An Original Belle

by Edward Payson Roe

  "WHAT next?" was Marian's wondering query after Mr. Strahan'sdeparture. The change of motive which already had had no slightinfluence on her own action and feeling had apparently ushered ina new era in her experience; but the sense of novelty in personalaffairs was quite lost as she contemplated the transformation inthe mercurial Strahan, who had apparently been an irredeemable fop.That the fastidious exquisite should tramp through Virginia mud,and face a battery of hostile cannon, appeared to her the mostmarvellous of human paradoxes. An hour before she would have declaredthe idea preposterous. Now she was certain he would do all that hehad said, and would do it in the manner satirical and deprecatorytowards himself which she had suggested.

  Radical as the change seemed, she saw that it was a natural oneas he had explained it. If there was any manhood in him the timeswould evoke it. After all, his chief faults had been youth anda nature keenly sensitive to certain social influences. Belongingto a wealthy and fashionable clique in the city, he had early beenimpressed by the estimated importance of dress and gossip. To excelin these, therefore, was to become pre-eminent. As time passed,however, the truth, never learned by some, that his clique was notthe world, began to dawn on him. He was foolish, but not a fool;and when he saw young fellows no older than himself going to thefront, when he read of their achievements and sufferings, he drewcomparisons. The result was that he became more and more dissatisfied.He felt that he was anomalous, in respect not only to the ruralscenery of his summer home, but to the times, and the convictionwas growing that the only way to right himself was to follow thehost of American youth who had gone southward. It was a conviction towhich he could not readily yield, and which he sought to disguiseby exaggerating his well-known characteristics. People of histemperament often shrink from revealing their deeper feelings,believing that these would seem to others so incongruous as to callforth incredulous smiles. Strahan was not a coward, except in thepresence of ridicule. This had more terrors for him than all theguns of the Confederacy; and he knew that every one, from his ownfamily down, would laugh at the thought of his going to the war.In a way that puzzled him a little he felt that he would not careso much if Marian Vosburgh did not laugh. The battle of which hehad read to-day had at last decided him; he must go; but if Marianwould give him credit for a brave, manly impulse, and not think ofhim as a ludicrous spectacle when he donned the uniform, he wouldmarch away with a light heart. He did not analyze her influenceover him, but only knew that she had a peculiar fascination whichit was not in his impressionable nature to resist.

  Thus it may be seen that he only gave an example of the truth thatgreat apparent changes are the result of causes that have long beensecretly active.

  Marian, like many others, did not sufficiently take this fact intoaccount, and was on the qui vive for other remarkable manifestations.They did not occur. As her father had predicted, life, in itsoutward conditions, resumed its normal aspects. Her mother laugheda little, sighed a little, when she heard the story of Mr. Lanniere'sfinal exit; the coquettish kitchen-maid continued her career withundisturbed complacency; and Marian to her own surprise found that,after the first days of her enthusiasm had passed, it required theexertion of no little will-power to refrain from her old motivesand tactics. But she was loyal to herself and to her implied promiseto her father. She knew that he was watching her,--that he had sethis heart on the development, in a natural way, of her best traits.She also knew that if she faltered she must face his disappointmentand her own contempt.

  She had a horror, however, of putting on what she called "goody-goodyairs," and under the influence of this feeling acted much likeher old self. Not one of her callers could have charged her withmanifesting a certain kind of misleading favor, but her little salonappeared as free from restraint as ever, and her manner as genialand lively. It began to be observed by some, however, that whileshe participated unhesitatingly in the light talk of others, sheherself would occasionally broach topics of more weight, especiallysuch as related to the progress of the war; and more than once shegave such direction to her conversation with the artist as madehis eyes kindle.

  Her father was satisfied. He usually came home late on Saturday,and some of her gentleman friends who were in the habit of droppingin of a Sunday evening, were soon taught that these hours wereengaged.

  "You need not excuse yourself on my account," her father had saidto her.

