Part 3

When she decided to pass the winter with her aunt, Mrs. Montgomery, it was with the sweet hope that she should be able to realise her dreams of a little “Salon”—a revival of that delightful French institution and formulated on the same lines, but having American cleverness and adaptability added to it. It seemed feasible. Mrs. Montgomery had lived in Paris for years, and she knew all the resident society people, the rest of the “floating population” were usually provided with letters of introduction to her. Her “Tuesdays At Home” were delightful functions. Katherine Cameron had great respect for her aunt’s discrimination, which often seemed prophetic, and caused uninitiated people to wonder _how_ Mrs. Montgomery happened to have “taken up” some artist or singer who afterwards became famous.

Still Katherine was not entirely satisfied. Men liked her, but thought her cold; at any rate, she never fulfilled any promise of a flirtation that her agreeable manners might suggest. Women said she was ambitious, that she would only marry some distinguished foreigner, and yet Miss Cameron, who sometimes used forcible expressions, had been heard to say, “She would marry a ‘Hottentot’ if she loved him.” She was honestly trying to get some good out of her surroundings, and was perfectly willing to fall in love, or to gratify her intellectual tastes, just as it might happen. Up to this time, however, she had been distinctly heart-whole, and aside from an occasional charming man or woman whom she met in society, or the interesting art students whom she knew (and liked best of all), it seemed to her clear and practical mind that there was a great deal of “padding,” as she expressed it.

She resented, as a patriotic American woman of culture and refinement, that the so-called “exclusive” circles in the American quarter accepted some of the families who would not occupy conspicuous positions in their own free and enlightened country. She could not help comparing certain wealthy young society women with a clever but poor friend of hers, whose artistic talent had been recognized by her own warm-hearted Southern townspeople, who had contributed a sufficient sum to send Miss Paterson abroad, confident that her brush would one day repay them. The two young women had met at the studio of a common friend, and Miss Cameron, who professed to know nothing of art, had asked such intelligent questions of the young student that Miss Paterson, with a woman’s quick intuition, had surmised that her fashionable countrywoman had a more artistic nature than she admitted. A friendship was begun, and Katherine Cameron became the _confidante_ and admirer of the rising young artist.

Just now she has returned from a musicale at the hotel of one of the famous teachers, and she is describing it to Miss Paterson, who has come in for a chat and a quiet cup of tea.

“It makes me so indignant,” she is saying, “when I think what an impression we must make on intelligent French people. Why this afternoon, at Madame de la Harpe’s, it was simply one medley of disputing mothers and jealous pupils. Madame herself is so distinctly a lady, that when two irate mothers appealed to her as to which of their daughters should sing _first_, she shrugged her shoulders in true French fashion and said, ‘They will both sing many times; they will sing so well that it will be doubtless required’—a diplomatic answer! She knew her audience, and felt that a programme of twenty-three numbers could not admit of many encores in one afternoon. I noticed she did not deviate from the original plan. Then that vulgar Mrs. Booth, from somewhere out west, who has the gorgeous apartment, and the family of extremely pretty daughters, asked me if I would join their French class. ‘We have an actor, M. de Valle, to teach us,’ she said, ‘he is just splendid—so handsome and so polite; only he will make us _congregate_ verbs.’ To my horror, Mr. Vincent, of the English Embassy, who is so coldly critical of everything American, overheard her, and I saw him trying to suppress a smile, which made me indignant, so I impulsively replied, ‘I shall be charmed, Mrs. Booth—so kind of you to ask me.’ And now I shall have to extricate myself from that situation, for, although I have a certain appreciation of the ludicrous, I cannot sacrifice one night of every week, even to show Mr. Vincent that I despise his criticism.”

“But I have rather thought Mr. Vincent one of your admirers,” Miss Paterson returns.

