by Myrtle Reed
The White Shield
People said that Joe Hayward's pictures "lacked something." Eventhe critics, who know everything, were at a loss to find where thedeficiency might be. Hayward, himself, worked hard studying themasters, patiently correcting faults in colour and perspective, andsucceeding after a fashion. But he felt that art, in its highest andbest sense, was utterly beyond him; there was a haunting elusivesomething which was continually beyond his reach.
Occasionally, when he sold a picture, he would give "a time" to adozen artist chums from studios near by, as they did, whenever fortunefavoured them; after this he would paint again, on and on, with areally tremendous perseverance.
At length, he obtained permission to make an exhibition of his workin a single room at the Art Gallery. The pictures were only ten innumber, and some of them were small, but they represented a year'shard work. When he superintended the hanging, on Saturday morning, hewas more nearly happy than he had ever been in his life. The placard onthe door, "The Hayward Exhibition will open Monday," filled him withpleasure. It was not a conceited feeling of importance, but rather ahappy consciousness that he had done his best.
At last he was suited with the arrangement. The men went out with theladder and wire, and he stood in the centre of the room, contemplatingthe result. The landscape in the corner might be a little out ofdrawing, he thought, but the general public would not notice that.And the woman in white, beside it, which he had christened _Purity_certainly showed to good advantage. He remembered very well the dayhe had put the finishing touches upon it after the night of revelryin which he had helped Jennings and a dozen other fellows fromneighbouring studios to celebrate the sale of Jennings' _Study of aHead_, and how he had thought, at the time, that he, who spent suchnights, had no business to paint a figure like this of _Purity_.
As he turned to leave the room, he saw a grey gowned young woman, whoevidently did not know that the pictures were not as yet upon publicview. She passed him as she came in, with a rustle of silken skirts anda cooling odour of violets. Seeing the key of the room in his hand, sheturned to him and said: "Pardon me, but can you tell me whose picturesthese are?"
"These are Hayward's," he replied.
"Hayward," she repeated after him, as if the name were wholly new toher.
"Hayward is a young artist and of purely local reputation," heexplained. "This is his first public exhibition."
She surveyed the collection without any very strong show of pleasure,until he remarked, "You don't seem to think much of his beginning."
She was prompt in her answer: "No, I do not, they seem to lacksomething."
He sighed inwardly. That old, old, "something." Hayward's pictures alllacked "something" as everybody said of them; but what that somethingwas, his intimates, his fellow artists, were not the kind to know.
"What is it, do you think?" he asked.
"I don't know," she replied slowly. "If one knew the man, one might beable to tell."
For the first time she looked him full in the face. He saw nothing buther eyes, clear and honest, reading him through and through.
"Yes," he answered, "if you knew the man, I think you could tell."
"I'm not at all sure," she laughed, "It's only a fancy of mine."
Drawing a watch from her belt, she looked surprised and turned away. Helistened until the silken rustle had completely ceased. Then he, too,went out and on the stair he found a fine handkerchief edged with lace,delicately scented with violet, and minutely marked in the corner:"Constance Grey."
On Sunday night, the studio building where Hayward and others paintedglowed with light. The morrow's opening of "The Hayward Exhibition" wasbeing celebrated with "a time" at the expense of the artist. Glassesclinked, and the air was heavy with smoke, two women from a vaudevilletheatre, near by made merry upon an impromptu stage.
Everybody seemed to be happy except Hayward. The owner of thehandkerchief was in his mind. He felt that those eyes of hers grey,deep, and tender, though they were, might blaze with anger at a scenelike this. The handkerchief had no place in such an atmosphere. He wentover to his book case, and put it between the leaves of his Tennyson,smiling as he caught the words on the opposite page:
"A man had given all other bliss And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips."
Her handkerchief would feel more at home there, he thought, though ashe closed the book, he could not help wondering what she would say ifshe looked into the room.
