"They were disappointed that you were not there," said the painter, presently. "Mrs. Taine, particularly, charged me to say that she will not forgive, until you do proper penance for your sin."
"I had better company," retorted the other. "Czar and I went for a look at the mountains. I suppose you have noticed that Czar does not care for the Fairlands Heights crowd. He is very peculiar in his friendships--for a dog. His instincts are remarkable."
At the sound of his name, Czar transferred his attentions, for a moment, to his master; then stretched himself in his accustomed place beside the novelist's chair.
The artist laughed. "I did my best to invent an acceptable excuse for you; but she said it was no use--nothing short of your own personal prayers for mercy would do."
"Humph; you should have reminded her that I purchased an indulgence some weeks ago."
Again, the other laughed shortly. Watching him closely, Conrad Lagrange said, in his most sneering tones, "I trust, young man, that you are not failing to make good use of your opportunities. Let's see--dinner and the evening five times--afternoon calls as many--with motor trips to points of interest--and one theater party to Los Angeles--believe me; it is not often that struggling genius is so rewarded--before it has accomplished anything bad enough to merit such attention."
"I _have_ been idling most shamefully, haven't I?" said the artist.
"Idling!" rasped the other. "You have been the busiest hay-maker in the land. These scientific, intensive cultivation farmers of California are not in your class when it comes to utilizing the sunshine. Take my advice and continue your present activity without bothering yourself by any sentimental thoughts of your palette and brushes. The mere vulgar tools of your craft are of minor importance to one of your genius and opportunity."
Then, in a half embarrassed manner, Aaron King made his announcement.
"That may all be," he said, "but just the same, I am going to work."
"I knew it"--returned the other, in mocking triumph--"I knew it the moment you came up the steps there. I could tell it by your walk; by the air with which you carried yourself; by your manner, your voice, your laugh--you fairly reek of prosperity and achievement--you are going to paint her portrait."
"And why not?" retorted the young man, rather sharply, a trifle nettled by the other's tone.
"Why not, indeed!" murmured the novelist. "Indeed, yes--by all means! It is so exactly the right thing to do that it is startling. You scale the heights of fame with such confident certainty in every move that it is positively uncanny to watch you."
"If one's work is true, I fail to see why one should not take advantage of any influence that can contribute to his success," said the painter. "I assure you I am not so wealthy that I can afford to refuse such an attractive commission. You must admit that the beautiful Mrs. Taine is a subject worthy the brush of any artist; and I suppose it _is_ conceivable that I _might_ be ambitious to make a genuinely good job of it."
The older man, as though touched by the evident sincerity of the artist's words, dropped his sneering tone and spoke earnestly; "The beautiful Mrs.
Taine _is_ a subject worthy a master's brush, my friend. But take my word for it, if you paint her portrait _as a master would paint it_, you will sign your own death warrant--so far as your popularity and fame as an artist goes."
"I don't believe it," declared Aaron King, flatly.
"I know you don't. If you _did_, and still accepted the commission, you wouldn't be fit to associate with honest dogs like Czar, here."
"But why"--persisted the artist--"why do you insist that my portrait of Mrs. Taine will be disastrous to my success, just to the degree that it is a work of genuine merit?"
To which the novelist answered, cryptically, "If you have not the eyes to see the reason, it will matter little whether you know it or not. If you _do_ see the reason, and, still, produce a portrait that pleases your sitter, then you will have paid the price; you will receive your reward; and"--the speaker's tone grew sad and bitter--"you will be what I am."
With this, he arose abruptly and, without another word, stalked into the hotel; the dog following with quiet dignity, at his heels.
From the beginning of their acquaintance, almost, the novelist and the artist had dropped into the habit of taking their meals together. At breakfast, the next morning, Conrad Lagrange reopened the conversation he had so abruptly closed the night before. "I suppose," he said, "that you will set up a studio, and do the thing in proper style?"
"Mrs. Taine told me of a place that is for rent, and that she thinks would be just the thing," returned the young man. "It is across the road from that big grove owned by Mr. Taine. I was wondering if you would care to walk out that way with me this morning and help me look it over."
The older man's hearty acceptance of the invitation assured the artist of his genuine interest, and, an hour later--after Aaron King had interviewed the agent and secured the keys, with the privilege of inspecting the premises--the two set out together.