“Admirer? He sees in me a young person who will not be apt to make any very ridiculous blunders, and as he _has_ to appear occasionally, being in the diplomatic service, he talks to me as a sort of compromise between the tourist element and his own fixed aristocracy. I _love_ to shock him. Why, to-day, he said, in that deliberate tone he employs when he wishes to be particularly patronizing, ‘I suppose you go in for all sorts of things, Miss Cameron. I hear you are artistic, and know the Latin Quarter better than this side of the river. When do you get it all in?’ I told him to behold a young person positively unique in Paris—one who was actively pursuing _nothing_. And then he actually remarked that ‘in an age where all the young women were running mad with _fads_ it was refreshing to find one so confessedly idle.’ He aggravates me so that I always lose my head, and get the worst of the argument. But here I am talking away, and forgetting that I am to hear all about you and your plans.”

Miss Cameron soon proved that she could listen as well as talk, for she was most attentive while Miss Paterson told her about a letter which she had received that day, and which had disturbed her not a little. In the midst of their displeasure both girls saw the ludicrous side of it, for it was nothing less than a letter from Miss Paterson’s townspeople _forbidding_ her marriage to the penniless young sculptor with whom she had fallen in love.

“What impertinence!” Miss Cameron remarks; “talk about the tyranny of European courts! Here you are, an orphan, without a relative in the world to restrain you, and these people fancy they _own_ you, and can control your liberty just because they have furnished you with funds which they ought to know will be returned to them.”

“But there _is_ a moral obligation,” Miss Paterson replied. “I shall send them back every penny of their money as soon as possible, and I shall always feel a debt of gratitude which no pecuniary remuneration can cover.”

“Little saint!” Miss Cameron exclaims, but she respects her brave little countrywoman all the more, because she is so visibly distressed at the situation.

“Let us go over the facts,” adds Miss Cameron. “Here they are briefly: A number of your townspeople, seeing in you evidences of talent, raised a sum of money and sent you to Paris two years ago. Two of these people selected your masters (fortunately they made no mistake there); you have worked faithfully and conscientiously, and have accomplished more than most art students do in twice the time. This year two of your studies have been in the Salon, one of them was bought by a Frenchman of critical taste; and you have a number of charming saleable studies, besides your large picture of the garden-party intended for next year’s Salon, in which festive scene your humble servant poses as the hostess serving tea to a group of _fin-de-siècle_ society people. You are sure to make a hit with that, so many of the figures are actual portraits, and Paris dotes on personalities. It is conceded that merit no longer wins, but to be ‘received’ one must be a friend of some member of the jury, or paint the people whose vanity moves them to pull some wire, so that they may gaze down from the Salon walls upon an inquisitive and envious public.”

“And in this case can I count on _you_ or some of your admirers to pull the wires, Katherine?” Miss Paterson mischievously asks.

“Yes; that picture shall hang ‘on the line,’ even if I have to lobby for it; but you know all the artists think it splendidly treated,” said Miss Cameron.

“I hoped it would be received this year, but, do you know, I have been considering all day whether I had better not sell it now, and send back as much money as I can raise immediately; for I intend to marry Edgar McDowald, with the benediction of my patrons if possible—without it if necessary,” emphatically declares Miss Paterson.

“And I shall aid and abet you, especially if you intend to show them that ‘love laughs at locksmiths’—and creditors. But, seriously, why not have an art sale? I am off to a musicale at that extraordinary Mrs. Smyth’s (formerly spelt with an i), who begins every Monday morning sending letters, followed during the week by three-cornered notes marked ‘_pressée_,’ in which she ‘begges’ her dear friend, whoever it may be, to run in Saturday afternoon, and casually remarks that some ‘celebrated musicien’ will perform. The joke is they usually do, and we all find ourselves there once or twice a season. To-night the American Minister has promised to be present, and I shall profit by the occasion to invite everyone to your studio next week to see some charming studies which will be for sale.”

Miss Paterson knew Miss Cameron’s influence, and felt that she was quite safe in letting her friend have her way; so after talking over the details they separated.

