Part 18

“My dear Wade!” exclaimed Richmond, all enthusiasm. “But you must be generous with me. You must let me give you something in return. You know how burdensome a sense of unacquitted obligation is. All I have to give is money, unfortunately. You must let me give that. It is the right of you fellows to expect it from us fellows. It’s our privilege to give it.”

Roger, unaware of the many sides to the extraordinary man seated opposite him, was wholly unprepared for so adroit and graceful and sensible a speech. He could only make an impatient gesture and say with a decisiveness that seemed rude: “The picture has no money value. I’ll have to insist on your taking it on my terms--or I’ll give it to some one else. For I shall not carry it abroad with me.”

“That brings me to the main reason for my coming,” said Richmond, leaning forward, elbows on the broad arms of the chair.

Roger was all at sea again. With Richmond’s request for the picture he had jumped to the conclusion that it was really the sole cause of the two visits of that afternoon and the two exhibitions of sultry affability. Now--what new complication was Richmond about to disclose?--what new obstacle was about to appear in his path back to peace and whole-hearted work?

The financier did not keep him long in suspense. “I want to persuade you not to go abroad,” he proceeded. “Now--please hear me out! You are an American. Your proper place is here--your own country. It needs you, and you owe it the services of your genius.”

Roger eyed his guest with candid suspicion. Guile being foreign to his nature, he knew of its existence in his fellow-beings only as an incomprehensible but undeniable fact. He knew Richmond was a man of guile. Yet these sincere tones, these frank and friendly eyes-- Also, what possible motive could the man have? Perhaps the picture had really converted him into a friend and admirer, unafraid now that there was no longer reason to suspect matrimonial designs.

“Don’t affect a modesty a man of your abilities could not possibly feel,” said Richmond, misunderstanding or pretending to misunderstand Roger’s embarrassed silence. “Only mediocrity is modest, and it is the crowd of fools that compels us, who can do things and have sense enough to know we can, to pretend to be modest.”

Roger laughed. “There’s truth in that,” said he. “Still, I’m sure my fate is a matter of importance only to myself.” His expression settled to somberness again. “No, I shall go. Thank you, but I shall go.”

“There is work for you here--big work,” urged Richmond. “I shall see that you get it--that you don’t have to wait for recognition and be wearied and disgusted by the stupid injustices that keep men of genius out of their own.”

Roger’s simple and generous face softened, for his heart was touched. “I see you understand,” said he. “I wish I could show my appreciation by accepting your offer. But I can’t. I must go.”

“I admit that the atmosphere over there is more congenial--much more congenial--to your sort of work. But you’ll find us less unsympathetic than you think. Give us a trial, Wade.”

Roger was entirely convinced now, and was deeply moved. “I wish I could, Mr. Richmond. But if I am to work I must go.”

The older man leaned still farther toward the young man in his earnestness. “Why, you painted here one of the greatest pictures I’ve seen. Of course, my personal feeling may bias my judgment somewhat--for I am attached to my daughter as I am to no other human being”--Richmond’s voice trembled, and there were tears in his eyes--“I’m a fool about her, Wade--a damn fool!... Excuse my getting off the track. As I was saying, I may think the picture greater than it really is. But I know that it is really great--_great_!”

Roger tried to conceal his agitation.

“You painted it here. That means, you can do great work here. Did you ever paint a better picture in Europe?”

“No,” admitted Roger.

“Then you ought to stay.”

Roger rose, seated himself, lit a fresh cigarette. “Can’t do it,” he said curtly. “Let’s say no more about it. Don’t think me rude or unappreciative. But--you must take my decision as final.”

“I’m older than you, Wade--twice as old. You are a young man, just starting. I’m about all in. So, I don’t feel that I’m impertinent in pressing you.”

Again Roger rose. This time he went to the edge of the veranda. At the steps he turned suddenly. “Don’t think me unappreciative, sir,” said he, “but this is painful to me--very painful.”

Richmond put on a most effective air of apology. “I’m sorry--I beg your pardon--I did not mean to intrude upon your private affairs. I was assuming you were free. It never occurred to me that there might be obligations over there----”

“I _am_ free!” cried Roger. “At least, I was. And I intend to be so again. But--enough of this--of me. I’ll send you the picture-- No, I’ll see that it is sent on Saturday.”

