The Eyes of the World

By Harold Bell Wright

Author of "That Printer of Udells, " "The Shepherd of the Hills, ""The Calling of Dan Matthews, " "The Winning of Barbara Worth, ""Their Yesterdays, " Etc. 

To Benjamin H. Pearson

Student, Artist, Gentleman

in appreciation of the friendship that began on the "Pipe-Line Trail, " atthe camp in the sycamores back of the old orchard, and among the higherpeaks of the San Bernardinos; and because this story will always mean moreto him than to any one else, --this book, with all good wishes, is

Dedicated. 

H. B. W. 

"Tecolote Rancho, "April 13, 1914. 

 "I have learned To look on Nature not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes The sad, still music of humanity, Not harsh or grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt, A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is in the lights of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man. A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thoughts, And rolls through all things. 

 Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods And mountains......... ....... And this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her. 'Tis her privilege Through all the years of this one life, to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform The mind that is within us--so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts--that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shalt e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith. "

 William Wordsworth. 

Contents

 I. His Inheritance II. The Woman With the Disfigured Face III. The Famous Conrad Lagrange IV. At the House on Fairlands Heights V. The Mystery of the Rose Garden VI. An Unknown Friend VII. Mrs. Taine in Quaker Gray VIII. The Portrait That Was Not a Portrait IX. Conrad Lagrange's Adventure X. A Cry in the Night XI. Go Look in Your Mirror, You Fool XII. First Fruits of His Shame XIII. Myra Willard's Challenge XIV. In the Mountains XV. The Forest Ranger's Story XVI. When the Canyon Gates Are Shut XVII. Confessions in the Spring Glade XVIII. Sibyl Andrés and the Butterflies XIX. The Three Gifts and their Meanings XX. Myra's Prayer and the Ranger's Warning XXI. The Last Climb XXII. Shadows of Coming Events XXIII. Outside the Canyon Gates Again XXIV. James Rutlidge Makes a Mistake XXV. On the Pipe-Line Trail XXVI. I Want You Just as You Are XXVII. The Answer XXVIII. You're Ruined, My Boy XXIX. The Hand Writing On The Wall XXX. In the Same Hour XXXI. As the World Sees XXXII. The Mysterious Disappearance XXXIII. Beginning the Search XXXIV. The Tracks on Granite Peak XXXV. A Hard Way XXXVI. What Should He Do XXXVII. The Man Was InsaneXXXVIII. An Inevitable Conflict XXXIX. The Better Way XL. Facing the Truth XLI. Marks of the Beast XLII. Aaron King's Success

Illustrations from Oil Paintings

By

F. Graham Cootes

Sibyl

A curious expression of baffling, quizzing, half pathetic, and whollycynical, interrogation

"Well, what do you want? What are you doing here?"

Still she did not speak

The Eyes of the World

Chapter I

His Inheritance

It was winter--cold and snow and ice and naked trees and leaden clouds andstinging wind. 

The house was an ancient mansion on an old street in that city of culturewhich has given to the history of our nation--to education, to religion, to the sciences, and to the arts--so many illustrious names. 

In the changing years, before the beginning of my story, the woman'simmediate friends and associates had moved from the neighborhood to thenewer and more fashionable districts of a younger generation. In that cityof her father's there were few of her old companions left. There werefewer who remembered. The distinguished leaders in the world of art andletters, whose voices had been so often heard within the walls of herhome, had, one by one, passed on; leaving their works and their names totheir children. The children, in the greedy rush of these younger times, had too readily forgotten the woman who, to the culture and genius of apassing day, had been hostess and friend. 

The apartment was pitifully bare and empty. Ruthlessly it had beenstripped of its treasures of art and its proud luxuries. But, even in itsnaked necessities the room managed, still, to evidence the rareintelligence and the exquisite refinement of its dying tenant. 

The face upon the pillow, so wasted by sickness, was marked by thedeath-gray. The eyes, deep in their hollows between the fleshless foreheadand the prominent cheek-bones, were closed; the lips were livid; the nosewas sharp and pinched; the colorless cheeks were sunken; but the outlineswere still delicately drawn and the proportions nobly fashioned. It was, still, the face of a gentlewoman. In the ashen lips, only, was there asign of life; and they trembled and fluttered in their effort to utter thewords that an indomitable spirit gave them to speak. 

"To-day--to-day--he will--come. " The voice was a thin, broken whisper; butcolored, still, with pride and gladness. 

A young woman in the uniform of a trained nurse turned quickly from thewindow. With soft, professional step, she crossed the room to bend overthe bed. Her trained fingers sought the skeleton wrist; she spoke slowly, distinctly, with careful clearness; and, under the cool professionalism ofher words, there was a tone of marked respect. "What is it, madam?"

The sunken eyes opened. As a burst of sunlight through the suddenly openeddoors of a sepulchre, the death-gray face was illumed. In those eyes, clear and burning, the nurse saw all that remained of a powerfulpersonality. In their shadowy depths, she saw the last glowing embers ofthe vital fire gathered; carefully nursed and tended; kept alive by a willthat was clinging, with almost superhuman tenacity, to a definite purpose. Dying, this woman _would_ not die--_could_ not die--until the end forwhich she willed to live should be accomplished. In the very grasp ofDeath, she was forcing Death to stay his hand--without life, she washolding Death at bay. 

It was magnificent, and the gentle face under the nurse's cap shone withappreciation and admiration as she smiled her sympathy and understanding. 

