tour of the room, that the quaint old gentleman was as much at home in her atmosphere as he was in that of his shop at home discussing scientific problems with some savant.
“I did, my dear. It is quite as you say,” answered Richard, with great earnestness. “This ‘Woman in Black,’ as he calls it, is painted not only with sureness and with an intimate knowledge of the textures, but it seems to me he has the faculty of expressing with each stroke of his brush, as an engraver does with his burin, the rounds and hollows of his surfaces. And to think, too, my dear,” he continued, “that most of it was done at night. The color tones, you know”–and his manner changed, and a more thoughtful expression came into his face–the scientist was speaking now–“are most difficult to manage at night. The colors of the spectrum undergo some very curious changes under artificial light, especially from a gas consuming as much carbon as our common carburetted hydrogen. The greens, owing to the absorption of the yellow rays, become the brighter, and the orange and red tones, from the same reason, the more intense, while the paler violets and, in fact, all the tertiaries, of a bluish cast lose–“
He stopped, as he caught a puzzled expression on her face. “Oh, what a dreadful person I am,” he exclaimed, rising from his seat. “It is quite inexcusable in me. Please forgive me, my dear–I was really thinking aloud. Such ponderous learned words should be kept out of this delightful abode of the Muses, and then, I assure you, I really know so little about it, and you know so much.” And he laughed softly, and made a little bow as a further apology.
“No. I don’t know one thing about it, nor does any other painter I know,” she laughed, blowing out the alcohol lamp, “not quite in the same way. And if I did I should want you to come every day and bring Mr. Gill with you to tell me about it.” Where- upon Nathan, replying that nothing would give him more pleasure (he had been silent most of the time– somehow no one expected him to talk much when Richard was present), struggled to his feet at an almost imperceptible sign from the inventor, who suddenly remembered that his capitalists were waiting for him, pulled his old cloak about his shoulders and, with Richard leading the way, they all four moved out into the hall and stood in the open doorway.
When they reached the top stair outside the studio dear Richard stopped, took both of Margaret’s hands in his, and said, in his kindest voice and in his gravest and most thoughtful manner, as he looked down into her face:
“My dear Miss Grant, may I tell you that I have to-day found in you the realization of one of my day- dreams? And will you forgive an old man when he says how proud it makes him to know a woman who is brave enough to live the life you do? You are the forerunner of a great movement, my dear–the mother of a new guild. It is a grand and noble thing for a woman to sustain herself with work that she loves”–and the dear old gentleman, lifting his hat with the air of a courtier, betook himself down-stairs, followed by Nathan, bowing as he went.
No wonder he rejoiced! Most of the dreams of his younger days were coining true. And now this woman –the beginning of a new era–the opening out of a new civilization. And ahead of it a National Art that the world would one day recognize!
He tried to express his delight to Oliver, and turned to find him, but Oliver was not beside him nor did he join his father for five minutes at least. That young gentleman–just as Richard and Nathan had reached the BOTTOM of the second flight of stairs– had suddenly remembered something of the utmost importance which he had left in the INNER room, and which he could not possibly find until Madge, waiting by the banister, had gone back to help him look for it, and not then, until Mrs. Mulligan had left them both and shut the kitchen-door behind her. Yes, it was quite five minutes, or more, before Oliver clattered down-stairs after his guests, stopping but once to look up through the banisters into Margaret’s eyes–she was leaning over for the purpose–his open hand held up toward her as a sign that it was always at her command.
CHAPTER XXIII
MR. MUNSON’S LOST FOIL
For a quiet, orderly, well behaved and most dignified street, Tenth Street, at seven o’clock one April night was disgracing itself in a way that must have shocked its inhabitants. Cabs driving like mad were rattling over the cobbles, making their way toward the old Studio Building. Policemen were shouting to the drivers to keep in line. Small boys were darting in and out, peering into the cab windows and calling out to their fellows: “Ki Jimmy! see de Ingin wid de fedder-duster on his head”–or, “Look at de pill in de yaller shirt! My eye, ain’t he a honey- cooler!”
