"Another twisty saying," she retorted. "But I mean to have an answer, so you may as well speak plainly. Have you known him long? What is his name?
And what is he--a writer?"
"His name is Aaron King. His mother and I grew up in the same neighborhood. He is an artist."
"How romantic! Do you mean that he belongs to that old family of New England Kings?"
"He is the last of them. His father was Aaron King--a prominent lawyer and politician in his state."
"Oh, yes! I remember! Wasn't there something whispered at the time of his death--some scandal that was hushed up--money stolen--or something? What was it? I can't think."
"Whatever it was, Mrs. Taine, the son had nothing to do with it. Don't you think we might let the dead man stay safely buried?" There was an ominous glint in Conrad Lagrange's eyes.
Mrs. Taine answered hurriedly, "Indeed, yes, Mr. Lagrange. You are right.
And you shall bring Mr. King out to see me. If he is as nice as he looks, I promise you I will be very good to him. Perhaps I may even help him a little, through Jim, you know--bring him in touch with the right people and that sort of thing. What does he paint?"
"Portraits." The novelist's tone was curt.
"Then I am _sure_ I could do a great deal for him."
"And I am sure you would do a great deal _to_ him," said Conrad Lagrange, bluntly.
She laughed again. "And just what do you mean by that, Mr. Lagrange? I'm not sure whether it is complimentary or otherwise."
"That depends upon what you consider complimentary," retorted the other.
"As I told you--Aaron King is an artist."
Again, she favored him with that look of doubtful understanding; shaking her head with mock sadness, and making a long sigh. "Another twister"--she said woefully--"just when we were getting along so beautifully, too.
Won't you try again?"
"In words of one syllable then--let him alone. He is, to-day, exactly where I was twenty years ago. For God's sake, let him alone. Play your game with those who are no loss to the world; or with those who, like me, are already lost. Let this man do his work. Don't make him what I am."
"Oh dear, oh dear," she laughed, "and these are words of one syllable! You talk as though I were a dreadful dragon seeking a genius to devour!"
"You are," said the novelist, gruffly.
"How nice. I'm all shivery with delight, already. You really _must_ bring him now, you see. You might as well, for, if you don't, I'll manage some other way when you are not around to protect him. You don't want to trust him to me unprotected, do you?"
"No, and I won't," retorted Conrad Lagrange--which, though Mrs. Taine did not remark it, was also a twister.
"But after all, perhaps he won't come," she said with mock anxiety.
"Don't worry madam--he's just as much a fool as the rest of us."
As the novelist spoke, they heard the voices of Miss Taine and her escort, James Rutlidge. Mrs. Taine had only time to shake a finger in playful warning at her companion, and to whisper, "Mind you bring your artist to me, or I'll get him when you're not looking; and listen, don't tell Jim about him; I must see what he is like, first."
At lunch, the next day, Conrad Lagrange greeted the artist in his bitterest humor. "And how is the famous Aaron King, to-day? I trust that the greatest portrait painter of the age is well; that the hotel people have been properly attentive to the comfort of their illustrious guest?
The world of art can ill afford to have its rarest genius suffer from any lack of the service that is due his greatness."
The young man's face flushed at his companion's mocking tone; but he laughed. "I missed you at breakfast."
"I was sleeping off the effect of my intellectual debauch--it takes time to recover from a dinner with 'Materialism,' 'Sensual,' 'Ragtime' and 'The Age'," the other returned, the menu in his hand. "What slop are they offering to put in our troughs for this noon's feed?"
Again, Aaron King laughed. But as the novelist, with characteristic comments and instructions to the waitress, ordered his lunch, the artist watched him as though waiting with interest his further remarks on the subject of his evening with the Taines.
When the girl was gone, Conrad Lagrange turned again to his companion, and from under his scowling brows regarded him much as a withered scientist might regard an interesting insect under his glass. "Permit me to congratulate you," he said suggestively--as though the bug had succeeded in acting in some manner fully expected by the scientist but wholly disgusting to him.