"My son--my son--will come--to-day. " The voice was stronger, and, with theeyes, expressed a conviction--a certainty--with the faintest shadow of aquestion. 

The nurse looked at her watch. "The boat was due in New York, early thismorning, madam. "

A step sounded in the hall outside. The nurse started, and turned quicklytoward the door. But the woman said, "The doctor. " And, again, the firethat burned in those sunken eyes was hidden wearily under their dark lids. 

The white-haired physician and the nurse, at the farther end of the room, spoke together in low tones. Said the physician, --incredulous, --"You saythere is no change?"

"None that I can detect, " breathed the nurse. "It is wonderful!"

"Her mind is clear?"

"As though she were in perfect health. "

The doctor took the nurse's chart. For a moment, he studied it in silence. He gave it back with a gesture of amazement. "God! nurse, " he whispered, "she should be in her grave by now! It's a miracle! But she has alwaysbeen like that--" he continued, half to himself, looking with troubledadmiration toward the bed at the other end of the room--"always. "

He went slowly forward to the chair that the nurse placed for him. Seatinghimself quietly beside his patient, and bending forward with intenseinterest, his fine old head bowed, he regarded with more than professionalcare the wasted face upon the pillow. 

The doctor remembered, too well, when those finely moulded features--now, so worn by sorrow, so marked by sickness, so ghastly in the hue ofdeath--were rounded with young-woman health and tinted with rareloveliness. He recalled that day when he saw her a bride. He rememberedthe sweet, proud dignity of her young wifehood. He saw her, again, whenher face shone with the glad triumph and the holy joy of motherhood. 

The old physician turned from his patient, to look with sorrowful eyesabout the room that was to witness the end. 

Why was such a woman dying like this? Why was a life of such rich mentaland spiritual endowments--of such wealth of true culture--coming to itsclose in such material poverty?

The doctor was one of the few who knew. He was one of the few whounderstood that, to the woman herself, it was necessary. 

There were those who--without understanding, for the sake of the yearsthat were gone--would have surrounded her with the material comforts towhich, in her younger days, she had been accustomed. The doctor knew thatthere was one--a friend of her childhood, famous, now, in the world ofbooks--who would have come from the ends of the earth to care for her. Allthat a human being could do for her, in those days of her life's tragedy, that one had done. Then--because he understood--he had gone away. Her ownson did not know--could not, in his young manhood, have understood, if hehad known--would not understand when he came. Perhaps, some day, he wouldunderstand--perhaps. 

When the physician turned again toward the bed, to touch with gentlefingers the wrist of his patient, his eyes were wet. 

At his touch, her eyes opened to regard him with affectionate trust andgratitude. 

"Well Mary, " he said almost bruskly. 

The lips fashioned the ghost of a smile; into her eyes came the gleam ofthat old time challenging spirit. "Well--Doctor George, " she answered. Then, --"I--told you--I would not--go--until he came. I must--have myway--still--you see. He will--come--to-day He must come. "

"Yes, Mary, " returned the doctor, --his fingers still on the thin wrist, and his eyes studying her face with professional keenness, --"yes, ofcourse. "

"And George--you will not forget--your promise? You will--give me a fewminutes--of strength--when he comes--so that I can tell him? I--I--musttell him myself--George. You--will do--this last thing--for me?"

"Yes, Mary, of course, " he answered again. "Everything shall be as youwish--as I promised. "

"Thank you--George. Thank you--my dear--dear--old friend. "

The nurse--who had been standing at the window--stepped quickly to thetable that held a few bottles, glasses, and instruments. The doctor lookedat her sharply. She nodded a silent answer, as she opened a small, flat, leather case. With his fingers still on his patient's wrist, the physicianspoke a word of instruction; and, in a moment, the nurse placed ahypodermic needle in his hand. 

As the doctor gave the instrument, again, to his assistant, a quick stepsounded in the hall outside. 

The patient turned her head. Her eager eyes were fixed upon the door; hervoice--stronger, now, with the strength of the powerful stimulant--rangout; "My boy--my boy--he is here! George, nurse, my boy is here!"

The door opened. A young man of perhaps twenty-two years stood on thethreshold. 

The most casual observer would have seen that he was a son of the dyingwoman. In the full flush of his young manhood's vigor, there was the samemodeling of the mouth, the same nose with finely turned nostrils, the samedark eyes under a breadth of forehead; while the determined chin and thewell-squared jaw, together with a rather remarkable fineness of line, told of an inherited mental and spiritual strength and grace as charmingas it is, in these days, rare. His dress was that of a gentleman ofculture and social position. His very bearing evidenced that he had neverbeen without means to gratify the legitimate tastes of a cultivated andrefined intelligence. 

As he paused an instant in the open door to glance about that povertystricken room, a look of bewildering amazement swept over his handsomeface. He started to draw back--as if he had unintentionally entered thewrong apartment. Looking at the doctor, his lips parted as if to apologizefor his intrusion. But before he could speak, his eyes met the eyes of thewoman on the bed. 

With a cry of horror, he sprang forward;--"Mother! Mother!"

As he knelt there by the bed, when the first moments of their meeting werepast, he turned his face toward the doctor. From the physician his gazewent to the nurse, then back again to his mother's old friend. His eyeswere burning with shame and sorrow--with pain and doubt and accusation. His low voice was tense with emotion, as he demanded, "What does thismean? Why is my mother here like--like this?"--his eyes swept the bareroom again. 