Richmond regarded the young man with the eyes of a father and a friend. He went up to him, laid one hand affectionately on his arm. “I know you don’t want to leave America--give up your ambition--the one that brought you here, so d’Artois says. Tell me. Can’t it be arranged somehow?”

“Impossible,” said Roger.

Richmond laughed gently. “A word for boys and for old failures.... Can’t you induce _her_ to live on this side of the water?”

Roger looked puzzled.

“It’s always a woman,” said Richmond, eyes twinkling. “If she really cares for you she’ll live wherever your career demands.”

Roger’s smile of exaggerated disdain revealed how much of the boy he was taking with him into the thirties. “You are mistaken,” said he. “No woman has ever dominated my life.” His face grew stern again and energetic. “And no woman ever shall!”

“That’s right--that’s right,” heartily approved Richmond. “Woman in the wrong place in a man’s life is almost as bad as if she were left out entirely. Almost--but not quite.”

“I don’t agree with you,” said Roger.

“Did you ever happen to know a man who had left woman out altogether?” inquired Richmond.

“No--but I’ve seen many and many a life--an artist’s life--wrecked by women--by marriage.”

Richmond took advantage of Roger’s averted face to indulge in a smile of satisfaction. He went on in a careless tone that had no relationship to the smile: “Probably these chaps wouldn’t have amounted to much, anyhow. The man who has it in him to be wrecked by excess of any kind is bound to go under. Nothing can save him.”

“No doubt,” assented Roger, with assumed indifference. The point Richmond had just made was new, was impressive--appealed disquietingly to the young man’s pride as well as to his intelligence. For the first time he looked upon his visitor as a dangerous man. He stood at the edge of the veranda in that expectant silence which compels a caller either to show cause why he should stay or to take himself off. Richmond covered his defeat and his embarrassment by returning to his chair and seating himself in the attitude of one far from the end of a leisurely and intimate visit. Roger could do nothing but reluctantly reseat himself. They smoked in silence a few minutes; then Richmond said reflectively:

“So--you’re opposed to marriage?”

“Unalterably,” said Roger.

“I remember now. You said that to me the other day when”--Richmond laughed with frank good humor--“when I was suspecting you of designs on my daughter--or, rather, on my fortune. How absurd that seems now. But I had some excuse. I didn’t know you then. If I had I might not have been so well pleased by your views on matrimony.”

As these words flowed fluently from Richmond’s gracious tongue Roger cast at him a furtive glance of amazed suspicion.

“My older daughter,” continued Richmond, “is a thoroughly worldly woman. She has married a title--and is as happy as a normal woman would be over getting the man of her heart’s choice. But my other daughter----”

Roger moved uncomfortably in his chair. Could it be possible-- No! No! Ridiculous! And yet--Preposterous! As little danger of it as of Roger himself giving in.

“Beatrice”--Richmond pronounced the name with tenderness--and tenderness now seemed as essentially one of his traits as hardness or cruelty or tyranny-- “Beatrice is entirely different. But you know her. You artists read character. I needn’t tell you she is delightfully unworldly--foolishly romantic--need I?”

“No,” said Roger in a hurried, harried way.

“Your painting shows how thoroughly you understood--appreciated her. Wade, one of the finest things I ever knew a man to do was your refusal to take advantage of her inexperienced young imagination. It was noble--_noble_!”

Roger looked wretched. “I--I don’t deserve that,” was his stammering but vigorous protest. “My motive was altogether different--wholly selfish.”

“Oh, come, now,” cried the older man jocosely, “she’s not so unattractive. A man less scrupulous, less honorable--might easily have fancied himself in love with her. You’ll admit that--won’t you?”

Roger was braced well back in his chair. “Yes,” said he in a tone not remotely suggestive of terror.

“I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Wade,” laughed Richmond.

“Not at all--not at all,” said Roger, his panic ludicrously obvious.

“So--it was really noble of you.”

“I can’t permit that, sir,” said Roger. “My only motive was my determination never to marry.”

“I don’t like to hear you say that,” said Richmond. “As the father of a daughter, as a man who wishes to see his daughter in the keeping of a man of the right sort--and how few such there are!--I don’t like to hear any of those few declare against matrimony.”