The artist colored again as he returned curiously, "Upon what?"
"Upon the start you have made toward the goal you hope to reach."
"What do you mean?"
"Mrs. Taine wants you."
"You are pleased to be facetious." Under the eyes of his companion, Aaron King felt that his reply did not at all conceal his satisfaction.
"I am pleased to be exact. I repeat--Mrs. Taine wants you. I am ordered by the reigning 'Goddess' of 'Modern Art'--'The Age'--to bring you into her 'Court.' You have won favor in her sight. She finds you good to look at.
She hopes to find you--as good as you look. If you do not disappoint her, your fame is assured."
"Nonsense," said the artist, somewhat sharply; nettled by the obvious meaning and by the sneering sarcasm of the novelist's words and tone.
To which the other returned suggestively, "It is precisely because you can say, 'nonsense,' when you know it is no nonsense at all, but the exact truth, that your chance for fame is so good, my friend."
"And did some reigning 'Goddess' insure your success and fame?"
The older man turned his peculiar, penetrating, baffling eyes full upon his companion's face, and in a voice full of cynical sadness answered, "Exactly so. I paid court to the powers that be. They gave me the reward I sought; and--they made me what I am."
So it came about that Conrad Lagrange, in due time, introduced Aaron King to the house on Fairlands Heights. Or,--as the novelist put it,--he, "Civilization",--in obedience to the commands of her "Royal Highness", "The Age",--presented the artist at her "Majesty's Court"; that the young man might sue for the royal favor.
It was, perhaps, a month after the presentation ceremony, that the painter made what--to him, at least--was an important announcement.
Chapter V
The Mystery of the Rose Garden
The acquaintance of Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange had developed rapidly into friendship.
The man whom the world had chosen to place upon one of the highest pinnacles of its literary favor, and who--through some queer twist in his nature--was so lonely and embittered by his exaltation, seemed to find in the younger man who stood with the crowd at the foot of the ladder, something that marked him as different from his fellows.
Whether it was the artist's mother; some sacredly hidden memories of Lagrange's past; or, perhaps, some fancied recognition of the artist's genius and its possibilities; the strange man gave no hint; but he constantly sought the company of Aaron King, with an openness that made his preference for the painter's society very evident. If he had said anything about it, at all, Conrad Lagrange, likely, would have accounted for his interest, upon the ground that his dog, Czar, found the companionship agreeable. Their friendship, meanwhile--in the eyes of the world--conferred a peculiar distinction upon the young man--a distinction not at all displeasing to the ambitious artist; and the value of which he, probably, overrated.
To Aaron King--aside from the subtle flattery of the famous novelist's attention--there was in the personality of the odd character a something that appealed to him with peculiar strength. Perhaps it was that the man's words, so often sharp and stinging with bitter sarcasm, seemed always to carry a hidden meaning that gave, as it were, glimpses of another nature buried deeply beneath a wreck of ruined dreams and disappointing achievements. Or, it may have been that, under all the cruel, world-hardness of the thoughts expressed, the young man sensed an undertone of pathetic sadness. Or, again, perhaps, it was those rare moments, when--on some walk that carried them beyond the outskirts of the town, and brought the mountains into unobstructed view--the clouds of bitterness were lifted; and the man spoke with poetic feeling of the realities of life, and of the true glory and mission of the arts; counseling his friend with an intelligence as true and delicate as it was rare and fine.
It was nearly two months after Conrad Lagrange had introduced the young man at the house on Fairlands Heights. The hour was late. The painter--returning from a dinner and an evening at the Taine home--found the novelist, with pipe and dog, in a deserted corner of the hotel veranda. Dropping into the chair that was placed as if it awaited his coming, the artist--with no word of greeting to the man--bent over the brown head that was thrust so insistently against his knee, as Czar, with gently waving tail, made him welcome. Looking affectionately into the brown eyes while he stroked the silky coat, the young man answered in the language that all dogs understand; while the novelist, from under his scowling brows, regarded the two intently.