“Don’t tell me unless you want to,” I said gently.
“Why, surely there is no reason why I shouldn’t.” She looked up inquiringly. “He i-is—” She faltered and stopped; then turned and looked out of the window. “He is father’s attorney. There!” She turned back to me, smiling and dimpling. “Now the mystery is all cleared away.”
Her counterfeit levity gradually died at my expression. I wanted to say: “Why will you lie to me, girl? Why not tell me the truth?” for I knew in my heart that she was uttering a falsehood.
But I assumed a playful tone, which I knew rang false as a leaden dollar, and asked:
“Will it ever be possible, do you think, to see you some time or other when you have no immediate engagement with this—attorney?”
She knitted her brow thoughtfully. Heavens, I thought she must be with him always. And she can’t be engaged to him. She would tell me if she were.
Then I became aware that she was speaking.
“Let me see,” she began contemplatively, “this is Friday, the twenty-eighth; tomorrow I have—have business to attend to; Sunday is letter-writing day; Monday, more business; Tuesday—u-u-m! Yes, Tuesday, there is nothing on—Tuesday, June first.”
“You are quite positive?’’ I insisted listlessly.
“Quite.”
“All’s well, then.” I strove to speak joyfully, but I know my voice held no enthusiasm. “The first of June shall be our day.”
“All to ourselves,” said she.
“All to ourselves,” I repeated.
With that we parted.
More and more I felt myself being drawn into the meshes of some inexplicable, perhaps tragical, mystery. Once I paused, fired with an impulse to play the spy upon her. But I quietly put it aside as cowardly and unworthy, and caught the surface-car for home.
For the first time since getting my first box of water-color paints I could rouse no interest in art.
CHAPTER III
A memorable day was June the first. Chronologically, I must write down the events
First, I sold a painting. (Put that in italics, Mr. Printer, please.) I sold a painting.
It was a still-life painting, one I had worked on for a month and a half, and I got twelve dollars ready money for it. I could hardly contain my joy and jubilation when I opened the thin envelope and found a note from my dealer and a check to my order.
I pranced around my studio like a man gone mad, laughed in my mirror, and exulted in my gift. My friends were right, then. I could paint, after all. Half of the twelve dollars sent telegrams and letters to many St. Elmoans, apprising them of the fact that their quondam townsman was going lickety-split along fame’s highway.
Secondly, I gave the last finishing touch to my masterpiece, which was to be hung in an Amateurs’ Exhibit—how I loathed that word amateur!—in the Art Institute.
Last, and far most important of all, the first of June was our day—Muriel’s and mine. With the remainder of the twelve dollars, plus a goodly share of money on hand, I hired an automobile, and we went a pleasuring far out along the “North Shore.” A glorious day it was, and a glorious trip.
Though it came hard at first, I still forbore to reveal my great secret. Once I thought of doing so, but the fine edge of enravishment had now worn off, and I could view the matter with a cooler eye. No, it were better to not tell her yet. I would wait until I had achieved something truly great.
On the way back we stopped at a roadhouse for dinner, and there I did a mad thing. It may have been the reaction of the morning’s elation, it may have been the witchery of the wine, it may have been the exquisite loveliness of her in the soft candlelight—whatever the incitement, I asked her to marry me.
No sooner were the words uttered than I could have bitten my tongue out for giving them birth. I didn’t want to marry. Men with careers shouldn’t marry. Men who couldn’t support wives and families shouldn’t marry.
Of course she would say “yes.” I never doubted that. What man ever does?
Then through the turmoil of my thoughts drifted the consciousness that she was speaking; and—hallo! what’s this—she was refusing me; actually refusing me! Me, who was destined to be America’s foremost artist! Odzookens!
She looked down as she spoke, fingering a thin-stemmed glass beside her plate.
She liked me very much—more, indeed, than any boy she could think of just then, and she had always intended, if ever she married, that it should be a Southern man, but she did not want to marry—yet. She was too young—we were both too young—to think of such a thing, and wasn’t it rather close here, and hadn’t we better be going?
