Gibbs George
The Maker of Opportunities

“If I were a man,” she said at last, “that is how I should wish to paint, the drawing of Sargent, the poetry of Whistler, the grace of Alexander, the color of Benson. Philip Burnett,” she apostrophized, “I’m a Philistine. Forgive me.”

CHAPTER XII

It was very pleasant under the subdued lights from above. She followed the sweep of the drapery with delighted eye, taking an almost sensuous pleasure in the relation of color and the grace of the arms and throat – the simplicity of the modeling and the admirable characterization.

She found herself repeating:

 
“‘And those that were good shall be happy,
They shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas
With brushes of comet’s hair.’
 

“Philip Burnett, I wonder if you’re good? You ought to be. I’d be good if I could paint like that. I’d work for an age at a sitting, too. How could one ever be tired making adagios in color? Oh!” she sighed, “how good it must be to amount to something!”

A procession of agreeable, vacuous faces passed before the canvas, creatures of a common fate, garbed in the uniform of convention, carrying the polite weapons of Vanity Fair, each like the others and as uninteresting. The few who wore the bright chevrons of distinction had marched with the throng for a time, but had gone back to their own. She wondered if it would really matter if she never saw them again; of course, the women – but the men. Would she care?

Was there not another life? It beckoned to her. What was Philip Burnett like? Could he be young and handsome as well as gifted? The vacuous faces vanished and in their place she could see this young genius – Antinous and Hercules combined – standing before this canvas living for the mere joy of work. Here was her answer. Was she to flit through enchanted gardens other people had planted, sipping only at the perfumed petals while the honey to be garnered was in plain sight?

A voice broke in just beside her:

“It’s convincing, but I tell you, Burnett, the arm’s too long.”

“Perhaps. Not bad, though, for a new man. You know we Burnetts are an exceptional race.”

The men moved away and the other’s reply was lost in the murmur of the crowd. Miss Darrow turned to follow them with her eyes – what a big fellow he was! with an admirable profile, a straight nose, a waxed mustache, and a chin like the one on the mask of Brutus. Conceited, of course! All artists were conceited. And who was that with him – Mortimer Crabb? Yes, and there was the bride talking to the Pendergasts.

“Why, Milly, dear!” Mrs. Pendergast passed an incurious but observant eye over her acquaintance. “I thought you were in Aiken. What a lovely hat! Are you going to the Inghams? What will you wear? Isn’t it restful here?”

Miss Darrow politely acquiesced and attempted replies, but her eyes strayed toward the Burnett portrait.

“Stunning,” continued Mrs. Pendergast. “A new man just over. Quite too clever. Wonderful color, isn’t it? Like a ripe pomegranate.”

“Have you met him?”

“No. He belongs to the Westchester Burnetts, though. Mrs. Hopkinson. So glad. Is Frederick here?”

The agreeable lady had made of the portion of the galleries in the neighborhood of the Burnett portrait a semblance of her own busy drawing-room. Other acquaintances came up and Miss Darrow was soon lost in the maze of small talk. A broad pair of shoulders were thrust forward into her group, and Miss Darrow found herself looking into a pair of quizzical gray eyes which were beaming a rather frank admiration into hers. “Miss Darrow – Mr. Burnett,” Patricia Crabb was saying; and Millicent Darrow was conscious that in a moment the new arrival had quietly and cleverly appropriated her and was taking her to the opposite side of the room where he found for her a Winslow Homer of rocks and stormy splendor.

“Why is it,” she asked, after her first enthusiasm, “that the work of the artist so seldom suggests its creator’s personality?”

“The perversity of the human animal,” he laughed. “That’s the system of justice of the great Republic of Art, Miss Darrow. If we lose a characteristic here, we gain it somewhere else. Rather a nice balance, don’t you think?”

“You hardly look the poet, Mr. Burnett – you don’t mind my saying so?” she laughed. “And if you do dream, you do it with your eyes very wide open.”

Mr. Burnett’s brows were tangled in bewilderment. “I’m really not much given to dreaming. I’m rather busy, you know.”