The dying woman answered. "I will explain, my boy. It is to tell you, thatI have waited. "

At a look from the doctor, the nurse quietly followed the physician fromthe room. 

It was not long. When she had finished, the false strength that had keptthe woman alive until she had accomplished that which she conceived to beher last duty, failed quickly. 

"You will--promise--you will?"

"Yes, mother, yes. "

"Your education--your training--your blood--they--are--all--that--Ican--give you, my son. "

"O mother, mother! why did you not tell me before? Why did I not know!"The cry was a protest--an expression of bitterest shame and sorrow. 

She smiled. "It--was--all that I could do--for you--my son--the onlyway--I could--help. I do not--regret the cost. You will--not forget?"

"Never, mother, never. "

"You promise--to--to regain that--which--your father--"

Solemnly the answer came, --in an agony of devotion and love, --"Ipromise--yes, mother, I promise. "

 * * * * *

A month later, the young man was traveling, as fast as modern steam andsteel could carry him, toward the western edge of the continent. 

He was flying from the city of his birth, as from a place accursed. He hadset his face toward a new land--determined to work out, there, hispromise--the promise that he did not, at the first, understand. 

How he misunderstood, --how he attempted to use his inheritance to carryout what he first thought was his mother's wish, --and how he came at lastto understand, is the story that I have to tell. 

Chapter II

The Woman with the Disfigured Face

The Golden State Limited, with two laboring engines, was climbing thedesert side of San Gorgonio Pass. 

Now San Gorgonio Pass--as all men should know--is one of the two easterngateways to the beautiful heart of Southern California. It is, therefore, the gateway to the scenes of my story. 

As the heavy train zigzagged up the long, barren slope of the mountain, inits effort to lessen the heavy grade, the young man on the platform of theobservation car could see, far to the east, the shimmering, sun-filledhaze that lies, always, like a veil of mystery, over the vast reaches ofthe Colorado Desert. Now and then, as the Express swung around the curves, he gained a view of the lonely, snow-piled peaks of the San Bernardinos;with old San Gorgonio, lifting above the pine-fringed ridges of the lowerGalenas, shining, silvery white, against the blue. Again, on the southernside of the pass, he saw San Jacinto's crags and cliffs rising almostsheer from the right-of-way. 

But the man watching the ever-changing panorama of gorgeously colored andfantastically unreal landscape was not thinking of the scenes that, tohim, were new and strange. His thoughts were far away. Among thosemountains grouped about San Gorgonio, the real value of the inheritance hehad received from his mother was to be tested. On the pine-fringed ridgeof the Galenas, among those granite cliffs and jagged peaks, the mettle ofhis manhood was to be tried under a strain such as few men in thiscommonplace work-a-day old world are-subjected to. But the young man didnot know this. 

On the long journey across the continent, he had paid little heed to thesights that so interested his fellow passengers. To his fellow passengers, themselves, he had been as indifferent. To those who had approached himcasually, as the sometimes tedious hours passed, he had been quietly andcourteously unresponsive. This well-bred but decidedly markeddisinclination to mingle with them, together with the undeniablydistinguished appearance of the young man, only served to center theinterest of the little world of the Pullmans more strongly upon him. Keeping to himself, and engrossed with his own thoughts, he became theobject of many idle conjectures. 

Among the passengers whose curious eyes were so often turned in hisdirection, there was one whose interest was always carefully veiled. Shewas a woman of evident rank and distinction in that world where rank anddistinction are determined wholly by dollars and by such social positionas dollars can buy. She was beautiful; but with that carefully studied, wholly self-conscious--one is tempted to say professional--beauty of herkind. Her full rounded, splendidly developed body was gowned toaccentuate the alluring curves of her sex. With such skill was thisdeliberate appeal to the physical hidden under a cloak of a pretendingmodesty that its charm was the more effectively revealed. Her featureswere almost too perfect. She was too coldly sure of herself--too perfectlytrained in the art of self-repression. For a woman as young as sheevidently was, she seemed to know too much. The careful indifference ofher countenance seemed to say, "I am too well schooled in life to makemistakes. " She was traveling with two companions--a fluffy, fluttering, characterless shadow of womanhood, and a man--an invalid who seldom leftthe privacy of the drawing-room which he occupied. 

As the train neared the summit of the pass, the young man on theobservation car platform looked at his watch. A few miles more and hewould arrive at his destination. Rising to his feet, he drew a deep breathof the glorious, sun-filled air. With his back to the door, and lookingaway into the distance, he did not notice the woman who, stepping from thecar at that moment, stood directly behind him, steadying herself by thebrass railing in front of the window. To their idly observing fellowpassengers, the woman, too, appeared interested in the distant landscape. She might have been looking at the only other occupant of the platform. The passengers, from where they sat, could not have told. 

As he stood there, --against the background of the primitive, many-coloredlandscape, --the young man might easily have attracted the attention ofany one. He would have attracted attention in a crowd. Tall, with anathletic trimness of limb, a good breadth of shoulder, and a fine headpoised with that natural, unconscious pride of the well-bred--he kept hisfeet on the unsteady platform of the car with that easy grace which marksonly well-conditioned muscles, and is rarely seen save in those whoselives are sanely clean. 