A quick eye had followed his movement, and soon afterward itsowner, Jennings, took occasion to examine the volume. He waved thehandkerchief aloft triumphantly. "Heigho, fellows! Hayward's got anew mark for his clothes! Look here--'Constance Grey'!" Hayward wasshaken with mingled shame and anger that he could not explain, evento himself. The words and tone with which he commanded his friend toput the little thing back where he had found it were as hot as theywere foolish. For a moment the two men faced each other; then Jenningsapologised, and afterward Hayward murmured a sort of apology also.In sparkling champagne they drank to good fellowship again. But theincident was not without a certain subtle effect upon the celebration,and at one o'clock Hayward sat alone with his face buried in his hands,a dainty handkerchief spread out before him, and beside it was therapidly sketched outline of a face which he had just completed.
He knew now why the action of Jennings had made him so furious. Theshaft of light from a woman's eyes, which once strikes deep into thesoul of every man, had at last come home to him.
The "opening" was auspicious. Wealth and art alike were wellrepresented. One of his most important pictures was marked "sold"before the evening was over, and everybody congratulated the artistupon his good fortune. In praise of his art, however, very littlewas said that did not somehow carry in it, perhaps silently, the olddrawback--the implication that something was lacking; still exultationran rife in his veins. There were throngs of beautiful women there andhe was the centre of it all.
Toward the end of the evening, a lady who had once sat for a portraitcame up to him. She was one of a little group who came in late after atheatre party, but she approached with the air of an old friend.
"Mr. Hayward," she said, "I want you to know my niece."
He followed her into the next room where a young lady sat upon a divan.Her grey eyes were lifted to his face, and then suddenly lowered inconfusion.
"Mr. Hayward," she said, "I am so ashamed!" And when he tried toreassure her, she answered: "Let's not talk about it--it's toohumiliating!"
So they spoke of other things. He learned that she had come from adistant city to visit relatives, and the aunt invited him to call uponthem. Friday afternoon came at last, when Miss Grey and her aunt wereat home. Other Fridays followed, and other days which served as well asFridays. It was seldom that the girl looked him in the face; but whenshe did so, he felt himself confessed before her--a man with no rightto touch even the hem of her garment, yet honouring her with everyfibre of his being.
They were much together and Constance took a frank enjoyment in hisfriendship. He made every effort to please her, and one day they wentinto the country.
Constance was almost childishly happy, but the seeming perfection ofher happiness distressed him when he learned that in a very few daysshe was to sail for Europe, pass the summer and autumn in travel, andspend the winter in Paris.
At length they sat down under a gnarled oak tree and watched the lightupon the river and in the sky. After an embarrassing silence Haywardspoke:
"I think you know the man now,--will you tell me what you think of hispictures?"
She hesitated. "I do not know the man well enough to say, but I willgive you my art creed, and let you judge for yourself. I believe thata man's art is neither more nor less than the expression of himself,and that, in order to obtain an exalted expression, his first businessis with himself. Wrong living blunts, and eventually destroys, thefundamental sense of right and wrong without which a noble art isimposs
ible. When a man's art is true, it is because he himself is true.The true artist must be a man first, and an artist afterward."
Hayward took her admonition with the meekness becoming his positionas her worshipper. The conversation ended with his declaration thathe would not paint again until he had something in himself which wasworthy of being put into his picture.
"You'll help me, won't you?" he asked.
Her eyes filled. "Indeed I will, if I only can."
He went home with love's fever in his veins. She had promised to helphim, and surely there was only one way. He wrote her an ardent note,and an hour later his messenger brought her reply.
"Believe me, I never dreamed of this, and you know what my answer must be; but I do not need to tell you that whatever sincere and honest friendship can offer is already yours.
"With deep regret, I am as ever, "CONSTANCE GREY."
The grim humour of the thing stunned him momentarily and he laughedharshly. Then he flung himself down in a passion of grief. In themorning he took pen and paper again, after a night of sleeplessdistress.
"You cannot mean what you say. That white womanly soul of yours must wake to love me some day. You have stood between me and the depths, and there has been no shame in the life that I offer you, since you came into it.
"Oh, you perfect thing, you perfect thing, you don't know what you are to me! Constance, let me come!"
The answer was promptly forthcoming:
"I cannot promise what you ask, but you may come and see me if you wish."