“It’s splendid of you. You’ve worked long?”

“Er – yes – since I left college,” he said, the tangle in his brows suddenly unraveling. A smile now illuminated his rather whimsical eyes. Miss Darrow found herself laughing frankly into them.

“Art is long – you must be at least – thirty.”

“Less,” he corrected. “Youth is my compensation for not being a lawyer – or a broker.”

She was conscious of the personal note in their conversation, but she made no effort to avoid it. This genius of less than thirty gave every token of sanity and good fellowship.

“Who is Agatha?” she asked suddenly.

“A – er – a friend of mine in Paris.”

“Oh!” she said, in confusion.

And then:

“The face is of the East – the Slav – did you choose her for that character?”

“Not at all. She was – er – just – just a sitter – a commission, you know.”

“How interesting!”

They had made the rounds of the room and were now facing the portrait again.

“It was lucky to have so good a model,” he continued. “One doesn’t always. Have you ever posed, Miss Darrow?”

“I? No, never. Father has been trying to get me painted this winter. But I’ve been so busy – and then we’re going South in two weeks – so we haven’t been able to manage it.”

“What a pity!” The subtle sparkle had died in his eyes, which from the shadow of their heavy lashes were regarding hers intently.

“You’re very kind. Would you really like to paint me?” said Miss Darrow. “Suppose I said you should. I want my portrait done. If you make me half as wonderful as Agatha, I shall die happy. Won’t you come in to-morrow at five? We can talk it over. I must be going now. No, not now, to-morrow. Au revoir.” She gave him her hand with a friendly nod, and threaded her way through the crowd, leaving Burnett staring at the card she had left in his hand.

On the way up-town in the machine Patricia examined him, smiling curiously.

“What a delusion you are, Ross Burnett! Railing in one moment at matrimony and in the next, tagging around like a tame bear at the heels of the first pretty girl that crosses your path.”

“She is pretty, isn’t she?” he admitted, promptly.

“And quite the rage – this is her third season you know. You seemed to be getting on very rapidly – ”

“Oh, it was all a mistake,” Burnett laughed. “She thought I was an artist.”

“An artist? What in the world – ”

“I’m going to do her portrait – ”

“You!” Patricia leaned forward eagerly. “What do you mean?”

“That I’m brother Philip – the chap that did the Agatha. She mistook me for him, and she was so nice about it that I didn’t like to interfere.”

Crabb was lighting a cigarette.

“I’m afraid, my dear Ross, that the East has sapped some of your moral fiber,” he said.

“It’s perfectly delightful,” laughed Patricia.

“But Ross can’t paint – ”

“I’d like to try,” said Burnett.

“Fiddlesticks!”

Patricia said no more, but all the way home her face wore a smile which would not come off. The miracle had happened. Had she searched New York she could not have found a girl more eminently suited to Ross Burnett. That night Mortimer had some writing to do, but Patricia and her guest sat for a long while talking earnestly in the library. They didn’t take Mortimer into their confidence, for Patricia had now gleefully donned the mantle her husband had so carelessly thrown aside. Here was an opportunity to make, and Patricia became the goddess in the machine.

CHAPTER XIII

Several days passed. Ross Burnett moved about the studio adjusting a canvas upon an easel, bringing out draperies, raising and lowering curtains, and peering into drawers and chests in a manner which betrayed an uncertain state of mind. At last he seemed to find what he was looking for – a drapery of soft gray material. This he cast over the back of the easel, walked back from it to the far side of the room where he put his head on one side and looked with half-closed eyes.

There was a clatter of the old French knocker. Burnett dropped his paint tubes and cigarette and opened the door.

“Am I late?” laughed Miss Darrow.

“You couldn’t come too early,” said Burnett. But he dubiously eyed the French maid who had entered bearing a huge portmanteau.

“I was so afraid to keep you waiting. You’re not very angry?”

“I’m sure I’ve been here since dawn,” he replied.

“Then let’s not waste any time. Oh, isn’t it charming! Where shall I go?”