That evening Miss Cameron succeeded in quietly scattering the information through the crowded rooms that a very charming friend of hers, the Miss Paterson, who occasionally received with her, would have a little private art sale the following week. Among the attentive listeners was Mr. Vincent, who casually asked if Miss Paterson had finished her Salon picture which she had described to him.

“She has,” Miss Cameron replied, and suddenly added, “And you know, Mr. Vincent, I cannot offer my friend money, nor would she sell me so important a picture as her large one, for she would think I did it to help her; now, I want to ask you, as the person she would think of as being the last one connected with me (here Mr. Vincent smiled a rather melancholy but affirmative smile), to buy two of her studies for me in some other name. I can easily dispose of them as presents, and she will never be the wiser.”

“Miss Cameron’s wishes are my commands. I will call on Miss Paterson before Wednesday, and on the day when the exhibition takes place, you can be sure that at least two pictures will be marked ‘Sold.’”

“That will give a business-like air to the whole arrangement, Mr. Vincent, and suggest to any possible buyers that other equally attractive studies are for sale. This must be a profound secret. Do you promise?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Vincent replied, and Miss Cameron knew she could trust him.

“He is really very likeable, when one sees him alone,” Miss Cameron soliloquizes; and then she reflects that it is decidedly her fault that she does not see Mr. Vincent more frequently in his best light; she remembers various occasions when she has made their duet a trio by addressing some third person, thus preventing a possible tête-à-tête.

The afternoon selected by Miss Paterson arrived, and as Miss Cameron alighted from her coupé in the humble street where art and poor students hold sway, she remarked with pleasure a goodly line of private carriages, and knew that her scheme had succeeded, and that Miss Paterson was the fashion—at least of the hour. The question was, Would they buy her pictures? And then she added to herself, “They must be sold, even if I have to find other agents, and buy them all in.” But the loyal girl might have spared herself any anxiety. As she entered the room, which was artistically draped and hung with numerous strongly-executed sketches, she saw the magic word “Sold,” not only on several of the small studies, but conspicuously placed at the base of the largest canvas, Miss Paterson’s salon picture, in which Miss Cameron is the central and principal figure.

“Isn’t it too delightful, dear?” Miss Paterson whispers to her. “An Englishman, a friend of Mr. Vincent’s, came here with him yesterday, saw my canvas, liked it, asked my price, and actually took it. Mr. Vincent also bought two other studies, and several have gone to-day. Edgar has lost no time. He has disappeared now to cable to my esteemed benefactors, ‘_Marriage will take place; cheque for full amount on way_.’ Extravagant of us, I know, and of course it’s extremely ‘_previous_,’ but we really see our way clear to happiness, and I shall always feel _you_ did it all.”

As Miss Cameron shook hands with Mr. Vincent that day she told him that he had been instrumental in making two deserving people happy.

“It was so thoughtful to bring your friend here, who bought the large picture,” she says. And then she adds, “Did I ever see him?”

“I think you have seen him,” Mr. Vincent replies. Something in his manner betrays him, and Miss Cameron, guessing the truth, impulsively says:

“You bought it yourself, Mr. Vincent.”

“Hush!” he softly whispers, with his finger on his lips. “We are fellow-conspirators, and cannot betray each other.”

Next year, when a great American city gave Edgar McDowald the order for a State monument, the beauty of his designs having distanced all competitors, Parisians remarked that Mrs. Montgomery’s discrimination, as regarded celebrities, seemed to have fallen upon her niece.

Mr. and Mrs. McDowald delight in telling of their romantic courtship, and how Miss Cameron’s scheme of an art sale brought about their marriage; but Miss Cameron always affirms that its success was not due to her, but to Mr. Vincent’s tact in exhibiting that expensive canvas to his friend.

Miss Cameron, being a worldly-wise young woman, tries to feel that Mr. Vincent’s motives were wholly generous and disinterested; but if what rumour says is true, Mr. Vincent would do more than that for the charming central figure in Mrs. McDowald’s Salon picture, which now looks down from a good position in the library of his own English home, and which never hung “on the line” after all.