At the entrance of the building, just inside the door where the crowd was thickest, stood two men in armor with visors down–stood so still, that the boys and bystanders thought they had been borrowed from some bric-a-brac shop until, in an unguarded moment, one plumed knight rested his tired leg with a rattling noise that sounded like a tin-peddler shifting his pack or the adjustment of a length of stovepipe. Behind the speechless sentinels, leading into the narrow corridor, stretched a red carpet bordered by rows of palms and evergreens and hung about with Chinese lanterns.
At the end of this carpet opened a door that looked into a banquet hall as rich in color and as sumptuous in its interior fittings as an audience- chamber of the Doges at a time when Venice ruled the world. The walls were draped with Venetian silks and Spanish velvets, against which were placed Moorish plaques, Dutch brass sconces holding clusters of candles, barbaric spears, bits of armor, pairs of fencing foils, old cabinets, and low, luxurious divans. Thrust up into the skylight, its gaff festooned with trawl-nets, drooped a huge sloop’s sail, its graceful folds breaking the square lines of the ceiling; and all about, suspended on long filigree chains, swung old church-lamps of brass or silver, burning ruby tapers.
In the centre of this glow of color stood a round table, its top covered with a white cloth, and laid with covers for fifty guests. On this were placed, in orderly confusion, great masses of flowers heard up in rare porcelain vases; silver candelabra bearing lighted candles; old Antwerp brass holding bon-bons and sweets; Venetian flagons filled with rare wines; Chinese and Japanese curios doing service as ash- receivers and match-safes; Delft platters for choice dishes; besides Flemish mugs, Bavarian glasses, George III. silver, and the like.
At the head of this sumptuous board was placed a chair of state, upholstered in red velvet, studded with brass rosettes, the corners of its high back surmounted by two upright gilt ornaments. This was
to hold the Master of the Feast, the presiding officer who was to govern the merry spirits during the hours of the revel. In front of this royal chair was a huge stone mug crowned with laurel. This was guarded by two ebony figures, armed with drawn scimitars, which stood at each side of the throne-seat. From these guards of honor radiated two half-circles of lesser chairs, one for each guest–of all patterns and periods: old Spanish altar-seats in velvet, Dutch chairs in leather, Italian chairs in mother-of-pearl and ivory–all armless and quite low, so low that the costumed slaves, who were to wait on the royal assembly, could serve the courses without having to reach over the backs of the guests.
Moving about the room, rearranging the curios on the cabinets, adding a bit of porcelain to the collection on the table, shifting the lights for better effect, lounging on the wide divans, or massed about the doorway welcoming the new arrivals as they entered, were Italian nobles of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, costumed with every detail correct, even to the jewelled daggers that hung at their sides, all genuine and of the period; cardinals in red hats and wonderful church robes, the candle-grease of the altar still clinging to their skirts; Spanish grandees in velvet and brocade; Indian rajahs in baggy silk trousers and embroidered waistcoats, with Kohinoors flashing from their turbans–not genuine this time but brilliant all the same; Shakespeares, Dantes (one of each), besides courtiers, nobles, gallants, and gentry of various climes and periods.
All this splendor of appointment, all these shaded candles, hanging-lamps, Venetian glass, antique furniture, rich costumes, Japanese curios, and assorted bric-a-brac, were gathered together and arranged thus sumptuously to add charm and lustre to a banquet given by the Stone Mugs to those of their friends most distinguished in their several professions of art, literature, and music.
Indeed any banquet the Club gave was sure to be as unique as it was artistic.
Sometimes it would be held in the hold of an abandoned vessel left high and dry on a lonely beach, which, under the deft touches of the artists of the Club, would be transformed in a night to the cabin of a buccaneer filled with the loot of a treasure ship. Sometimes a canal boat, which the week before had been loaded with lime or potatoes, would be scoured out with a fire-hose, its deck roofed with awnings and hung with lanterns, its hatches lined with palms, and in the hold below a table spread of such surprising beauty, and in an interior so gorgeous in its appointments that each guest, as he descended the carpeted staircase leading from the deck above to the carpeted keelson below, would rub his eyes wondering whether he had not been asleep, and had suddenly awakened aboard Cleopatra’s barge.