He pushed open the door of the dressing room.

“I think you’ll find the mirror fair,” he said. “If there’s anything – ”

“How exciting! No. And I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

When the door was closed Burnett eyed the model-throne, the draperies, the chair, and the canvas, seeking a last inspiration before the imminent moment. He put a Japanese screen behind the chair and threw a scarlet drapery over one end of it, knocking at the rebellious folds to make them fall as he wished.

“Will I do?” asked the girl, radiantly emerging. She wore a black evening dress. The maid had thrown a filmy drapery over her which brought out the dull whiteness of the shoulders. “It is so different in the daytime,” she said, coloring; “but father has always wanted it so. You know I haven’t told him. It’s to be a surprise.”

Burnett’s color responded to hers. He bowed his head. “You are charming,” he murmured gallantly with a seriousness she could not fail to notice.

When Julie was dismissed to return at luncheon-time, Mr. Burnett conducted Miss Darrow to her throne and took his place before the canvas. She stood leaning easily upon the back of the chair, the lines of her slender figure sweeping down from the radiant head and shoulders into the dusky shadows behind her. She watched him curiously as he stood away from the easel to study the pose.

“If I only could – it’s splendid so,” he was murmuring, “but I wish you to sit.”

She acquiesced without question. “I feel like a specimen,” she sighed. “It’s a terrible ordeal. I’m all arms and hands. Must you squint?”

In Burnett’s laugh all restraint was liberated to the winds.

“Of course. All artists squint. It’s like the circular sweep of the thumb – a symbol of the craft.”

He walked behind her and adjusted the screen, taking away the crimson drapery and putting a greyish-green one in its place.

“There,” he cried, “just as you are. It’s stunning.”

She was leaning forward with an elbow on the chair arm, her hands clasped, one slender wrist at her chin.

“Really! You’re awfully easy to please – I wonder if I shall do as well as Agatha.”

He took up a charcoal – looked at its end, and made a slight adjustment of the easel. “Before we begin – there’s one thing I forgot.” He paused. “All painters are sensitive, you know. I’m rather queerer than most. I hope you won’t care.” The charcoal was now making rapid gyrations upon the surface of the canvas. “I’m awfully sensitive to criticism – in the early stages. I usually manage to pull out somehow – but in the beginning – when I’m drawing, laying in the figure – I don’t like my canvas seen. Sometimes it lasts even longer. You won’t mind not looking, will you?”

“I see. That’s what the grey thing is for. I don’t mind in the least; only I hope it will come soon. I’m wild to see. And please smoke. I know you want to.”

The grateful Burnett drew forth his cigarette-case and while his model rested busied himself among his tubes of paint, squeezing the colors out upon the palette.

“If you only knew,” he sighed, “how very difficult it seems.” But the large brush dipped into the paint and Burnett worked vigorously, a fine light glowing in his eyes. Miss Darrow watched the generous flow from the oil cup mingling with the colors.

“Hair,” he replied. He seemed so absorbed that she said no more, and she didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. Later she ventured:

“If it’s carroty I’ll never speak to you again. Please make it auburn, Mr. Burnett.”

He only worked the more rapidly. He seemed to be dipping into every color upon the palette, in the center of which had grown a brown of the color of walnut-juice. This he was applying vigorously to the lower part of the canvas. When the palette was cleared he put it aside and sank back in a chair with a sigh.

“Rest,” said the artist.

“I’m not in the least tired,” she replied.

“But I am. It takes it out of me to be so interested.”

“Does it?” She leaned back in her chair, regarding him with a new curiosity. “Do you know,” she added, “you are full of surprises – ”

She ignored the inquiry of his upraised brows.

“ – and paint,” she finished with a laugh.

He ruefully eyed a discolored thumb. “I’m awfully untidy, I know. I’ve always been. In Paris they called me Slovenly Peter.”

“I shouldn’t say that – only – ”

“What?”

“Only – ” she indicated several streaks of black on his grey walking-suit. “Must one always pay such a price to inspiration?”