They found the place on the eastern edge of the town; half-hidden by the orange groves that surrounded it on every side. The height of the palms that grew along the road in front, the pepper and eucalyptus trees that overshadowed the house, and the size of the orange-trees that shut in the little yard with walls of green, marked the place as having been established before the wealth of the far-away East discovered the peculiar charm of the Fairlands hills. The lawn, the walks, and the drive were unkempt and overgrown with weeds. The house itself,--a small cottage with a wide porch across the front and on the side to the west,--unpainted for many seasons, was tinted by the brush of the elements, a soft and restful gray.
But the artist and his friend, as they approached, exclaimed aloud at the beauty of the scene; for, as if rejoicing in their freedom from restraint, the roses had claimed the dwelling, so neglected by man, as their own. Up every post of the porch they had climbed; over the porch roof, they spread their wealth of color; over the gables, screening the windows with graceful lattice of vine and branch and leaf and bloom; up to the ridge and over the cornice, to the roof of the house itself--even to the top of the chimney they had won their way--and there, as if in an ecstasy of wanton loveliness, flung, a spray of glorious, perfumed beauty high into the air.
On the front porch, the men turned to look away over the gentle slope of the orange groves, on the other side of the road, to the towering peaks and high ridges of the mountains--gleaming cold and white in the winter of their altitude. To the northeast, San Bernardino reared his head in lonely majesty--looking directly down upon the foothills and the feeble dwellers in the valley below. Far beyond, and surrounded by the higher ridges and peaks and canyons of the range, San Gorgonio sat enthroned in the skies--the ruler of them all. From the northeast, westward, they viewed the mighty sweep of the main range to Cajon Pass and the San Gabriels, beyond, with San Antonio, Cucamonga, and their sister peaks lifting their heads above their fellows. In the immediate landscape, no house or building was to be seen. The dark-green mass of the orange groves hid every work of man's building between them and the tawny foothills save the gable and chimney of a neighboring cottage on the west.
"Listen"--said Conrad Lagrange, in a low tone, moved as always by the grandeur and beauty of the scene--"listen! Don't you hear them calling?
Don't you feel the mountains sending their message to these poor insects who squirm and wriggle in this bit of muck men call their world? God, man!
if only we, in our work, would heed the message of the hills!"
The novelist spoke with such intensity of feeling--with such bitter sadness and regret in his voice--that Aaron King could not reply.
Turning, the artist unlocked the door, and they entered the cottage.
They found the interior of the house well arranged, and not in bad repair.
"Just the thing for a bachelor's housekeeping"--was the painter's verdict--"but for a studio--impossible," and there was a touch of regret in his voice.
"Let's continue our exploration," said the novelist, hopefully. "There's a barn out there." And they went out of the house, and down the drive on the eastern side of the yard.
Here, again, they saw the roses in full possession of the place--by man, deserted. From foundation to roof, the building--a small simple structure--was almost hidden under a mass of vines. There was one large room below; with a loft above. The stable was in the rear. Built, evidently, at a later date than the house, the building was in better repair. The walls, so hidden without by the roses, were well sided; the floors were well laid. The big, sliding, main door opened on the drive in front; between it and the corner, to the west, was a small door; and in the western end, a window.
Looking curiously from this window, Conrad Lagrange uttered an exclamation, and hurried abruptly from the building. The artist followed.
From the end of the barn, and extending, the full width of the building, to the west line of the yard, was a rose garden--such a garden as Aaron King had never seen. On three sides, the little plot was enclosed by a tall hedge of Ragged Robins; above the hedge, on the south and west, was the dark-green wall of the orange grove; on the north, the pepper and eucalyptus trees in the yard, and a view of the distant mountains; and on the east, the vine-hidden end of the barn. Against the southern wall,--and, so, directly opposite the trellised, vine-covered arch of the entrance,--a small, lattice bower, with a rustic table and seats within, was completely covered, as was the barn, by the magically woven tapestry of the flowers. In the corner of the hedge farthest from the entrance they found a narrow gate. Unlike the rest of the premises, the garden was in perfect order--the roses trimmed and cared for; the walks neatly edged and clean; with no weed or sign of untidiness or neglect anywhere.