The Express had entered the yards at the summit station, and was graduallylessening its speed. Just as the man turned to enter the car, the traincame to a full stop, and the sudden jar threw him almost into the arms ofthe woman. For an instant, while he was struggling to regain his balance, he was so close to her that their garments touched. Indeed, he onlyprevented an actual collision by throwing his arm across her shoulder andcatching the side of the car window against which she was leaning. 

In that moment, while his face was so close to hers that she might havefelt his breath upon her cheek and he was involuntarily looking straightinto her eyes, the man felt, queerly, that the woman was not shrinkingfrom him. In fact, one less occupied with other thoughts might haveconstrued her bold, open look, her slightly parted lips and flushedcheeks, as a welcome--quite as though she were in the habit of havinghandsome young men throw themselves into her arms. 

Then, with a hint of a smile in his eyes, he was saying, conventionally, "I beg your pardon. It was very stupid of me. "

As he spoke, a mask of cold indifference slipped over her face. Withoutdeigning to notice his courteous apology, she looked away, and, moving tothe railing of the platform, became ostensibly interested in the busyactivity of the railroad yards. 

Had the woman--in that instant when his arm was over her shoulder and hiseyes were looking into hers--smiled, the incident would have slippedquickly from his mind. As it was, the flash-like impression of the momentremained, and--

Down the steep grade of the narrow San Timateo Canyon, on the coast sideof the mountain pass, the Overland thundered on the last stretch of itslong race to the western edge of the continent. And now, from the carwindows, the passengers caught tantalizing glimpses of bright pastureswith their herds of contented dairy cows, and with their white ranchbuildings set in the shade of giant pepper and eucalyptus trees. On therounded shoulders and steep flanks of the foothills that form the sides ofthe canyon, the barley fields looked down upon the meadows; and, now andthen, in the whirling landscape winding side canyons--beautiful withlive-oak and laurel, with greasewood and sage--led the eye away toward thepine-fringed ridges of the Galenas while above, the higher snow-clad peaksand domes of the San Bernardinos still shone coldly against the blue. 

In the Pullman, there was a stir of awakening interest The travel-weariedpassengers, laying aside books and magazines and cards, renewedconversations that, in the last monotonous hours of the desert part ofthe journey, had lagged painfully. Throughout the train, there was an airof eager expectancy; a bustling movement of preparation. The woman of theobservation car platform had disappeared into her stateroom. The young mangathered his things together in readiness to leave the train at the nextstop. 

In the flying pictures framed by the windows, the dairy pastures andmeadows were being replaced by small vineyards and orchards; the canyonwall, on the northern side, became higher and steeper, shutting out themountains in the distance and showing only a fringe of trees on the sharprim; while against the gray and yellow and brown and green of thechaparral on the steep, untilled bluffs, shone the silvery softness of theolive trees that border the arroyo at their feet. 

With a long, triumphant shriek, the flying overland train--from the landsof ice and snow--from barren deserts and lonely mountains--rushed from thenarrow mouth of the canyon, and swept out into the beautiful SanBernardino Valley where the travelers were greeted by wide, green miles oforange and lemon and walnut and olive groves--by many acres of gardens andvineyards and orchards. Amid these groves and gardens, the towns andcities are set; their streets and buildings half hidden in wildernesses ofeucalyptus and peppers and palms; while--towering above the loveliness ofthe valley and visible now from the sweeping lines of their foothills tothe gleaming white of their lonely peaks--rises, in blue-veiled, cloud-flecked steeps and purple shaded canyons, the beauty and grandeur ofthe mountains. 

It was January. To those who had so recently left the winter lands, theSouthern California scene--so richly colored with its many shades ofliving green, so warm in its golden sunlight--seemed a dream of fairyland. It was as though that break in the mountain wall had ushered them suddenlyinto another world--a world, strange, indeed, to eyes accustomed to snowand ice and naked trees and leaden clouds. 

Among the many little cities half concealed in the luxurious, semi-tropical verdure of the wide valley at the foot of the mountains, Fairlands--if you ask a citizen of that well-known mecca of thetourist--is easily the Queen. As for that! all our Southern Californiacities are set in wildernesses of beauty; all are in wide valleys; all areat the foot of the mountains; all are meccas for tourists; each one--ifyou ask a citizen--is the Queen. If you, perchance should question thisfact--write for our advertising literature. 

Passengers on the Golden State Limited--as perhaps you know--do not godirect to Fairlands. They change at Fairlands Junction. The little city, itself, is set in the lap of the hills that form the southern side of thevalley, some three miles from the main line. It is as though thisparticular "Queen" withdrew from the great highway traveled by the vulgarherd--in the proud aloofness of her superior clay, sufficient untoherself. The soil out of which Fairlands is made is much richer, it issaid, than the common dirt of her sister cities less than fifteen milesdistant. A difference of only a few feet in elevation seems, strangely, togive her a much more rarefied air. Her proudest boast is that she has alarger number of millionaires in proportion to her population than anyother city in the land. 

It was these peculiar and well-known advantages of Fairlands that led theyoung man of my story to select it as the starting point of his worthyambition. And Fairlands is a good place for one so richly endowed with aninheritance that cannot be expressed in dollars to try his strength. Givensuch a community, amid such surroundings, with a man like the young man ofmy story, and something may be depended upon to happen. 