  "But I shall," was her prompt response. "After all you have doneand are doing for me, it's a pity if I can't give you one eveningin the week. You are looking after other people in New York;I'm going to look after you; and you shall find that I am a sharpinquisitor. You must reveal enough of the secrets of that mysteriousoffice of yours to satisfy me that you are not in danger."

  He soon began to look forward with glad anticipation to his rambleby her side in the summer twilight. He saw that what he had doneand what he had thought during the week interested her deeply, andto a girl of her intelligence he had plenty to tell that was farfrom commonplace. She saw the great drama of her country's historyunfolding, and not only witnessed the events that were presentedto the world, but was taken behind the scenes and shown many ofthe strange and secret causes that were producing them. Moreoverexpectation of something larger and greater was constantly raised.After their walk they would return to the house, and she would singor read to him until she saw his eyes heavy with the sleep thatsteals gradually and refreshingly into a weary man's brain.

  Mrs. Vosburgh observed this new companionship with but little surpriseand no jealousy. "It was time," she said, "that Marian should beginto do something for her father, and not leave everything to me."

  One thing puzzled Marian: weeks were passing and she neither sawnor heard anything of Lane or Strahan. This fact, in view of whathad been said at parting, troubled her. She was not on callingterms with the latter's family, and therefore was unable to learnanything from them. Even his male friends in the neighborhood didnot know where he was or what he was doing. Her father had takenthe pains to inform himself that Lane was apparently at work inhis law-office as usual. These two incipient subjects of the powershe hoped to wield seemed to have dropped her utterly, and she wasdiscouraged.

  On the last day of June she was taking a ramble in a somewhatwild and secluded place not far from her home, and thinking ratherdisconsolately that her father had overrated her influence,--thatafter all she was but a pretty and ordinary girl, like millionsof others,--a fact that Lane and Strahan had at last discovered.Suddenly she came upon the artist, sketching at a short distancefrom her. As she turned to retreat a twig snapped under her foot,revealing her presence. He immediately arose and exclaimed, "MissVosburgh, is it I that you fear, or a glimpse of my picture?"

  "Neither, of course. I feared I might dispel an inspired mood.Why should I intrude, when you have nature before you and the muselooking over your shoulder?"

  "Over my left shoulder, then, with a mocking smile. You aremistaken if you fancy you can harm any of my moods. Won't you stayand criticise my picture for me?"

  "Why, Mr. Blauvelt, I'm not an art critic."

  "Yes, you are,--one of the class I paint for. Our best critics areour patrons, cultivated people."

  "I should never think of patronizing you."

  "Perhaps you might entertain the thought of encouraging me a little,if you felt that I was worth it."

  "Now, Mr. Blauvelt, notwithstanding the rural surroundings, youmust remember that I was bred in the city. I know the sovereigncontempt that you artists have for the opinions of the people. Whenit comes to art, I'm only people."

  "No such generalization will answer in your case. You have asdistinct an individuality as any flower blooming on this hillside."

  "There are flowers and flowers. Some are quite common."

  "None are commonplace to me, for there is a genuine bit of naturein every one. Still you are right: I was conscious of the fragrancefrom this eglantine-bush here, until you came."

  "Oh, then let me go at once."

  "I be
g that you will not. You are the eglantine in human form, andoften quite as briery."

  "Then you should prefer the bush there, which gives you its beautyand fragrance without a scratch. But truly your comparison is toofar-fetched, even for an artist or a poet, for I suppose they arenear of kin. To sensible, matter-of-fact girls, nothing is moreabsurd than your idealization of us. See how quickly and honestlyI can disenchant you. In the presence of both nature and art Iam conscious that it is nearly lunch-time. You are far from yourboarding-place, so come and take your luck with us. Mamma will beglad to see you, and after lunch I may be a more amiable critic."

  "As a critic, I do not wish you to be amiable, but honest severityitself. That you stumbled upon me accidentally in your presentmood is my good fortune. Tell me the faults in my picture in theplainest English, and I will gratefully accept your invitation; forthe hospitality at your cottage is so genial that bread and cheesewould be a banquet. I have a strong fancy for seeing my work throughyour eyes, and so much faith in you that I know you will tell mewhat you think, since I ask you to do so."