The two men had come upon the spot so suddenly--so unexpectedly--the contrast with the neglected grounds and buildings was so marked--that they looked at each other in silence. The little retreat--so lovely, so hidden by its own beauty from the world, so cared for by careful hands--seemed haunted by an invisible spirit. Very quietly,--almost reverently,--they moved about; talking in low tones, as though half expecting--they knew not what.
"Some one loves this place," said the novelist, softly, when they stood, again, in the entrance.
And the artist answered in the same hushed voice, "I wonder what it means?"
When they were again in the barn, Aaron King became eagerly enthusiastic over the possibilities of the big room. "Some rightly toned burlap on the walls and ceiling,"--he pointed out,--"with floor covering and rugs in harmony; there"--rolling back the big door as he spoke--"your north light; some hangings and screens to hide the stairway to the loft, and the stable door; your entrance over here in the corner, nicely out of the way; and the window looking into the garden--it's great man, great!"
"And," answered Conrad Lagrange, from where he stood in the big front door, "the mountains! Don't forget the mountains. The soft, steady, north light on your canvas, and a message from the mountains to your soul, through the same window, should make it a good place to work, Mr.
Painter-man. I suppose over here"--he moved away from the window, and spoke in his mocking way--"over here, you will have a tea-table for the ladies of the circle elect--who will come to, 'oh', and, 'ah', their admiration of the newly discovered genius, and to chatter their misunderstandings of his art. Of course, there will be a page in velvet and gold. By all means, get hold of an oriental kid of some kind--oriental junk is quite the rage this year. You should take advantage of every influence that can contribute to your success, you know. And, whatever you do, don't fail to consult the 'Goddess' about these essentials of your craft. Many a promising genius has been lost to fame, through inviting the wrong people to take tea in his studio. But"--he finished whimsically, looking from the window into the garden--"but what the devil do you suppose the spirit who lives out there will think about it all."
The days of the two following weeks were busy days for Aaron King. He leased the place in the orange groves, and set men to work making it habitable. The lawn and grounds were trimmed and put in order; the interior of the house was renovated by painter and paper-hanger; and the barn, under the artist's direction, was transformed into an ideal studio.
There was a trip to Los Angeles--quite fortunately upon a day when Mrs.
Taine must go to the city shopping--for rugs and hangings; and another trip to purchase the tools of the artist's craft. And, at last, there was a Chinese cook and housekeeper to find; with supplies for his kitchen. It was at Conrad Lagrange's suggestion, that, from the first, every one was given strict orders to keep out of the rose garden.
Every day, the novelist--accompanied, always, by Czar--walked out that way to see how things were progressing; and often,--if he had not been too busy to notice,--Aaron King might have seen a look of wistfulness in the keen, baffling eyes of the famous man--so world-weary and sad. And, while he did not cease to mock and jeer and offer sarcastic advice to his younger friend, the touch of pathos--that, like a minor chord, was so often heard in his most caustic and cruel speeches--was more pronounced.
As for Czar--he always returned to the hotel with evident reluctance; and managed to express, in his dog way, the thoughts his distinguished master would not put in words.
Very often, too, the big touring car from the house on Fairlands Heights stopped in front of the cottage, while the occupants inspected the premises, and--with many exclamations of flattering praise, and a few suggestions--made manifest their interest.
In time, it was finished and ready--from the big easel by the great, north window in the studio, to the white-jacketed Yee Kee in the kitchen. When the last workman was gone with his tools; and the two men, after looking about the place for an hour, were standing on the front porch; Conrad Lagrange said, "And the stage is set. The scene shifters are off. The audience is waiting. Ring up the curtain for the next act. Even Czar has looked upon everything and calls it good--heh Czar?"
The dog went to him; and, for some minutes, the novelist looked down into the brown eyes of his four-footed companion who seemed so to understand.
Still fondling the dog,--without looking at the artist,--the older man continued, "You will have your things moved over in the morning, I suppose? Or, will we lunch together, once more?"
Aaron King laughed--as a boy who has prepared a surprise, and has been struggling manfully to keep the secret until the proper moment should arrive. Placing his hand on the older man's shoulder, he answered meaningly, "I had planned that _we_ would move in the morning." At the other's puzzled expression he laughed again.