Again the club would hold a Roman feast in one of Solari’s upstairs rooms–the successor to Riley’s of the old days–each man speaking ancient Latin with Tenth Street terminals, the servants dressed in tunics and sandals, and the members in togas. Or they would make a descent at midnight on Fulton Market and have their tomcods scooped from the fish- boxes alive and broiled to their liking while they waited; or they would take possession of Brown’s or Farrish’s for mugs of ale and English chops. But it was always one so different from any other function of its class that it formed the topic of the studios for weeks thereafter.
To-night it was the humor of the club to reproduce as closely as possible, with the limited means at their disposal–for none of the Stone Mugs were rolling in wealth, nor did these functions require it–some one of the great banquets of former times, not to be historically or chronologically correct, but to express the artistic atmosphere of such an occasion.
That there were certain unavoidable and easily detected shams under all this glamour of color and form did not lessen the charm of the present function.
Everybody, of course, knew before the evening was over, or could have found out had he tried, that the two knights in armor who guarded the side-walk entrance to this royal chamber, and who had been the target of the street-rats until they took their places at the inside door, were respectively Mr. Patrick McGinnis, who tended the furnace in the basement of the Tenth Street Studio Building, stripped for the occasion down to his red flannels, and Signore Luigi Bennelli, his Italian assistant.
A closer inspection of the two ebony blackamoors, with drawn scimitars, who guarded the royal chair at the head of the table, would have revealed the fact that they were not made of ebony at all, but of veritable flesh and blood–the blackamoor on the right being none other than Black Sam, the bootblack who shined shoes on the corner of the avenue, and his bloodthirsty pal on the left the kinky-haired porter who served the grocer next door; the only “HONEST” thing about either of them, to quote Waller, being the artistic clothes that they stood in.
Further investigation would have shown that every one of the wonderful things that made glad and glorious the big square room on the ground floor of the building, from the brass sconces on the walls to the hanging church lamps, with everything that their lights fell upon, had been gathered up that same morning from the several homes and studios of the members by old black Jerry, the official carman of the Academy, and had been dumped in an indiscriminate heap on the floor of the banquet hall, where they had been disentangled and arranged by half a dozen painters of the club; that the table and table cloth had been borrowed from Solari’s; that the very rare and fragrant old Chianti, the club’s private stock, was from Solari’s own cellars via Duncan’s, the grocer; and that the dinner itself was cooked and served by that distinguished boniface himself, assisted by half a dozen of his own waiters, each one wearing an original Malay costume selected from Stedman’s collection and used by him in his great picture of the Sepoy mutiny.
Moreover there was not the slightest doubt that the “Ingin,” who was now bowing so gravely to the master of ceremonies, was no other than the distinguished Mr. Thomas Brandon Waller, himself;
“N.A., Knight of the Legion of Honor, Pupil of Piloty, etc., etc.;” that the high-class mandarin in the sacred yellow robe and peacock feather who accompanied him, was Crug the ‘cellist; that the bald- headed gentleman with the pointed beard, who looked the exact presentment of the divine William, was Munson; and that the gay young gallant in the Spanish costume was none other than our Oliver. The other nobles, cavaliers, and hidalgos were the less known members of the club, who, in their desire to make the occasion a success, had fitted themselves to their costumes instead of attempting to fit the costumes to themselves, with the difference that each man not only looked the character he assumed but assumed the character he looked.
But no one, even the most knowing; no student of costumes, no reader of faces, no discerner of character, no acute observer of manners and times–in glancing over the motley company would have thought for one instant that, in all this atmosphere of real unrealism, the two old gentlemen who had just entered leaning on Oliver’s arm–one in a brown coat with high velvet collar and fluffy silk scarf, and the other in a long pen-wiper cloak which, at the moment was slipping from his shoulders–were genuine specimens of the period of to-day without a touch of makeup about them; that their old-time manners, even to the quaint bows they both gave the master of ceremonies, as they entered the royal chamber, were
their very own, part of their daily equipment, and that nothing in the gorgeous banquet hall, from the jewelled rapier belted to Oliver’s side, and which had once graced the collection of a prince, down to the priceless bit of satsuma set out on the table and now stuffed full of cigarettes (the bit could be traced back to the Ming dynasty), were any more veritable or genuine, or any more representative of the best their periods afforded than these two quaint old gentlemen from Kennedy Square.