  "Why have you faith in me?" she asked, with a quick, searchingglance.

  "I belong somewhat to the impressionist school, and my impressionof you leads to my words."

  "If you compel me to be honest, I must say I'm not capable ofcriticising your picture. I know little of art, and nothing of itsTECHNIQUE."

  "Eyes like yours should be able to see a great deal, and, as I said,I am possessed by the wish to know just what they do see. There isthe scene I was sketching, and here the canvas. Please, Miss Marian."

  "It will be your own fault, now, if you don't like what I say,"laughed the young girl, with ready tact, for a quick glance or twohad already satisfied her that the picture was not to her taste."My only remark is this, Mr. Blauvelt,--Nature does not make thesame impression on me that it does on you. There is the scene, asyou say. How can I make you understand what I feel? Nature alwayslooks so natural to me! It awakens within me various emotions, butnever surprise,--I mean that kind of surprise one has when seeinga lady dressed in colors that do not harmonize. To my eye, even ingaudy October, Nature appears to blend her effects so that thereis nothing startling or incongruous."

  "Is there anything startling and incongruous in my picture?"

  "I have not said that. You see you have brought me into perplexity, youhave taken me beyond my depth, by insisting on having my opinion.I have read a good many art criticisms first and last. Art is gabbledabout a good deal in society, you know, and we have to keep a setof phrases on hand, whether we understand them or not. But sinceyou believe in impressions, and will have mine, it is this as nearlyas I can express it. You are under the influence of a school ora fashion in art, and perhaps unconsciously you are controlled bythis when looking at the scene there. It seems to me that if I werean artist I should try to get on my canvas the same effects thatnature produces, and I would do it after my own fashion and notafter some received method just then prevailing. Let me illustratewhat I mean by a phase of life that I know more about. There aresome girls in society whose ambition it is to dress in the lateststyle. They are so devoted to fashion that they appear to forgetthemselves, and are happy if their costume reflects the mode of thehour, even though it makes them look hideous. My aim would be tosuggest the style rather unobtrusively, and clothe myself becomingly.I'm too egotistical to be ultra-fashionable. Since I, who am inlove chiefly with myself, can so modify style, much more shouldyou, who are devoted to nature, make fashion in art subservient tonature."

  "You are right. I have worked too much in studios and not enoughout of doors. Ever since I have been sketching this summer, I havehad a growing dissatisfaction, and a sense of being trammelled. Ido believe, as you say, that a certain received method or fashionof treatment has been uppermost in my mind, and I have been tryingto torture--nature into conformity. I'll paint this thing all outand begin again."

  "No, don't do that. Are not pictures like people a little? IfI wanted to improve in some things, it wouldn't do for me to bepainted all out. Cannot changes for the better come by softeningfeatures here and bringing out others there, by colorings a littlemore like those before us, and--pardon me--by not leaving so muchto the imagination? You artists can see more between the lines thanwe people can."

  "Let me try;" and with eager eyes he sat down before his easelagain. "Now see if I succeed a little," he added, after a moment.

  His whole nature appeared kindled and animated by hope. He workedrapidly and boldly. His drawing had been good before, and, as timepassed, nature's sweet, true face began to smile upon him fromhis canvas. Marian grew almost as absorbed as himself, learning byactual vision how quick, light strokes can reproduce and preserveon a few square inches the transitory beauty of the hour and theseason.

  At times she would stimulate his effort by half-spoken sentencesof satisfaction, and at last he turned and looked up suddenly ather flushed, interested face.

  "You are the muse," he exclaimed, impetuously, "who, by lookingover my shoulder, can make an artist of me."

  She instinctively stepped farther away, saying, decisively, "Becareful then to regard me as a muse."