Pale with expectancy, Hayward was only the ghost of himself when theservant admitted him. He had waited but a moment when Constance enteredthe room wearing the gown in which he had first seen her. He rose tomeet her, but she came and sat down by his side.
"Listen," she said, "and I will tell you how I feel. I am twenty-fiveand I have never 'cared.' I do not believe that I ever shall care, forthe love that we read of is almost incomprehensible to me. You cannotmarry such a woman."
His answer was fervent, his words crowded one upon another in avehement flood, and his voice was low and hoarse with pent-upemotion, as he implored her to believe in him, trust him, and be hiswife,--kneeling at her feet and kissing her hands in abject humility.
It was very hard for her to say what she must, but with an effort sherose and drew away from him.
"I must be true to myself and to you," she said, "and I can say nothingbut the old bitter No."
White and wretched, he went away, leaving her white and wretched behindhim.
For days and weeks thereafter, Hayward painted busily. Jennings went tosee him one afternoon.
"Look here, old fellow," he said, "what's the matter? I know I wasungentlemanly about the handkerchief, but that's no reason why youshould cut us all this way. Can't you forget about it?"
"Why, Jennings, old boy, I haven't cut anybody."
"No, but you've tired of us, and you can't hide it. Come down the riverwith us to-night. The fellows have got a yacht, and we'll have supperon board with plenty of champagne. Won't you come?"
Hayward was seriously tempted. He knew what "the time" would mean--theecstasy of it and the dull penalties which would follow. But that dayby the river came into his memory: a sweet sunlit face, and a woman'svoice saying to him: "When a man's art is true, it is because hehimself is true."
"Jennings," he said, "do I look like a man who would make good companyat a champagne supper? You know what's the matter with me. Why don'tyou just sensibly drop me?"
Jennings begged, and mocked, and bullied, all in a good-natured way,but his friend was firm. When he went out, Hayward locked the studiodoor and drew his half finished picture from behind a screen.
"She was right," he said to himself.
Constance sailed. He dreamed of his picture as being hung in the Salon,and of her seeing it there. By and by it was finished, but the artist'sstrength was gone, and his physician ordered him away from his work.
When he returned, restored to health, the picture was placed onexhibition. Crowds thronged the gallery, columns and pages were writtenin its praise, and astonishing prices were offered for it, but thepicture was not for sale. It, too, crossed the water, and the dreamwhich had comforted him for many months at last came true.
When Constance looked upon Hayward's painting, her heart leaped asif it would leave her breast. White, radiant, and glorified, it wasshe herself who stood in the centre of the canvas. That self-reliant,fearless pose seemed to radiate infinite calm. Behind her raged thepowers of darkness, utterly helpless to pass the line on which shestood. Her face seemed to illumine the shadows around her; her figurewas instinct with grace and strength. Below the picture was the name:_The White Shield_.
The beauty of the conception dawned upon her slowly. Pale andtrembling, she stood there, forgetful of the place, and the throngaround her. At length she knew what she meant to him; that his art atlast rang true because he had loved her enough to be a man for her sake.
She dared not linger before it then, but she came again when the placewas empty, and stood before her lover's work, like one in a dream. Thefiends in the shadow showed her the might of the temptations he hadfought down. She gazed at her own glorified face until her eyes filledwith tears. With a great throb which was almost pain, Constance woke tothe knowledge that she loved him, even as he loved her--well enough tostand between him and danger till she herself should fall.
The old grey guard, passing through the room, saw her upturned face inthat moment of exaltation. It was the same that he saw in the pictureabove, and he quietly went away to wait until Constance came out, herface flushed and her eyes shining like stars, before he locked the door.
That night the cable trembled with a message to America. It reachedHayward the next morning as he sat reading the daily paper. Theenvelope fluttered unheeding to the floor, and his face grew tenderthen radiant as he read the few words which told him that his picturehad rewarded his love.
"Wait," he said to the messenger boy. Hurriedly he wrote the answer:"Sailing next steamer"--then, utterly oblivious of the additionalexpense, he added another word, which must have been very expressive,for Constance turned crimson when it reached her--perhaps because thediscerning genius who copies cablegrams in typewriting had put the lastword in capitals, thinking that the message came from a Mr. Darling.
An International Affair