V. A Complex Question.

There were a half-dozen or more good riders in Tangier that winter, but Bob Travers was the acknowledged leader. At every annual race-meeting he proved to his backers that their confidence in him was not misplaced, for, brave fellows as they were, none of them rode so hard, or cared to take the risks which Bob cheerfully ran.

Robert MacNeil Travers, familiarly known as “Bob,” was spending his second season in Africa. The first time he had run across from “Gib” to look up something in the way of horseflesh, and once there he had easily fallen in with a set of men whose society he enjoyed extremely. They were dashing fellows, several of them young English noblemen, who found the free, bold life they could lead in this lawless place too fascinating to leave. It was very agreeable in that delicious winter climate to dash off over the wild country on a surefooted Barb horse, or to join some caravan for a few weeks’ excursion in the interior, while in England everyone was freezing, or at least imbedded in fog.

They had their little glimpses of civilization—the Tangerines—for the few resident Europeans were very glad to entertain any interesting visitors from the outside world. Bob Travers was as much liked by the wives and sisters of his friends as any gallant, well-bred Englishman deserves to be, and every one was pleased when his engagement was announced to pretty Mabel Burke, the sister of Boardman Burke, the artist, whose Eastern scenes, painted under the clear skies of Morocco, have won for him the reputation of being one of the foremost exponents in the new “Impressionist School.”

The occasions were rare when Bob Travers was not included, whether it was for a boar hunt, a day with the fox hounds, or a little dance, at any one of the half-dozen hospitable European houses.

One night he was late in arriving at a dinner-party given in honour of some Americans, whose yacht had appeared in Tangier Bay that day; they were already seated at the table when Bob slipped quietly in, and, at a little nod from Miss Burke, found his place beside her. He was conscious that his other neighbour was a woman—a young and attractive one. He had time to observe that, when his obliging hostess, in reply to his apologies, said, “You are punished enough, for you have lost at least ten minutes of Miss Schuyler’s society.” This, with a knowing little look at Miss Burke, which seemed to say, “To be sure he is your property, but if you are engaged to the most presentable man in Tangier, you must pay the penalty, and give him up to occasional and fastidious visitors.”

Modest little Mabel Burke, who simply basked in “Bob’s” smiles, and wondered at her own good luck in ever winning his love, gave her hostess a proud, happy glance that spoke volumes for her sense of security.

A closer look at Miss Schuyler convinced Mr. Travers that he had never met anyone at all like her; she was so self-possessed and clever that they were soon talking as freely as if they had been old acquaintances. She was not so pretty as his _fiancée_, but she was very fascinating (a charm that even Bob had not attributed to Miss Burke), and her versatility amazed him. It did not seem to matter whether they discussed horses, religion, or politics—Miss Schuyler had her opinions, and she expressed them without conceit or aggressiveness. During the fortnight that the smart little yacht _Liberty_ was anchored in the waters of Tangier Bay, and its merry party were devoting their days to long country rides, excursions to Cape Spartel, or cantering along the sandy beach, Travers found Miss Schuyler the most interesting of companions; he seemed to have become her acknowledged escort, and (since one night, when he had nearly killed his best horse by galloping several miles for a doctor to come to the rescue of one of the ladies who had broken her arm while the party were making an excursion) Miss Schuyler had singled him out for all sorts of delicate favours. He, on the other hand, discovered that this woman, with her grace and culture, was just such a woman as he had pictured he should eventually take to Travers Towers as its mistress. For in less than a fortnight he realized that in his happy-go-lucky way he had drifted into that engagement with the pretty sister of his dearest friend. What could be more natural? All the conditions had favoured his courtship, and until he saw Miss Schuyler it had seemed very agreeable to possess the affections of the nicest girl in Tangier.