“Jove! That was stupid. I always do, though, Miss Darrow.” He examined the spots and touched them with the tips of his fingers. “It’s paint,” he finished, examining it with a placidity almost impersonal. “It doesn’t matter in the least.”

“And do you always smudge your face?” she asked sweetly. He looked at himself in the mirror. There was a broad streak of red across his forehead. He wiped it off with a handkerchief.

“Oh, please don’t laugh.”

He sank upon the edge of the throne, and then they both laughed joyously, naturally, like two children.

“I’m an awfully lucky fellow,” he said, at last. “I feel like a feudal baron with a captured princess. Here are you, that most inaccessible of persons, the Woman of Society, doomed every morning for two weeks to play Darby and Joan with a man you’ve known only three days. How on earth can a fellow survive seeing a girl he likes behind cups of tea! It’s rough, I think. Society seems to accomplish every purpose but its avowed one. Instead of which everybody plays puss-in-the-corner. A fellow might have a chance if the corners weren’t so far apart. And I, just back from abroad with all the skeins of old friendship at a loose end, walk into your circle and quietly appropriate you for a fortnight – while your other friends go a-begging.”

“They haven’t begged very hard,” she laughed. “If they had, perhaps they might be playing Darby and Joan, too. I’ve never tried it before. But I think it’s rather nice – ” She broke off suddenly.

“Do you know, I’ve rested quite twenty minutes,” she said after a moment. “Come, time is precious.”

“That depends – ”

She waited a moment for him to finish, but he said no more.

“How extraordinary!” she said with a pretty mouë. “I don’t know whether I should be pleased or not.”

“Can you blame me? The Forelock of Time hangs too temptingly,” he laughed. “Of course, if you’d rather pose – ” He took up his dripping brushes with a sigh.

“Oh, indeed, I don’t care,” she sank back in the chair. “Only don’t you think – isn’t that really what I’m here for?”

“It is time to pose, Miss Darrow,” he said determinately.

But she made no move to get into the position.

“I haven’t complained,” and she smiled at him. “Your muse is difficult, and I’m the gainer. Really, I think I’d rather talk.”

“And I’m waiting to go on with the portrait.”

“I’ll pose again on one condition – ”

“Yes.”

“That you put on overalls.”

The brushes and palette dropped to his side. “That’s rough on Slovenly Peter,” he laughed. He set about squeezing the paint tubes, wiping the brush handles and edge of the palette. When the pose was over Julie appeared. The artist drew the grey drapery over the easel and helped Miss Darrow to descend.

CHAPTER XIV

These mornings in the studio were full of subtleties. Miss Darrow discovered that Burnett could talk upon many subjects. He had traveled much in Europe, and could even draw a bold outline for her of the East, which she had never seen. He talked little of art, and then only when the subject was introduced by his model. In the rests, which were long, he led Miss Darrow, often without her being aware of it, down pleasant lanes of thought, all of which seemed to end abruptly in the garish sunshine of personality. She did not find it unpleasant; only it seemed rather surprising the way all formality between them had been banished.

One morning there was a diversion. A clatter on the knocker and Burnett, frowning, went to the door. Miss Darrow heard a feminine voice and an exclamation. Burnett went rather hurriedly and stood outside, his hand upon the door knob. There was a murmur of conversation and a feminine laugh. She tried not to hear what was said. The hand fidgeted on the knob, but the murmur of voices continued. Miss Darrow got down from the throne and moved to the window, adjusting a stray curl as she passed.

She looked away from the mirror, then stopped suddenly and looked again. When Burnett entered she was sitting in the window-seat, looking out over the roof-tops. He was profuse in apology. She resumed the pose and the artist painted silently. “They say there’s a pleasure in painting that only a painter knows,” she began.

“Of course.”

“Then why do we rest so often? I’m not easily deceived. The fine frenzy is lacking, Mr. Burnett – isn’t it so?”

For reply he held out his paint-smudged hands.

“No – no,” she went on. “You’re painting timidly with the tips of your fingers – not in the least like the ‘Agatha.’ I’m sure you’re doing me early-Victorian.”