There was no misunderstanding the trend of this. Incredible though it seemed, the man had come round, was abetting his daughter in her willful whim of conquest! “I’m not opposed to marriage--for others,” said Roger awkwardly. “I simply feel that it is not wise for me. If a man whose life is given to creative work marries a woman he loves he is content. It is the end of achievement, of ambition. Why strive after the lesser when what seems to him the greater has been achieved? If such a man marries unfortunately then the bitterness and the agitations destroy his ability to create. Happy marriage suffocates genius, unhappy marriage strangles it. Death inevitable--in either case.”

The words were not unlike those he had used in describing his position to Beatrice. His manner--the tone, the look of the eyes, the expression of mouth and chin--made them seem entirely different, far more profoundly significant. A man, a serious man, rarely reveals his innermost self to a woman unless he and she have reached a far closer intimacy than Roger had permitted with Beatrice. But talking with Richmond, with another man, one who could and would understand and sympathize, Roger exposed a side of his nature of the existence of which Beatrice had only a faint intuition, no direct or definite knowledge. Richmond had been pushed by the portrait well toward conviction of Roger’s high rank in the aristocracy he esteemed as a man among men. He was now wholly convinced. His daughter, he saw, had chosen more wisely than he knew.

“I see your point,” said Richmond slowly, thoughtfully. “I see your point.”

Roger showed his deep sense of relief.

“It is a good one--a very good one.”

Roger’s tension visibly relaxed.

“It is unanswerable,” was Richmond’s final, sweeping concession.

“Unanswerable,” echoed the painter decisively, yet with a curious note of unhappiness.

“But,” pursued Beatrice’s father, “what would you do--if you fell in love?” And, ignoring the painter’s confusion in the bursting of this bomb, he went on with an air of philosophic impartiality: “Love laughs at reason--at ambition--at calculation of every kind. Yes--I--about the last man in the world to be suspected of sentimentality--I say that love is supreme master.”

Roger, with an air of youthful positiveness--cocksureness--made a gesture of strong dissent.

Richmond smiled, went on: “Yes, young man--_yes_! When love commands we all obey--you--I--_all_--we obey. We may squirm--struggle--but we surrender. What would you do if you fell in love?”

Roger leaned forward in his chair, looked firmly into the keen, kindly eyes of Beatrice’s father. “I should fly,” said he slowly.

The two men regarded each other steadily, each reading the other’s mind. And again beneath the young and romantic handsomeness Richmond saw the man with whom his daughter was not yet acquainted--the man with the great character gracefully concealed behind the romantic-looking painter--a character in the making as yet, but having the imposing outlines that enable one to imagine something of the final form. At last Richmond said: “Yes--I believe--you--_could_--fly--and _would_.”

Roger flushed and his gaze sank. “I should feel that I was false to all that means myself to me if I did not,” said he. “No matter how I loved her I would fly.”

“And she?” inquired Richmond. “What about her?”

Roger smiled faintly--a sardonic smile. “Women forget their caprices easily.”

“Would _you_ forget easily?” said the older man gently--he looked very old and very gentle and kind.

The handsome face of the young painter grew grave. “I’m afraid not,” said he. “But if _I_ could forget a--a reality, certainly she could forget a fancy.”

No one--except perhaps his wife, with her memories of Richmond’s ardent and generous youth when he had wooed and won her despite her father’s misgivings about his poverty and her own misgivings about his size--but certainly no one else would have recognized the face of Daniel Richmond as he replied: “Not if she had, by some divine instinct, understood and appreciated such a rare man as you.”

Roger’s impatient gesture was almost angry. “I am not a man. I am a painter.”

“And if she did not forget?” persisted Richmond in the same slow, insistent way, like conscience itself. “If it was not a whim?”

Roger stood up. “I don’t grant your supposition,” said he. “But, granting it, then at least I’d not have made a mess of her life and of my own. For if I were false to my art it would revenge itself by tormenting me. And the wife of a tormented man is not happy.”

Richmond sat staring at the floor of the veranda. The wrinkles and seams and hollows in his face seemed to be deepening. After a few minutes of silence, disturbed by the irritating noisiness of a flock of sparrows, he said: “She refuses to come home. I offered to concede--everything. I’d be glad to let her have her way. But, as you say, it’s impossible. She’ll not come home. She blames me. I thought I was altogether to blame. I see I’m not. But--she blames me, and always will. And she’ll not make it up with me.” A long pause, then there came from him in a mere ghost of his normal voice: “And--it is killing me.”