Had there been any doubt in the minds of any such wiseacre, either regarding their authenticity or their quality, he had only to listen to Oliver’s presentation of his father and friend and to hear Richard say, in his most courteous manner and in his most winning voice:
“I have never been more honored, sir. It was more than kind of you to wish me to come. My only regret is that I am not your age, or I would certainly have appeared in a costume more befitting the occasion. I have never dreamed of so beautiful a place.”
Or to see him lift his hand in astonishment as he swept his eye over the room, his arm still resting on the velvet sleeve of Oliver’s doublet, and hear him add, in a half whisper:
“Wonderful! Wonderful! Such harmony of color; such an exquisite light. I am amazed at the splendor of it all. What Aladdin among you, my son, held the lamp that evoked all this beauty?”
Or still more convincing would it have been had he watched him moving about the room, shaking every man’s hand in turn, Oliver mentioning their real names and their several qualifications, and after ward the characters they assumed, and Richard commenting on each profession in a way quite his own.
“A musician, sir,” he would have heard him exclaim as he grasped Simmons’s hand, over which hung a fall of antique lace; “I have loved music all my days. It is an additional bond between us, sir. And the costume is quite in keeping with your art. How delightful it would be, my dear sir, if we could discard forever the sombre clothes of our day and go back to the velvets and silks Of the past.”
“Mr. Stedman, did you say, my son?” and he turned to Oliver. “You have certainly mentioned this gentleman’s name to me before. If I do not mistake, he is one of your very old friends. There is no need of your telling me that you are Lorenzo. I can quite understand now why Jessica lost her heart.”
Or to see him turn to Jack Bedford with: “You don’t tell me so! Mr. John Bedford, did you say, Oliver? Ah, but we should not be strangers, sir. If I am right, you are a fellow-townsman of ours, and have already distinguished yourself in your profession. Your costume is especially becoming to you, sir. What discernment you have shown. Permit me to say, that with you the old adage must be reversed –this time the man makes the clothes.”
The same adage could really have been applied to this old gentleman’s own dress, had he but only known it. He had not altered it in twenty years, even after it had become a matter of comment among his neighbors in Kennedy Square.
“I always associate one’s clothes with one’s manners,” he would say, with a smile. “If they are good, and suited to the occasion, best not change them.” Nathan was of the same mind. The wide hat, long, evenly parted hair, and pen-wiper cloak could be traced to these same old-fashioned ideas. These idiosyncrasies excited no comment so far as Nathan was concerned. He was always looked upon as belonging to some antediluvian period, but with a progressive man like Richard the case, his neighbors thought, might have been different.
As Richard moved about the room, saluting each one in turn, the men in and out of costume–the guests were in evening dress–looked at each other and smiled at the old gentleman’s quaint ways, but the old gentleman, with the same ease of manner and speech, continued on quite around the table, followed closely by Nathan, who limited his salutations to a timid shake of the fingers and the leaving of some word of praise or quaint greeting, which many of them remember even to this day.
These introductions over–Oliver had arrived on the minute–the ceremony of seating the guests was at once begun. This ceremony was one of great dignity, the two men-at-arms escorting the Master of the Feast, the Most High Pan-Jam, Frederico Stono, N.A., to his Royal Chair, guarded by the immovable blackamoors, the members and guests standing until His Royal Highness had taken his seat, and then dropping into their own. When everyone was in his place Richard found himself, to his delight, on the right of Fred and next to Nathan and Oliver–an honor accorded to him because of his age and relationship to one of the most popular members of the club, and not because of his genius and attainments –these latter attributes being as yet unknown quantities in that atmosphere. The two thus seated together under the especial care of Oliver–a fact which relieved the master of ceremonies of any further anxiety on their account–were to a certain extent left to themselves, the table being too large for general conversation except with one’s neighbors.
The seat in which he had been placed exactly suited Richard’s frame of mind. With an occasional word to Fred, he sat quite still, talking now and then in low tones to Nathan, his eyes taking in every detail of the strange scene.