Burnett stopped painting, looked at his canvas and laughed. “Oh, it’s hardly that,” he said.

“Won’t you prove it?”

“How?”

“By letting me look.” She rose from her chair, got down from the throne and took a rapid step or two towards the easel. But Burnett’s broad shoulders barred the way.

“Please,” she urged.

“I can’t, really.”

“Why not?” She stood her ground firmly, looking up into his face, but Burnett did not move or reply.

She settled into the pose again and Burnett went mechanically to his place before the canvas. Once it seemed as if he were about to speak – but he thought better of it. He looked down at the mass of color mingled on the palette. His brush moved slowly on the canvas. At last it stopped and dropped to his side.

“I can’t go on.”

She dropped out of the pose. “Are you ill?”

“Oh, no,” he laughed. With the setting aside of the brushes and palette, Burnett seemed to put away the shadow that had been hanging over his thoughts all the morning. He stood beside her and was looking frankly into her eyes. She saw something in his that had not been there before, for she looked away, past the chimneys and apartment houses, past the clouds, and into the void that was beyond the blue. She had forgotten his presence, and one of her hands which he held in both of his.

“Perhaps you understand,” he said quietly. “Perhaps you know.”

The fingers moved slightly, but on the brows a tiny frown was gathering. He relinquished her hand with a sigh and stood looking rather helplessly in the direction of the mute and pitiless easel. They were so deep in thought that neither of them heard the turning of a skeleton key in the latch and the opening of the door. The Japanese screen for a moment concealed them from the view of a gentleman who emerged into the room. Ross Burnett looked up helplessly. It was Mortimer Crabb, horror-stricken at this violation of his sanctum.

“Ross!” he said, “what on earth – ”

Miss Darrow started from her chair, the crimson rushing to her cheeks, and stood drawing the lace across her shoulders.

Burnett was cool. “Miss Darrow,” he asked, “you know Mr. Crabb? He’s studying painting, and – er – sometimes uses this place. Perhaps – ”

The words hung on his lips as he realized that Miss Darrow with an inclination of the head toward the visitor, had vanished into the dressing-room.

As the door closed words less polite came forth.

But Crabb broke in: “Oh, I say, Ross, you don’t mean you’ve had the nerve – ”

Ross Burnett’s brows drew together and his large frame seemed to grow compact.

“Hush, Mort,” he whispered. “You don’t understand. You’ve made an awful mess of things. Won’t you go?”

“But, my dear chap – ”

“I’ll explain later. But go – please!”

With a glance toward the easel Mortimer Crabb went out.

Ross Burnett closed the door, shot its bolt and put his back against it. As the clatter of Crabb’s boots on the wooden stairs died away on the lower floor, he gave a sigh, folded his arms and waited.

When Miss Darrow emerged from the dressing-room ready for the street, she found him there.

“My things are in the portmanteau,” she said, icily. “My maid will call for them. If you will permit me – ”

But Burnett did not move.

“Miss Darrow – ” he began.

“Will you let me pass?”

“I can’t, Miss Darrow – until you hear. I wouldn’t have had it happen for anything in the world.”

“I cannot listen. Won’t you open the door?”

He bowed his head as though better to receive her reproaches, but he did not move.

“Oh!” she cried, “how could you!” Her chin was raised, and she glanced scornfully at him from under her narrowed lids.

“Please,” he pleaded, quietly. “If you’ll only listen – ”

She turned and walked towards the window. “Isn’t it punishment enough for it all to end like this,” he went on, “without making it seem as though I were worse than I am? Really, I’m not as bad as I’m painted.”

It was an unfortunate phrase. An awkward silence followed it, in which he was conscious that Miss Darrow had turned suddenly from the window and was facing the Thing upon the easel, which was now revealed to them both in all its uncompromising ugliness. From the center of a myriad of streaks of paint something emerged. Something in dull tones, staring like a Gorgon from its muddy illusiveness. To Burnett it had been only a canvas daubed with infelicitous paint. Now from across the room it seemed to have put on a smug and scurrilous personality and odiously leered at him from its unlovely background.