While the travelers from the East, bound for Fairlands, were waiting atthe Junction for the local train that would take them through the orangegroves to their journey's end, the young man noticed the woman of theobservation car platform with her two companions. And now, as he paced toand fro, enjoying the exercise after the days of confinement in thePullman, he observed them with stimulated interest--they, too, were goingto Fairlands. 

The man of the party, though certainly not old in years, was frightfullyaged by dissipation and disease. The gross, sensual mouth with itsloose-hanging lips; the blotched and clammy skin; the pale, watery eyeswith their inflamed rims and flabby pouches; the sunken chest, skinny neckand limbs; and the thin rasping voice--all cried aloud the shame of amisspent life. It was as clearly evident that he was a man of wealth and, in the eyes of the world, of an enviable social rank. 

As the young man passed and repassed them, where they stood under the bigpepper tree that shades the depot, the man--in his harsh, throaty whisper, between spasms of coughing--was cursing the train service, the country, the weather; and, apparently, whatever else he could think of as beingworthy or unworthy his impotent ill-temper. The shadowy suggestion ofwomanhood--glancing toward the young man--was saying, with affectedgiggles, "O papa, don't! Oh isn't it perfectly lovely! O papa, don't! Dohush! What will people think?" This last variation of his daughter'splaint must have given the man some satisfaction, at least, for itfurnished him another target for his pointless shafts; and he fairlyoutdid himself in politely damning whoever might presume to think anythingat all of him; with the net result that two Mexicans, who were loafingnear enough to hear, grinned with admiring amusement. The woman stood alittle apart from the others. Coldly indifferent alike to the man'scursing and coughing and to the daughter's ejaculations, she appeared tobe looking at the mountains. But the young man fancied that, once ortwice, as he faced about at the end of his beat, her eyes were turned inhis direction. 

When the Fairlands train came in, the three found seats convenientlyturned, near the forward end of the car. The young man, in passing, glanced down; and the woman, who had taken the chair next to the aisle, looked up full into his face. 

Again, as their eyes met, the man felt--as when they had stood so closetogether on the platform of the observation car--that she did not shrinkfrom him. It was only for an instant. Then, glancing about for a seat, hesaw another face--a face, in its outlines, so like the one into which hehad just looked, and yet so different--so far removed in its expressionand meaning--that it fixed his attention instantly--compelling hisinterest. 

As this woman sat looking from the car window away toward the distantmountain peaks, the young man thought he had never seen a more perfectprofile; nor a countenance that expressed such a beautiful blending ofwistful longing, of patient fortitude, and saintly resignation. It was theface of a Madonna, --but a Madonna after the crucifixion, --pathetic in itslonely sorrow, inspiring in its spiritual strength, and holy in its purityand freedom from earthly passions. 

She was near his mother's age; and looking at her--as he moved down theaisle--his mother's face, as he had known it before their last meeting, came to him with startling vividness. For an instant, he paused, moved totake the chair beside her; but the next two seats were vacant, and he hadno excuse for intruding. Arranging his grips, he quickly seated himselfnext to the window; and again, with eager interest, turned toward thewoman in the chair ahead. Involuntarily, he started with astonishment andpity. 

The woman--still gazing from the window at the distant mountain peaks, andseemingly unconscious of her surroundings--presented now, to the man'sshocked and compassionate gaze, the other side of her face. It washideously disfigured by a great scar that--covering the entire cheek andneck--distorted the corner of the mouth, drew down the lower lid of theeye, and twisted her features into an ugly caricature. Even the ear, halfhidden under the soft, gray-threaded hair, had not escaped, but wasdeformed by the same dreadful agent that had wrought such ruin to one ofthe loveliest countenances the man had ever looked upon. 

When the train stopped at Fairlands, and the passengers crowded into theaisle to make their way out, of the characters belonging to my story, thewoman with the man and his daughter went first. Following them, a halfcar-length of people between, went the woman with the disfigured face. 

On the depot platform, as they moved toward the street, the young manstill held his place near the woman who had so awakened his pityinginterest. The three Overland passengers were met by a heavy-facedthick-necked man who escorted them to a luxurious touring car. 

The invalid and his daughter had entered the automobile when their escort, in turning toward the other member of the party, saw the woman with thedisfigured face--who was now quite near. Instantly, he paused. And therewas a smile of recognition on his somewhat coarse features as, lifting hishat, he bowed with--the young man fancied--condescending politeness. Thewoman standing by his side with her hand upon the door of the automobile, seeing her companion saluting some one, turned--and the next moment, thetwo women, whose features seemed so like--yet so unlike--were face toface. 

The young man saw the woman with the disfigured face stop short. For aninstant, she stood as though dazed by an unexpected blow. Then, holdingout her hands with a half-pleading, half-groping gesture, she staggeredand would have fallen had he not stepped to her side. 

"Permit me, madam; you are ill. "

She neither spoke nor moved; but, with her eyes fixed upon the woman bythe automobile, allowed him to support her--seemingly unconscious of hispresence. And never before had the young man seen such anguish of spiritwritten in a human countenance. 

The one who had saluted her, advanced--as though to offer his services. But, as he moved toward her, she shrank back with a low--"No, no!" Andsuch a look of horror and fear came into her eyes that the man by her sidefelt his muscles tense with indignation. 

Looking straight into the heavy face of the stranger, he said curtly, "Ithink you had better go on. "

With a careless shrug, the other turned and went back to the automobile, where he spoke in a low tone to his companions. 