While Nathan saw only the color and beauty of it all, Richard’s keener mind was analyzing the causes that had led up to such a gathering, and the skill and taste with which the banquet had been carried out. He felt assured that the men who could idle so luxuriously, and whose technical knowledge had perfected the artistic effects about him, could also work at their several professions with equal results. He was glad that Oliver had been found worthy enough to be admitted to such a circle. He loved, too, to hear his son’s voice and watch the impression his words made on the room. As the evening wore on, and he listened to his banter, or caught the point of the jests that Oliver parried and heard his merry laugh, he would slip his hand under the table and pat his boy’s knee with loving taps of admiration, prouder of him than ever. His own pleasures so absorbed him that he continued to sit almost silent, except for a word now and then to Nathan or a monosyllable to Fred.
The guests who were near enough to observe the visitors closely soon began to look upon Richard and Nathan as a couple of quaint, harmless, exceedingly well-bred old gentlemen, rather provincial in appearance and a little stilted in their manners, who, before the evening was over, would, perhaps, become tired of the gayety, ask to be excused, and betake themselves to bed. All of which would be an eminently proper proceeding in view of their extreme age and general infirmities, old gentlemen of three score years and over appearing more or less decrepit to athletes of twenty and five.
Waller was the only man who really seemed to take either of them seriously. After a critical examination of Richard’s head in clear relief under
the soft light of the candles, he leaned over to Stedman and said, in a half whisper, nodding toward Richard:
“Stedman, old man, take that in for a minute. Strong, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like to paint him as a blessed old Cardinal in a red gown? See how fine the nose is, and the forehead. Best head I’ve seen anywhere. Something in that old fellow.”
The dinner went on. The Malays in scarlet and yellow served the dishes and poured the wine with noiseless regularity. The men at arms at each side of the door rested their legs. The two blackamoors, guarding the High Pan-Jam’s chair, and who had been promised double pay if they kept still during the entire evening, had not so far winked an eyelid. Now and then a burst of laughter would start from one end of the table, leap from chair to chair, and end in a deafening roar in which the whole room joined. Each man was at his best. Fred, with entire gravity, and with his sternest and most High Pan-Jam expression, told, just after the fish was served, a story of a negro cook at a camp so true to life and in so perfect a dialect that the right-hand blackamoor doubled himself up like a jack-knife, much to the astonishment of those on the far side of the big round table, who up to that moment had firmly believed them to be studio properties with ebony heads screwed on bodies of iron wire, the whole stuffed with curled hair. Bianchi, Who had come in late, clothed in a Burgomaster’s costume and the identical ruff that Oliver had expected to paint him in the night when the Countess took his place, was called to account for piecing out his dress with a pair of breeches a century behind his coat and hat, and had his voice drowned in a roar of protests before he could explain.
Batterson, the big baritone of the club, Batterson with the resonant voice, surpassed all his former efforts by singing, when the cheese and salads were served, a Bedouin love-song, with such power and pathos and to the accompaniment of a native instrument so skilfully handled that the room rose to its feet, waving napkins, and the great Carvalho, the famous tenor–a guest of Crug’s, each member could invite one guest–who was singing that week at the Academy of Music, left his seat and, circling the table, threw his arms about the singer in undisguised admiration.
When the cigars and liqueurs had been passed around–these last were poured from bubble-blown decanters and drunk from the little cups flecked with gold that Munson had found in an old shop in Ravenna –the chairs were wheeled about or pushed back, and the members and guests rose from the table and drifted to the divans lining the walls, or threw themselves into the easy-chairs that were being brought from the corners by the waiters. The piano, with the assistance of the two now crest- fallen and disappointed blackamoors, who, Eurydice like, had listened and lost, was pushed from its place against the wall; Crug’s ‘cello was stripped of its green baize bag and Simmons’s violin-case opened and his Stradivarius placed beside it. The big table, bearing the wreck of the feast, more captivating even in its delightful disorder than it had been in its orderly confusion, was then, with the combined help of all the Malays, moved gently back against the wall, so as to widen the space around the piano, its debris left undisturbed by special orders from the Royal Chair, the rattling of dishes while their fun was in progress being one of the things which the club would not tolerate.
While all this rearranging of the banquet-hall was going on, Simmons was busying himself putting a new bridge under the strings of his violin, tightening its bow, and testing the condition of his instrument by that see-saw, harum-scarum flourish so common to all virtuosos;–no function of the club was ever complete without music–the men meanwhile settled themselves comfortably in their seats; some occupying their old chairs, others taking possession of the divans, the gay costumes of the members, and the black coats and white shirt-fronts of the guests in high relief against the wrecked dinner-table presenting a picture as rich in color as it was strong in contrast.