He knew she was not the wife he had dreamt of, but then, he reasoned, one never marries one’s ideal. Mabel Burke was sweet and good, and loved him; so one delicious, star-lit night, after a cosy dinner, he found himself alone with her in the quiet little Moorish court of the Burkes’ villa, and as Mabel gave him his second cup of coffee he looked at her approvingly, and on the impulse of the moment told her he should like to have her always with him. He meant it then; and after that it was all easy sailing, for Boardman Burke was delighted to give his sister to a man whom he already loved as a brother. The gossip of the town had not reached the visitors in the yacht, and Miss Schuyler only heard accidentally that Mr. Travers was engaged to Miss Burke, for Bob had felt a reluctance to tell her—had supposed someone else would—and, finally, seeing she believed him to be free, he had _dreaded_ to tell her. And so their relations progressed undisturbed, and, like all things under an Oriental sun, developed rapidly.

They had been taking tea at Mr. Boardman Burkes and looking at his pictures, when suddenly the artist said:

“I must show you the one I am doing for Travers’ wedding present.”

And when someone remarked that he could take his time to finish the painting, Boardman Burke had said very distinctly:

“Oh, no! I expect to have to give my sister, as well as that best picture of mine, to Travers before the year is out.”

It is just possible that Mr. Burke thought it wise to make this statement, for occupied though he was in his work, he had observed that his sister looked troubled. Although Travers dropped in every day, he, too, seemed pre-occupied, or was in a hurry, and he was seen constantly riding with Miss Schuyler. Little Mabel was too seriously in love with him, and believed in him too deeply, to admit that he had been the least remiss in his attentions to her, but she felt relieved, all the same, to hear that the _Liberty_ would hoist anchor and go over to Gibraltar the next morning, and from there continue her course along the coast of Spain and the Riviera. Even when she heard Travers and the American Consul accept an invitation to go to Gibraltar with the party, she felt no uneasiness, for he would return the following noon by the regular steamer. So she let her accepted lover stroll off with Miss Schuyler, only saying a quiet “good-bye.”

When she looked out from her window the next morning the pretty little yacht had disappeared, and all day she fancied Bob buying up supplies, which he said he wanted for an expedition into the interior.

In reality, when Mr. Travers had glanced at Miss Schuyler, after the announcement made by Mr. Burke of his engagement, he thought she looked a trifle pale, but then there is such a peculiar light when the African sun comes down into a Moorish garden through the waving palms that one gets strange impressions.

Miss Schuyler was very silent on her way to the beach, and Travers did not see her again till morning, when he crossed on the yacht to Gibraltar. During the night a sense of all he had lost flashed upon him; he could see no way out of it. He was a man who prided himself upon keeping his word; that word was given to Miss Burke, whom he liked and respected, but whom he now knew he did not love. And he had allowed himself to drift on through two happy weeks, devoting himself to this stranger, who in return must certainly despise him for his cowardice. Distinctly, it was an awkward position. He felt confident that, given his freedom, he might win the woman of his choice, for she was the kind of woman to inspire him to do his best, and Bob Travers’ best was very good indeed, but his freedom was just what he could not ask for, so he finally decided to tell Miss Schuyler the exact truth, and thus at least feel he had her respect.

On the yacht he told her his story, and she listened, as a woman listens who has had many disillusionments, and accepts them as necessities.

He thought her very cold when she only said:

“We have been very good friends, Mr. Travers. It will be enough to tell you first that I should have preferred to hear of your plans from your own lips. It all seemed so natural in Tangier, so far from the conventional outside world, that I allowed myself to give way to impulses which I thought under perfect discipline.”

“But you must know, you _shall_ know, that my heart is yours, that you are my _ideal_ woman, the one I should have married,” Travers earnestly pleaded.

“If that is so, let it encourage you to be strong. Go back, marry your little girl, and forget one who has suffered too much to judge anyone.” Then Travers went down the side of the yacht into a small boat, and could only say “God bless you” over her extended hand before the steps were pulled up, and the yacht steamed out on her way to Malaga.