The woman, who had been watching with a cold indifference, stepped intothe car. The man took his seat by the chauffeur. As the big machine movedaway, the woman with the disfigured face, again made as if to stretchforth her hands in a pleading gesture. 

The young man spoke pityingly; "May I assist you to a carriage, madam?"

At his words, she looked up at him and--seeming to find in his face thestrength she needed--answered in a low voice, "Thank you, sir; I am betternow. I will he all right, presently, if you will put me on the car. " Sheindicated a street-car that was just stopping at the crossing. 

"Are you quite sure that you are strong enough?" he asked kindly, as hewalked with her toward the car. 

"Yes, "--with a sad attempt to smile, --"yes, and I thank you very much, sir, for your gentle courtesy. "

He assisted her up the step of the car, and stood with bared head as shepassed inside, and the conductor gave the signal. 

The incident had attracted little attention from the passengers who werehurrying from the train. Their minds were too intent upon other things tomore than glance at this little ripple on the surface of life. Those whohad chanced to notice the woman's agitation had seen, also, that she wasbeing cared for; and so had passed on, giving the scene no second thought. 

When the man returned from the street to his grips on the depot platform, the hacks and hotel buses were gone. As he stood looking about, questioningly, for some one who might direct him to a hotel, his eyesfell upon a strange individual who was regarding him intently. 

Fully six feet in height, the observer was so lean that he suggested theunpleasant appearance of a living skeleton. His narrow shoulders were sorounded, his form was so stooped, that the young man's first thought wasto wonder how tall he would really be if he could stand erect. His long, thin face, seamed and lined, was striking in its grotesque ugliness. Fromunder his craggy, scowling brows, his sharp green-gray eyes peered with acurious expression of baffling, quizzing, half pathetic, and whollycynical, interrogation. He was smoking a straight, much-used brier pipe. At his feet, lay a beautiful Irish Setter dog. 

Half hidden by a supporting column of the depot portico--as if to escapethe notice of the people in the automobile--he had been watching the womanwith the disfigured face, with more than casual interest. He turned, now, upon the young man who had so kindly given her assistance. 

In answer to the stranger's inquiry, with a curt sentence and a nod of hishead he directed him to a hotel--two blocks away. 

Thanking him, the young man, carrying his grips, set out. Upon reachingthe street, he involuntarily turned to look back. 

The oddly appearing character had not moved from his place, but stood, still looking after the stranger--the brier pipe in his mouth, the IrishSetter at his feet. 

Chapter III

The Famous Conrad Lagrange

When the young man reached the hotel, he went at once to his room, wherehe passed the time between the hour of his arrival and the evening meal. 

Upon his return to the lobby, the first object that attracted his eyes wasthe uncouth figure of the man whom he had seen at the depot, and who haddirected him to the hotel. 

That oddly appearing individual, his brier pipe still in his mouth and theIrish Setter at his feet, was standing--or rather lounging--at the clerk'scounter, bending over the register; an attitude which--making hisskeleton-like form more round shouldered than ever--caused him to presentthe general outlines of a rude interrogation point. 

In the dining-room, a few minutes later, the two men sat at adjoiningtables; and the young man heard his neighbor bullying the waiters andcommenting in an audible undertone, upon every dish that was served tohim--swearing by all the heathen gods, known and unknown, that there wasnothing fit to eat in the house; and that if it were not for the fact thatthere was no place else in the cursed town that served half so good, hewould not touch a mouthful in the place. Then, to the other's secretamusement he fell to right heartily and made an astonishing meal of thereally excellent viands he had so roundly vilified. 

Dinner over, the young man went with his cigar to the long veranda; intentupon enjoying the restful quiet of the evening after the tiresome days onthe train. Carrying a chair to an unoccupied corner, he had his cigar justnicely under way when the Irish Setter--with all the dignity of his royalblood--approached. Resting a seal-brown head, with its long silky ears, confidently upon the stranger's knee, the dog looked up into the man'sface with an expression of hearty good-fellowship in his soft, golden-brown eyes that was irresistible. 

"Good dog, " said the man, heartily, "good old fellow, " and stroked thesleek head and neck, affectionately. 

A whiff of pipe smoke drifted over his shoulder, and he looked around. Thedog's master stood just behind him; regarding him with that quizzing, halfpathetic, half humorous, and altogether cynical expression. 

The young man who had been so unresponsive to the advances of his fellowpassengers, for some reason--unknown, probably, to himself--now took theinitiative. "You have a fine dog here, sir, " he said encouragingly. 

Without replying, the other turned away and in another moment returnedwith a chair; whereupon the dog, with slightly waving, feathery tail, transferred his attention to his master. 

Caressing the seal-brown head with a gentle hand, and apparently speakingto the soft eyes that looked up at him so understandingly, the man said, "If the human race was fit to associate with such dogs, the world would bea more comfortable place to live in. " The deep voice that rumbled up fromsome unguessed depths of that sunken chest was remarkable in itssuggestion of a virile power that the general appearance of the man seemedto deny. Facing his companion suddenly, he asked with a direct bluntness, "Are you not Aaron King--son of the Aaron King of New England politicalfame?"

Under the searching gaze of those green-gray eyes, the young man flushed. "Yes; my father was active in New England politics, " he answered simply. "Did you know him?"

"Very well"--returned the other--"very well. " He repeated the two wordswith a suggestive emphasis; his eyes--with that curious, baffling, questioning look--still fixed upon his companion's face. 

The red in Aaron King's cheeks deepened. 