Roger sat motionless, gazing at the bed of sweet old-fashioned flowers before the veranda.

Richmond broke the long stretch of evening stillness: “Would you--would it be asking too much of you-- If you saw her you might persuade her to make it up with me.”

Roger did not move--did not reply. He had retreated deep within himself.

“I know it isn’t fair to you--or to her--to ask it,” went on her father’s sad, monotonous voice, heavy with heartache. “I know that seeing her again would only make it harder for you to do what you’ve got to do--for I understand about those musts of ambition that make men like us relentless. And I know that seeing you again--and seeing even more clearly the man you are--would make it--impossible, perhaps, for her to forget. But--” Richmond paused long before adding--“I am an old man and--I have the selfishness of those who have not long to live.”

Roger still neither moved nor spoke.

Richmond observed him for a while, rose with a painful effort. “Good-by,” he said, extending his hand.

Roger stood, took his hand. “I’d do it if I could--if I were strong enough,” he said. “It’s humiliating, but I have to confess I am not.”

“Think it over, Wade. Do the best you can for me.”

And Richmond, his feet almost shuffling, went down the steps and down the walk and out through the gate. He climbed heavily into his runabout--was gone. Roger leaned against the pillar, staring into vacancy, until the old woman had twice called him to supper.

XX

BEATRICE LOSES

Beatrice and Miss Clermont were finishing breakfast the following morning when Richmond came. As he entered the small sitting room with its bed folded away into a lounge he made no effort to conceal his feelings. In response to Beatrice’s look of defiance he sent to her from his haggard face a glance of humble appeal--the look of the beaten and impotent tyrant--for the pride of the tyrant is not in himself, but in his power, and vanishes with it. “I’d like to see you alone,” said he, ignoring Valentine as a servant.

“My partner, Miss Clermont,” said Beatrice, in the tone of making an introduction.

Richmond’s natural quickness did not fail him. He instantly repaired his mistake. “Miss Clermont,” said he, bowing politely. Then, “Pardon my abruptness. I am much upset in mind.”

Miss Clermont, who was now thoroughly adapted to her new rank, smiled politely and glided into the adjoining room, closing the door behind her. Said Beatrice: “You can’t imagine how splendid she is. We shall make a fortune. I’m sure we shall. We have rented a shop--in Thirty-second Street--south side--three doors from Fifth Avenue. Frightful rent, but I insisted on beginning at the top.”

“I saw Wade yesterday afternoon,” said Richmond.

The animation died out of the girl’s face. And with its animation departed most of its beauty, at least most of its charm.

“I practically asked him to marry you.”

Her eyes lit up, immediately became dull again.

“He was polite--everything a man could be. But he--he will never marry.”

“Until he loves,” murmured Beatrice.

“There are men--” began Richmond.

“But they don’t love!” exclaimed Beatrice.

“Perhaps so,” said Richmond, who would not have ventured to discuss anything with her, however mildly. Also, no woman, no young woman could be expected to understand that marriage was not the one absorbing longing of every unattached man, as it was of every unattached woman. “Anyhow, he will never marry.”

“Until he loves,” repeated Beatrice.

Richmond was silent. He would not aggravate her unhappiness by telling her that Roger loved her.

“Is he still intending to go abroad?” she asked.

“To-morrow,” replied her father.

“To-morrow!” Beatrice started from her chair, an expression of wild disorder flashing into her face. But she fought for and regained control, sat back quietly with a calm, “Oh, I thought it was to be next week.”

“He has changed his plans.”

The daughter was looking at the father with scrutinizing eyes, full of doubt. He saw it, said in the tone that carried conviction, “I have come over to your side. He is a much bigger man than I thought--or than you know.”

“I know enough,” said the girl.

“At any rate, I wanted him for a son-in-law. I did my best. I haven’t anything he wants.”

“Nor I,” said Beatrice with a bitter, self-scorning laugh.

“He is opposed to marriage. He thinks----”

“He doesn’t love,” interrupted she. “That’s the whole story. Well”--she made a gesture of dismissal “now, let me tell you about the shop.”