What is so significant, by the way, or so picturesque, as a dinner-table wrecked by good cheer and hospitality? The stranded, crumpled napkins, the bunching together of half and wholly emptied glasses, each one marking a period of content–the low candles, with half dried tears still streaming down their cheeks (tears of laughter, of course); the charming disorder of cups on plates and the piling up of dishes one on the other–all such a protest against the formality of the beginning! and all so suggestive of the lavish kindness of the host. A wonderful object-lesson is a wrecked dinner-table, if one cares to study it.
Silence now fell upon the room, the slightest noise when Simmons played being an unpardonable sin. The waiters were ordered either to become part of the wall decoration or to betake themselves to the outside hall, or the infernal regions, a suggestion of Waller’s when one of them rattled some glasses he was carrying on a tray.
Simmons tucked a handkerchief in the band of his collar, balanced his bow for an instant, looked around the room, and asked, in a modest, obliging way:
“What shall it be, fellows?”
“Better give us Bach. The aria on the G strings,” answered Waller.
“No, Chopin,” cried Fred.
“No, you wooden-head, Bach’s aria,” whispered Waller. “Don’t you know that is the best thing he does?”
“Bach it is then,” answered Simmons, tucking his instrument under his chin.
As the music filled the room, Richard settled himself on one of the large divans between Nathan and Oliver, his head lying back on the cushions, his eyes half closed. If the table with its circle of thoughtful and merry faces, had set his brain to work, the tones of Simmons’s violin had now stirred his very soul. Music was the one thing in the world he could not resist.
He had never heard the aria better played. He had no idea that anyone since Ole Bull’s time could play it so well. Really, the surprises of this wonderful city were becoming greater to him every hour. Nathan, too, had caught the infection as he sat with his body bent forward, his head on one side listening intently.
When the last note of Simmons’s violin had ceased vibrating, Richard sprang to his feet with all the buoyancy of a boy and grasped the musician by the hand.
“My dear sir, you really astound me! Your tone is most exquisite, and I must also thank you for the rendering. It is one quite new to me. Ole Bull played it, you remember–excuse me,” and he picked up Simmons’s violin where he had laid it on the piano, tucked it under his chin, and there vibrated through the room, half a dozen quivering notes, so clear and sweet that all eyes were instantly directed toward the quaint old gentleman, who still stood with uplifted bow, the violin in his hand.
“Where the devil did he learn to play like that?” said one member to another. “Why I thought he was an inventor.”
“Keep your toes in your pumps, gentlemen,” said Waller under his breath to some men beside him, as he sat hunched up in the depths of an old Spanish armchair. He had not taken his eyes from Richard while the music went on. “We’re not half through with this old fellow. One thing I’ve found out, any how–that’s where this beggar Horn got his voice.”
Simmons was not so astounded; if he were he did not show it. He had recognized the touch of a musician in the very first note that came from the strings, just as the painters of the club had recognized the artist in the first line of the Countess’s brush.
“Yes, you’re right, Mr. Horn,” said Simmons, as Richard returned him the instrument. “Now I come to think of it, I do remember having heard Ole Bull phrase it in that way you have. Stop a moment; take my violin again and play the air. There’s another instrument here which I can use. I brought it for one of my orchestra, but he has not turned up yet,” and he opened a cabinet behind him and took out a violin and bow.
Richard laughed as he again picked up Simmons’s instrument from the piano where he had laid it.
“What an. extraordinary place this is,” he said as he adjusted the maestro’s violin to his chin. “It fills me with wonder. Everything you want seems to be within reach of your hand. You take a bare room and transform it into a dream of beauty; you touch a spring in a sixteenth century cabinet, and out comes a violin. Marvellous! Marvellous!” and he sounded the strings with his bow. “And a wonderful instrument too,” he continued, as he tightened one of its strings, his acute ear having detected a slight inaccuracy of pitch.
“I’m all ready, Mr. Simmons; now, if you please.”
If the club and its guests had forgotten the old gentleman an hour before, the old gentleman had now quite forgotten them.
He played simply and easily, Simmons joining in, picking out the accompaniment, entirely unaware