Looking away, the strange man added, with a softer note in his roughvoice, "I thought I knew you, when I saw you at the depot. Your mother andI were boy and girl together. There is a little of her face in yours. Ifyou have as much of her character, you are to be congratulated--and--soare the rest of us. " The last words were spoken, apparently, to the dog;who, still looking up at him, seemed to express with slow-waving tail, anunderstanding of thoughts that were only partly put into words. 

There was an impersonality in the man's personalities that made itimpossible for the subject of his observations to take offense. 

Aaron King--when it was evident that the man had no thought ofintroducing himself--said, with the fine courtesy that seemed always tofind expression in his voice and manner, "May I ask your name, sir?"

The other, without turning his eyes from the dog, answered, "ConradLagrange. "

The young man smiled. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lagrange. Surely, you are not the famous novelist of that name?"

"And _why_, 'surely not'?" retorted the other, again turning his facequickly toward his companion. "Am I not distinguished enough inappearance? Do I look like the mob? True, I am a scrawny, humpbackedcrooked-faced, scarecrow of a man--but what matters _that_, if I do notlook like the mob? What is called fame is as scrawny and humpbacked andcrooked-faced as my body--but what matters _that?_ Famous or infamous--tonot look like the mob is the thing. "

It is impossible to put in print the peculiar humor of pathetic regret, ofsarcasm born of contempt, of intolerant intellectual pride, that markedthe last sentence, which was addressed to the dog, as though the speakerturned from his human companion to a more worthy listener. 

When Aaron King could find no words to reply, the novelist shot anotherquestion at him, with startling suddenness. "Do you read my books?"

The other began a halting answer to the effect that everybody read ConradLagrange's books. But the distinguished author interrupted; "Don't takethe trouble to lie--out of politeness. I shall ask you to tell me aboutthem and you will be in a hole. "

The young man laughed as he said, with straight-forward frankness, "I haveread only one, Mr. Lagrange. "

"Which one?"

"The--ah--why--the one, you know--where the husband of one woman falls inlove with the wife of another who is in love with the husband of some oneelse. Pshaw!--what is the title? I mean the one that created such afurore, you know. "

"Yes"--said the man, to his dog--"O yes, Czar--I am the famous ConradLagrange. I observe"--he added, turning to the other, with twinklingeyes--"I observe, Mr. King, that you really _do_ have a good bit of yourmother's character. That you do not read my books is a recommendation thatI, better than any one, know how to appreciate. " The light of humor wentfrom his face, suddenly, as it had come. Again he turned away; and hisdeep voice was gentle as he continued, "Your mother is a rare andbeautiful spirit, sir. Knowing her regard for the true and genuine, --herlove for the pure and beautiful, --I scarcely expected to find her soninterested in the realism of _my_ fiction. I congratulate you, youngman"--he paused; then added with indescribable bitterness--"that you havenot read my books. "

For a few moments, Aaron King did not answer. At last, with quiet dignity, he said, "My mother was a remarkable woman, Mr. Lagrange. "

The other faced him quickly. "You say _was_? Do you mean--?"

"My mother is dead, sir. I was called home from abroad by her illness. "

For a little, the older man sat looking into the gathering dusk. Then, deliberately, he refilled his brier pipe, and, rising, said to his dog, "Come, Czar--it's time to go. "

Without a word of parting to his human companion with the dog movingsedately by his side, he disappeared into the darkness of the night. 

 * * * * *

All the next day, Aaron King--in the hotel dining-room, the lobby, and onthe veranda--watched for the famous novelist. Even on the streets of thelittle city, he found himself hoping to catch a glimpse of the uncouthfigure and the homely, world-worn face of the man whose unusualpersonality had so attracted him. The day was nearly gone when ConradLagrange again appeared. As on the evening before, the young man wassmoking his after-dinner cigar on the veranda, when the Irish Setter and awhiff of pipe smoke announced the strange character's presence. 

Without taking a seat, the novelist said, "I always have a look at themountains, at this time of the day, Mr. King--would you care to come?These mountains are the real thing, you know, and well worthseeing--particularly at this hour. " There was a gentle softness in hisdeep voice, now--as unlike his usual speech as his physical appearance wasunlike that of his younger companion. 

Aaron King arose quickly. "Thank you, Mr, Lagrange; I will go withpleasure. "

Accompanied by the dog, they followed the avenue, under the giant peppertrees that shut out the sky with their gnarled limbs and gracefullydrooping branches, to the edge of the little city; where the view to thenorth and northeast was unobstructed by houses. Just where the streetbecame a road, Conrad Lagrange--putting his hand upon his companion'sarm--said in a low voice, "This is the place. "

Behind them, beautiful Fairlands lay, half lost, in its wilderness oftrees and flowers. Immediately in the foreground, a large tract ofunimproved land brought the wild grasses and plants to their very feet. Beyond these acres--upon which there were no trees--the orange groves weremassed in dark green blocks and squares; with, here and there, thin rowsof palms; clumps of peppers; or tall, plume-like eucalyptus; to mark theroads and the ranch homes. Beyond this--and rising, seemingly, out of thegroves--the San Bernardinos heaved their mighty masses into the sky. Itwas almost dark. The city's lamps were lighted. The outlines of grove andgarden were fast being lost in the deepening dusk. The foothills, with thelower spurs and ridges of the mountains, were softly modeled in dark blueagainst the deeper purple of the canyons and gorges. Upon the cloudlesssky that was lighted with clearest saffron, the lines of the higher crestswere sharply drawn; while the lonely, snow-capped peaks, --ten thousandfeet above the darkening valley below, --catching the last rays of the sun, glowed rose-pink--changing to salmon--deepening into mauve--as the lightfailed. 