It was. We had. We went.
Heavy silence marked the first half-mile or so. Then poisonous thoughts began to goad my brain. The green-eyed monster dragged his slimy length between us, gnashing his venomous fangs. When I spoke my voice sounded unnatural in my own ears.
“Will you, or will you not, tell me,” said I, “who this man is whom you see most every day?”
She did not answer; and the monster of the green eyes flicked his virulent tongue and wrapped me in his noxious embrace.
“What is he to you, this lubberly fellow?”
She turned upon me sharply, and by the light of a passing auto I saw her eyes flashing angrily.
“That will do,” she said icily. “I have told you once that he is—”
“He is not!” I exclaimed. “He is no more your father’s attorney than I am. Of that I am sure. You are concealing something from me. But why? Won’t you please tell me why, Muriel?”
“I will not. Furthermore, I wish you to drop the subject.”
“Then I am to infer,” I began hotly, “that you and this man—”
“You are to infer nothing,” she blazed furiously. “Don’t you ever speak to me again. I hate you! I never want to see you again—never! Stop and let me out.”
“I shall do nothing of the sort. I’m going to take you home. Rest assured I sha’n’t break your mandate.”
Nor did I. She alighted at some point on the North Side—I scarce knew where, nor cared—and we parted without so much as a frigid farewell.
I told the chauffeur to turn back and drive through the park until I commanded him to stop.
Rolling softly over the macadamized driveway, I marked out my course. I would renounce all worldly pleasures, abjure all creature comforts; body and soul I would give myself to my art.
I would become celebrated. And, when I had become famous I would go to her and say, “Ha! madam. I once asked you to marry me, did I not?” Then I would bow stiffly and leave her to her unhappiness.
With this grim determination I went to bed that night. The room opposite was dark; there was no piano performance; I slept soundly. Next day’s early morning inaugurated my rigorous resolve.
Eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, I toiled. With the exception of Bliffins and the postman, I barred my door to all callers. I went no more to the square. I gave up walking, attic-talking, my onetime haunts, my rambling jaunts.
Work, work, work, was my fetish. And worship it I did, from blush of dawn till eventide, and from eventide till mid of night. I slung more paint in a single day than the average artist slings in a week.
But alas and alas! Though my friends continued to admire, though my family continued to uphold, though Bliffins continued to enthuse, I began to have the terrifying feeling that I was dashing full tilt against inevitable, inexorable defeat. My paintings simply would not sell.
The dealer who tried to sell them began to return them, brutally informing me they cluttered up his place and were a drug on the market. When I learned from this same dealer that the one picture I had sold—one of an overturned basket of fruit— had been bought by a rich pork-packer to hang over a grease-spot in his kitchen, I was no longer inspirited by memories of that eventful first of June.
One day at duskfall, as I was hurrying home with a loaf of bread, I stopped a moment at
the square. From behind a hedge I saw Muriel.
It may have been my imagination, but fancied she looked careworn and unhappy, and she seemed so friendless and woebegone, sitting there alone with the shadows gathering thick about her. I wondered if she had missed me. I felt myself slipping, slipping, slipping— But resolutely I broke away and hurried back to a beef stew I had left simmering on the stove.
Climbing the stairs, I overtook the postman, who handed me a letter. A glance showed me it was from bachelor Uncle Bob, who owned a chicken-farm in Kentucky, had the gout, a few butter-tubs full of money, and a heart as mellow as his ripest bourbon. By the light of the kerosene lamp I read his letter:
*****
Dear Jefferson :
Your mother and sisters write me that you are not doing over well in Chicago—financially, I mean.
Now I know little or nothing about pictorial art and kindred matters, and it is not for me to counsel young talent, but I have a proposition, which, if you be in need of ready money, may strike you not unfavorably.
My doctor has ordered me to Carlsbad, and his decree must be obeyed. I’ll have to leave somebody in charge here. What do you say?