  She had replied to his ardent glance and tone, even more than tohis words. There was not a trace of sentiment in her clear, directgaze. The quiet dignity and reserve of her manner sobered himinstantly. Her presence, her words, the unexpected success in thenew departure which she had suggested, had excited him deeply; yeta moment's thought made it clear that there had been nothing onher part to warrant the hope of more than friendly interest. Thisinterest might easily be lost by a few rash words, while therewas slight reason that he should ever hope for anything more. Thenalso came the consciousness of his straitened circumstances and theabsurdity of incurring obligations which he might never be able tomeet. He had assured himself a thousand times that art should behis mistress, yet here he was on the eve of acting like a fool bymaking love to one who never disguised her expensive tastes. He wasnot an artist of the olden school,--all romance and passion,--andthe modishly dressed, reserved maiden before him did not, in theremotest degree, suggest a languishing heroine in days of yore,certain to love against sense and reason. The wild, sylvan shade,the June atmosphere, the fragrance of the eglantine, even thepresence of art, in whose potent traditions mood is the highest law,could not dispel the nineteenth century or make this independent,clear-headed American girl forget for a moment what was sensibleand right. She stood there alone under the shadow of the chestnuts,and by a glance defined her rights, her position towards her companion,and made him respect them. Nor was he headlong, passionate, absurd.He was a part of his age, and was familiar with New York society.The primal instincts of his nature had obtained ascendency fora mordent. Ardent words to the beautiful girl who looked overhis shoulder and inspired his touch seemed as natural as breath.She had made herself for the moment a part of his enthusiasm. Butwhat could be the sequel of ardent words, even if successful, butprosaic explanations and the facing of the inexorable problem ofsupporting two on an income that scarcely sufficed for the Bohemianlife of one?

  He had sufficient self-control, and was mentally agile enough tocome down upon his feet. Rising, he said, quietly: "If you will bemy muse, as far as many other claims upon your time and thoughtspermit, I shall be very grateful. I have observed that you havea good eye for harmony in color, and, what is best of all, I haveinduced you to be very frank. See how much you have helped me. Inbrief--Bless me! how long have you been here?"

  He pulled out his watch in comic dismay, and held it towards her."No lunch for us to-day," he concluded, ruefully.

  "Well," exclaimed Marian, laughing, "this is the first symptomI have ever had of being an artist. It was quite natural that youshould forget the needs of sublunary mortals, but that I should doso must prove the existence of an undeveloped trait. I could becomequite absorbed in art if I could look on and see its wonders likea child. You must come home with me and take your chance. If lunchis over, we'll for
age."

  He laughingly shouldered his apparatus, and walked by her sidethrough the June sunshine and shade, she in the main keeping upthe conversation. At last he said, rather abruptly: "Miss Vosburgh,you do not look on like a child,--rather, with more intelligencethan very many society girls possess; and--will you forgive me?--youdefend yourself like a genuine American woman. I have lived abroad,you know, and have learned how to value such women. I wish you toknow how much I respect you, how truly I appreciate you, and howgrateful and honored I shall feel if you will be simply a frank,kind friend. You made use of the expression 'How shall I makeyou understand?' So I now use it, and suggest what I mean by aquestion,--Is there not something in a man's nature which enableshim to do better if some woman, in whom he believes, shows thatshe cares?"

  "I should be glad if this were true of some men," she said, gently,"because I do care. I'll be frank, too. Nothing would give me amore delicious sense of power than to feel that in ways I scarcelyunderstood I was inciting my friends to make more of themselvesthan they would if they did not know me. If I cannot do a littleof what you suggest, of what account am I to my friends?"

  "Your friends can serve a useful purpose by amusing you."

  "Then the reverse is true, and I am merely amusing to my friends.Is that the gist of your fine words, after all?" and her faceflushed as she asked the question.

  "No, it is not true, Miss Vosburgh. You have the power of entertainingyour friends abundantly, but you could make me a better artist,and that with me would mean a better man, if you took a genuineinterest in my efforts."

  "I shall test the truth of your words," was her smiling response."Meanwhile you can teach me to understand art better, so that Ishall know what I am talking about." Then she changed the subject.

  CHAPTER IX.

  A GIRL'S LIGHT HAND.