“Don’t,” cried Burnett. “Don’t look at the thing like that.”

But the girl did not move. She stood before the easel, her head a little on one side, her eyes upon the canvas.

“It’s really not Victorian, is it?” she asked calmly.

“You must listen!” cried Burnett, leaving his post at the door. “I insist. You know why I did this mad thing. I’ve told you. I’d do it again – ”

“I’ve no doubt you will,” she put in scornfully. “It doesn’t seem to have been so difficult.”

“It was. The hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. You gave me the chance. I took it. I won’t regret it. It was selfish – brutal – anything you like. But I don’t regret – nine wonderful mornings, twenty-seven precious hours – more, I hope, than you’ve given any man in your life.” He made one rapid stride and took her in his arms. “I love you, Millicent, dear. I’ve loved you from the first moment – there in the picture gallery. Yes, I’d do it again. Every moment I’ve blessed the luck that made it possible. Don’t turn away from me. You don’t hate me. I know it. You couldn’t help feeling a response to a love like mine.” He held her close to him, raising her head at last until her lips were level with his own. But he did not touch them. She still struggled faintly, but she would not open her eyes and look at him.

“No, no, you mustn’t,” was all that she found strength to say.

“You can’t deny it. You do – care for me. Look up at me and tell me so.”

She would not look at him and at last struggled away and stood, her cheeks flaming.

“You are masterful!” she stammered. “A girl is not to be won in this fashion.”

“I love you,” he said. “And you – ”

“I despise you,” she gasped. She turned to the mirror, and rearranged her disordered hair.

“Don’t say that. Won’t you forgive me?”

She sank on the model stand and buried her face in her hands. “It was cruel of you – cruel.”

The sight of her distress unnerved him and gave him for the first time a new view of the enormity of his offense. It was her pride that was wounded. It was the thought of what Mortimer Crabb might think of her that had wrought the damage. He bent over her, his fingers nearly touching her, yet restrained by a delicacy and a new tenderness begotten by the thought that it was he alone who had caused her unhappiness.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

And she only repeated. “What can he think of me? What can he think?”

Burnett straightened, a new thought coming to him. It seemed like an inspiration – a stroke of genius.

“Of course,” he said, calmly, “you’re hopelessly compromised. He must think what he pleases. There’s only one thing to do.”

She arose and breathlessly asked, “What can I do? How can I – ”

“Marry me – at once.”

“Oh!”

She spoke the word slowly – wonderingly – as if the idea had never occurred to her before. He had left the way to the door unguarded, but instead she walked toward the window, and looked out over the roof-tops. To Burnett the silence was burdened with meaning, and he broke it timorously.

“Won’t you – won’t you, Millicent, dear?”

Her voice trembled a little when she replied: “There is one thing more important than that – than anything else in the world to me.”

At her side his eyes questioned mutely.

“And that?” he asked at last.

“My reputation,” she whispered.

He stood a second studying her face, for his happiness grew upon him slowly. But behind the crooked smile which was half-hidden from him, he caught the dawn of a new light that he understood. He took her in his arms then, and wondered how it was that he had not kissed her when her lips had been so close before. But the new wonder that came to them both made them willing to forget that there had ever been anything else before.

Later, Ross, unable to credit his good fortune and marveling at the intricacies of the feminine mind, asked her a question. Her reply caused him more amazement:

“Poor, foolish, Slovenly Peter! I saw it by accident in the mirror a week ago.”

So it was Mortimer Crabb after all who made the opportunity; for Miss Darrow smilingly admitted that had it not been for his abrupt entrance at that precise psychological moment, she should now have been in Aiken and Ross on the way to the Antipodes. But Patricia was doubly happy; for had she not circumvented her own husband in opening the studio he had forsworn, the veritable chamber of Bluebeard which had been bolted against her? Had she not browsed away among the gods of his youth to her heart’s content and made that sacred apartment the vestibule of Paradise for at least two discontented mortals whose hearts were now beating as one?