"Yes," she returned without confusion. "You see, I did not know about you--then. I thought you were altogether the man who wrote those books--and so I _could_ not play for you. That is--I mean--you understand--I could not play--" again she seemed to search for a word, and finding it, smiled--"I could not play _myself_ for you. But I thought that because he was an _artist_ he would understand; and that if I _could_ make the music tell him of the mountains it would, perhaps, help him a little to make his work beautiful and right--do you see?"
"Yes," he answered smilingly, "I see. I might have known that it was for _him_ that you brought your message from the hills. But poor old 'Civilization' is frightfully stupid sometimes, you know."
Laughingly, she turned to the lattice wall of the arbor, and parting the screen of vines a little, said to him, "Look here!"
Standing beside her, Conrad Lagrange, through the window in the end of the studio next the garden, saw Aaron King at his easel; the artist's position in the light of the big, north window being in a direct line between the two openings and the arbor. Mrs. Taine was sitting too far out of line to be seen.
The girl laughed gleefully. "Do you see him at his work? At first, I only hid here to find what kind of people were going to live in my old home.
But when he was making our old barn into a studio, and I heard who you both were, I came because I love to watch him; as I try to make the music I think he would love to hear."
The novelist studied her intently. She was so artless--so unaffected by the conventions of the world--in a word, so natural in expressing her thoughts, that the man who had given the best years of his life to feed the vicious, grossly sensual and bestial imaginations of his readers was deeply moved. He was puzzled what to say. At last, he murmured haltingly, "You like the artist, then?"
Her eyes were full of curious laughter as she answered, "Why, what a funny question--when I have never even talked with him. How _could_ I like any one I have never known?"
"But you make your music for him; and you come here to watch him?"
"Oh, but that is for the work he is doing; that is for his pictures." She turned to look through the tiny opening in the arbor. "How I wish I could see inside that beautiful room. I know it must be beautiful. Once, when you were all gone, I tried to steal in; but, of course, he keeps it locked."
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said the man, suddenly--prompted by her confession to resume his playful mood.
"What?" she asked eagerly, in a like spirit of fun.
"First," he answered, half teasingly, "I must know if you could, now, make your music for me as well as for him."
"For the you that loves the mountains and the garden I'm sure I could,"
she answered promptly.
"Well then, if you will promise to do that--if you will promise not to play _yourself_ for just him alone but for me too--I'll fix it so that you can go into the studio yonder."
"Oh, I will always play for you, too, anyway--now that I know you."
"Of course," he said, "we could just walk up to the door, and I could introduce you; but that would not be proper for _us_ would it?"
She shook her head positively, "I wouldn't like to do that. He would think I was intruding, I am sure."
"Well then, we will do it this way--the first day that Mr. King and I are both away, and Tee Kee is gone, too; I'll slip out here and leave a letter and a key on your gate. The letter will tell you just the time when we go, and when we will return--so you will know whether it is safe for you or not, and how long you can stay. Only"--he became very serious--"only, you must promise one thing."
"What?"
"That you won't look at the picture on the easel."
"But why must I promise that?"
"Because that picture will not be finished for a long time yet, and you must not look at it until I say it is ready. Mr. King wouldn't like you to see that picture, I am sure. In fact, he doesn't like for any one to see the picture he is working on just now."
"How funny," she said, with a puzzled look. "What is he painting it for? I like for people to hear my music."
The man answered before he thought--"But I don't like people to read my books."
She shrank back, with troubled eyes, "Oh! is he--is he _that_ kind of an artist?"
"No, no, no!" exclaimed the novelist, hastily. "You must not think that. I did not mean you to think that. If he was _that_ kind of an artist, I wouldn't let you go into the studio at all. Mr. King is a good man--the best man I have ever known. He is my friend because he knows the secret about me that you know. He does not read my books. He would not read one of them for anything. It is only that this picture is not finished. When it is finished, he will not care who sees it."
"I'm glad," she said. "You frightened me, for a minute--I understand, now."
"And you promise not to look at the picture on the easel?"
She nodded,--"Of course. And when I come out I'll lock the door and put the key back on the gate again; and no one but you and I will ever know."
"No one but you and I will know," he answered.
As he spoke, Czar, who had been lying quietly in the doorway of the arbor, rose quickly to his feet, with a low growl.
The girl, peering through the screen on the side toward the house, uttered an exclamation of fear and drew back, turning to her companion appealingly. "O please, please don't let that man find me here."
Conrad Lagrauge looked and saw James Rutlidge coming down the path toward the arched entrance to the garden, which was directly across from the arbor.
"Stop him, please stop him," whispered the girl, her hand upon his arm.
"Stay here until I get him out of sight," said the novelist quickly. "I won't let him come into the garden. When we are gone, you can make your escape. Don't forget the music for me, and the key at the gate."
He spoke to Czar, and with the dog obediently at heel went forward to meet Mr. Rutlidge, who had called for Mrs. Taine and Louise.
But all the while that Conrad Lagrange was talking to the man, and leading him toward the door of the studio, he was wondering--why that look of fear upon the face of the girl in the garden? What had Sibyl Andres to do with James Rutlidge?
Chapter X
A Cry in the Night
As Conrad Lagrange and Mr. Rutlidge entered the studio, Aaron King turned from the easel, where he had drawn the velvet curtain to hide the finished portrait. Mrs. Taine was standing at the other side of the room, wrap in hand, calmly waiting, ready to go. The artist greeted Mr. Rutlidge cordially, while the woman triumphantly announced the completion of her portrait.
"Ah! permit me to congratulate you, old man," said Rutlidge, addressing the artist familiarly. "It is too much, I suppose, to expect a look at it this afternoon?"
"Thanks,"--returned the artist,--"you are all coming to-morrow, at three, you know. I would rather not show it to-day. It is a little late for the best light; and I would like for _you_ to see it under the most favorable conditions possible."
The critic was visibly flattered by the painter's manner and by his well-chosen emphasis upon the personal pronoun. "Quite right"--he said approvingly--"quite right, old boy." He turned to the novelist--"These painter chaps, you know, Lagrange, like to have a few hours for a last touch or two before _I_ come around." He laughed pompously at his own words--the others joining.
When Mrs. Taine and her companions were gone, the artist said hurriedly to his friend, "Come on, let's get it over." He led the way back to the studio.
"I thought the light was too bad," said the older man, quizzingly, as they entered the big room.
"It's good enough for _your_ needs," retorted the painter savagely. "You could see all you want by candle-light." He jerked the curtain angrily aside, and--without a glance at the canvas--walked away to stand at the window looking out upon the rose garden--waiting for the flood of the novelist's scorn to overwhelm him. At last, when no sound broke the quiet of the room, he turned--to find himself alone.
Conrad Lagrange, after one look at the portrait on the easel, had slipped quietly out of the building.