“He has sent----”

“Please!” said she imperiously. “No more about him.”

“The picture--he promised to have it sent to Red Hill after he sailed. Instead, it came last night.”

“Why did he do that?” demanded she swiftly.

“I asked him for it.”

“No. I mean, why did he change his mind?”

“Oh, probably for no reason. That’s a trifle.”

She was sitting up, straight and alert. Her eyes were aglow with excitement. “He is sailing to-morrow instead of next week,” she said rapidly. “Instead of taking my picture--our picture--his and mine--instead of taking it with him as he intended at first, he gives it to you. He first says he’ll send it when he sails, then--after he has talked with you--he changes his mind and gets it out of the house--out of his sight--at once.”

Richmond gazed at her with marveling eyes. She was clairvoyant--this wonderful daughter of his!

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkled. Her words came joyfully tumbling over each other: “Why is he in such a hurry to sail--to get rid of _my_ picture? Because he’s _afraid_! He distrusts himself. He’s fighting hard. He-- Father, he loves me!”

“Beatrice,” said Richmond tenderly, “he will never marry. He is a man of the unshakable sort--of my sort----”

Beatrice laughed. “You haven’t changed in this affair--oh, no!”

Richmond smiled guiltily. “I should have said, he is a man whose resolves haven’t been shaken by age and by foolish paternal fondness long indulged.”

“He is _afraid_! He is flying--flying from _love_!”

Richmond’s face wore a look of deepest anxiety. “My dear, you will only distress yourself with false hopes. There are things about men--men like him--that you don’t understand.”

“Of course. But there are also other things that _you_ don’t understand, father dear.”

“The picture is at home. Won’t you come and see it?”

“I must see him first. I must dress and go at once.” And she was up and was hastily gathering together the businesslike papers strewn upon the table among the breakfast dishes. “You’ll excuse me, father----”

“I asked him to come and see you--to beg you to go home again.”

She paused. “And he said?”

“He refused at first. As I was leaving--I hoped--he might.”

She reflected. “No, he’ll not come. Unless--but I’ll take no chances.”

“I know he was touched by my appeal,” persisted her father. “Beatrice--go on with this dressmaking if you must. But--forgive me and let things be with us as they were before.” He stretched out trembling hands toward her. “You’re all I’ve got in the world--all I care for. I’m not ashamed or repentant for what I did. I did it because I thought it was for your good. But I’m sorry. I was mistaken.”

“I do forgive you,” said the girl, “though I don’t like to say anything that sounds priggish and pious. But you can’t expect me to trust you, can you, father?”

“I’ve tried to pay for those bonds, but he has sold them to some enemy of mine--and for a good price.”

“Aren’t you ashamed about the bonds?” said the daughter with a roguish smile.

“No,” replied Richmond doggedly. “In the circumstances--what I believed and everything--that was the right move.”

Beatrice laughed with a touch of her old mirthfulness, with all her old adoration of his skill and courage. “You are so different!” cried she. “Not a bit a hypocrite. We’re friends again--until you try to undermine and ruin my dressmaking business.”

“I’ll give you all the capital you want,” he eagerly declared.

“No--thanks,” said she. “But--I’ll tell you what you may do. You may buy a block of Wauchong bonds I happen to own.”

“_You_ did it?” cried he, delighted.

“You may have them at a hundred and fifty. I always try to make a reasonable profit on a deal.”

“I’ll send you a blank check.”

She put her arms round him and kissed him. There was a trembling in his tight return embrace that sent a pang through her; for it suggested somehow his deep impelling thought--fear--of the eternal separation--the everlasting farewell, not far away from him and her at the most. “Father--dear,” she murmured.

“Don’t harass yourself, child--about him,” he whispered. “Let me help you try to forget.”

She drew away gently and looked at him, in her eyes a will which he now admitted--proudly--to be more unswerving than his own. Said she: “_You_ didn’t teach me to forget--or to give up, either.”

He sighed. “I’ll wait and take you to the ferry.” And she went into her bedroom.

She had been dressing perhaps ten minutes when he rapped excitedly on her door. “What is it?” inquired she.

“He’s come!” cried her father.

The door swung partly open and her face appeared at the edge. “Roger? Downstairs?”

“Yes--I answered the telephone from the office.”