I’ll pay you $75 a month and all expenses, and if you show any chicken-raising ability, I’ll turn the whole thing over to you. I’ll have to give it to somebody sometime, of course, and I know of no one I would rather see have it than you.
Let me hear from you, boy, as soon as possible.
Affectionately,
Uncle Bob.
P. S.—Six hundred fowls the first six months would be doing very fair for a beginner.
*****
Three months before I would have been affronted by this. Not so now. Now I found myself speculating upon things.
Statistics occurred to me: If you broke the eggs laid in one year by the great American hen you’d have an omelet big enough to cover the State of Texas, or if all the roosters in the United States perched on the Masonic Temple tomorrow morning and rendered a cooperative crow, the cock-a-doodle-do would make the roar of the elevated railroad in Wabash Avenue sound like the chirp of a sparrow in Van Buren Street. And so on.
I sniffed the aroma from the stew-pot. Now, it wouldn’t be disagreeable if there was a plump pullet in that pot instead of potatoes and onions and twelve-cent beef.
But the aspiration of years is not to be overthrown in a minute’s time. It was with a sick heart that I sat down after dinner and replied to Uncle Bob’s letter. I told him merely that I would think the matter over and let him know.
After sealing and stamping the envelope, I lighted my pipe, leaned back, and let my gaze wander round the studio. Appalling heaps of pictures—the tremendous achievement of Herculean labor—were stacked around the walls. Bliffins had praised them all. My friends had assured me they were sure to be good. My family, too. But the public and my dealer thought not so.
I sat up suddenly. Was their criticism honest? Was it sincere? Was it not biased? Possibly—very possibly.
One set opined I was an embryonic Michelangelo, the other believed I was a misguided dauber of backyard fences. Both, I was inclined to believe, were wrong, one because it knew me, the other because it knew me not.
What I needed was an unprejudiced, impartial, and efficient judge. One who would not declare me a tyro because my name was unknown, nor yet adjudge me an unappreciated genius because none would buy my art.
Ensued a museful space.
Muriel? Why not? She had an eye for beauty. She would know a good painting from a bad. She knew not what I was. Yes, Muriel should be the judge. Her viewpoint would be neutral, her verdict just. If for me—art! If against me—chickens!
So I tore up my letter to Uncle Bob.
Next afternoon I was waiting in the square when Muriel arrived. She stopped at sight of me, took a faltering step, then turned and hastened quickly away.
In three seconds I was beside her, bridging our hiatus with no waste material.
“Will you go with me to the Art Institute?” I asked breathlessly.
No answer. She continued to walk on swiftly. I kept step with her, using persuasion as best I might.
“There are such a number of good oils on view,” I pleaded, “and I know your love for the artistic. I thought perhaps—”
She stopped and looked at me very calmly.
“Didn’t I command you to never speak to me again?” she asked in a very chilly voice.
“You did,” said I.
“And you promised you never would,” she observed, then turned abruptly and reentered the square.
“I know I did, Muriel,” I acknowledged humbly, quickly overtaking her, “but I simply can’t stand it any longer. I’ve tried and I can’t. You don’t want to be responsible for breaking a fellow’s heart, do you? Well, that’s what you’re doing to me—breaking my heart.”
Why detail? I knew I had won after that. An hour later we were strolling chattily down a corridor of the Art Institute, where, in the amateur show, some of my pictures hung. Gradually, diplomatically, I led her to the room where hung my masterpiece, companioned by certain of my lesser paintings.
“Now, there’s something,” said I, nodding toward a horrific conception of the Spanish Inquisition, “that seems tolerably well done.”
She turned and appraised it. I felt myself trembling with a fever of apprehension. A minute passed. It seemed a year. Lord! Would the girl never speak?
She didn’t. She laughed. My heart turned to lead.
“W-why do you laugh?” I faltered.
“Because it’s so funny,” she answered simply, swallowing hard.
“Funny!” I gasped. “Why, yes. It is so obviously amateurish it is really ludicrous. I know it’s mean to laugh, but sometimes one cannot control one’s risibility. I wonder who is responsible for such a daub?”
She stepped nearer to learn the artist’s name.
“And this one over here?” I interposed hastily, leading her away. “What think you of that?”
Another silent appraisal. Another palpitation. Then she turned to me, and once again I saw mirth in her eyes. As in a dream I heard her say:
“It is even worse than the other.” And she laughed.
I could bear little more. Yet took I her arm fiercely, and with a sick heart led her to my masterpiece. Upon this all now depended. I pointed to it silently and looked a question at her.
A long while she regarded the painting. Then she spoke.
“What a great pity,” she said in a low voice.
The blue devils went scampering from me, and a great gladness sang in my soul, for it was a most piteous and pathetic fancy I had depicted on my canvas.
“What a pity,” she went on, “to expend so much labor, so much paint, and good canvas for such a hopeless, irremediable failure. It is sad. Let us move on; let us look at something worth while. I’ve seen enough of this shallow display.”
“No,” said I, shaking my head wearily, “let us go home. For the shock of doom has sounded, and I am very tired—very dreadfully tired.”
CHAPTER IV
On some pretext or other, I sent Muriel home in a cab, went to a telegraph office, and wired Uncle Bob thus:
.
Accept. Leave for Bowling Green tomorrow night.
.
Then I went to my studio. I was standing, the incarnation of despondency, before a half-finished painting on my easel when Bliffins knocked.
I paid no heed. He again knocked, then opened the door and entered. He came over to me and stood looking over my shoulder a moment.
“It’s a daisy, Jeff,” he said confidently, patting me on the back in his usually unctuous manner, “a daisy.”
I turned upon him sharply.
“It is, eh? Well, here’s where the daisy withers.”
Fiercely I seized from the table a carving-knife, and eight, nine, ten times plunged it through the canvas. Then, while the mood was yet strong upon me, I kicked the
easel across the room, lugged from a corner a huge pile of dust-covered paintings, and one by one ripped them to pieces with the cleaver, piling the debris in the middle of the floor.
Mouth agape, eyes distended, Bliffins stood staring at me in dumb amazement.
“Don’t stand there like a cigar Indian,” ordered I. “Get busy.”
“H-how, Jeff?”
“You might pile this junk in the grate, for one thing, and set fire to it.”
“W-what does it all mean, Jeff?”
“It means,” I cried bitterly, halting operations to confront him, “that you have lied to me; that others have lied to me, aye, my family—and others.
“I’m no painter. Never was intended to be one. Never could be one. I’ve wasted two years finding it out. I’m going to raise chickens. And fresh eggs. Art! Bohemia! Temperament! Bosh! Mention those words to me again and I’ll do murder.”
There came a terrific crash of chords. It was the war-whoop of the thundering pianist. Louder and louder swelled his awful roaring. The battle was on.
I dropped the carving-knife for the accordion and fought furiously.
Bliffins joined me.
Twenty minutes or longer the conflict raged. Then the lights went out of the enemy’s camp.
The battle was over.
Heated though I was, I yet was not pleased when Bliffins shouted something not exactly complimentary across the air-shaft.
“Don’t taunt a man when you’ve got him down, Bliffins,” said I reprovingly. “That’s a coward’s act. Come, let’s finish wrecking this joint, then we’ll have a cake and a bottle of Chianti. It’ll be our last together, Bliffy, old boy.”
*****
I bought an armful of poultry journals next morning and repaired to the square. About eleven o’clock Muriel sat down beside me on the bench. I saw at a glance that she had been crying.
“Tell me all,” I entreated, boldly taking her hand. “I can sympathize. I, too, have had trouble.”
Her only answer was to free her hand from mine and turn away. Instantly all those direful, fearful misgivings of some days agone returned to me a dozen fold.
Adventure Tales, Volume 4 Page 10