Aaron King broke the silence by drawing a long breath--as one who couldfind no words to express his emotions. 

Conrad Lagrange spoke sadly; "And to think that there are, --in this cityof ten thousand, --probably, nine thousand nine hundred and ninety peoplewho never see it. "

With a short laugh, the young man said, "It makes my fingers fairly itchfor my palette and brushes--though it's not at all my sort of thing. "

The other turned toward him quickly. "You are an artist?"

"I had just completed my three years study abroad when mother's illnessbrought me home. I was fortunate enough to get one on the line, and theysay--over there--that I had a good chance. I don't know how it will gohere at home. " There was a note of anxiety in his voice. 

"What do you do?"

"Portraits. "

[Illustration: A curious expression of baffling quizzing half pathetic andwholly cynical interrogation]

With his face again toward the mountains, the novelist said thoughtfully, "This West country will produce some mighty artists, Mr. King. By far thegreater part of this land must remain, always, in its primitivenaturalness. It will always be easier, here, than in the city crowdedEast, for a man to be himself. There is less of that spirit which is bornof clubs and cliques and clans and schools--with their fine-spuntheorizing, and their impudent assumption that they are divinelycommissioned to sit in judgment. There is less of artistic tea-drinking, esthetic posing, and soulful talk; and more opportunity for thatloneliness out of which great art comes. The atmosphere of these mountainsand deserts and seas inspires to a self-assertion, rather than to aclinging fast to the traditions and culture of others--and what, afterall, _is_ a great artist, but one who greatly asserts himself?"

The younger man answered in a like vein; "Mr. Lagrange, your words recallto my mind a thought in one of mother's favorite books. She quoted fromthe volume so often that, as a youngster, I almost knew it by heart, and, in turn, it became my favorite. Indeed, I think that, with mother's aid asan interpreter, it has had more influence upon my life than any other onebook. This is the thought: 'To understand the message of the mountains; tolove them for what they are; and, in terms of every-day life, to giveexpression to that understanding and love--is a mark of true greatness ofsoul. ' I do not know the author. The book is anonymous. "

"I am the author of that book, sir, " the strange man answered with simpledignity, "--or, rather, --I should say, --I _was_ the author, " he added, with a burst of his bitter, sarcastic humor. "For God's sake don't betrayme. I am, _now_, the _famous_ Conrad Lagrange, you understand. I have a_name_ to protect. " His deep voice was shaken with feeling. His worn andrugged features twitched and worked with emotion. 

Aaron King listened in amazement to the words that were spoken by thefamous novelist with such pathetic regret and stinging self-accusation. Not knowing how to reply, he said casually, "You are working here, Mr. Lagrange?"

"Working! Me? I don't _work_ anywhere. I am a literary scavenger. I hauntthe intellectual slaughter pens, and live by the putrid offal thatself-respecting writers reject. I glean the stinking materials for mystories from the sewers and cesspools of life. For the dollars they pay, Ifurnish my readers with those thrills that public decency forbids them toexperience at first hand. I am a procurer for the purposes of mentalprostitution. My books breed moral pestilence and spiritual disease. Theunholy filth I write fouls the minds and pollutes the imaginations of myreaders. I am an instigator of degrading immorality and unmentionablecrimes. _Work_! No, young man, I don't work. Just now, I'm doing penancein this damned town. My rotten imaginings have proven too much--even forme--and the doctors sent me West to recuperate, "

The artist could find no words that would answer. In silence, the two menturned away from the mountains, and started back along the avenue by whichthey had come. 

When they had walked some little distance, the young man said, "This isyour first visit to Fairlands, Mr. Lagrange?"

"I was here last year"--answered the other--"here and in the hills yonder. Have _you_ been much in the mountains?"

"Not in California. This is my first trip to the West. I have seensomething of the mountains, though, at tourist resorts--abroad. "

"Which means, " commented the other, "that you have never seen them atall. "

Aaron King laughed. "I dare say you are right. "

"And you--?" asked the novelist, abruptly, eyeing his companion. "Whatbrought you to this community that thinks so much more of its millionairesthan it does of its mountains? Have _you_ come to Fairlands to work?"

"I hope to, " answered the artist. "There are--there are reasons why I donot care to work, for the present, in the East. I confess it was because Iunderstood that Fairlands offered exceptional opportunities for a portraitpainter that I came here. To succeed in my work, you know, one must comein touch with people of influence. It is sometimes easier to interest themwhen they are away from their homes--in some place like this--where theirsocial duties and business cares are not so pressing. "

"There is no question of the material that Fairlands has to offer, Mr. King, " returned the novelist, in his grim, sarcastic humor. "God! how Ienvy you!" he added, with a flash of earnest passion. "You are young--Youare beginning your life work--You are looking forward to success--You--"

"I _must_ succeed"--the painter interrupted impetuously--"I must. "

"Succeed in _what_? What do you mean by success?"

"Surely, _you_ should understand what I mean by success, " the younger manretorted. "You who have gained--"

"Oh, yes; I forgot"--came the quick interruption--"I am the _famous_Conrad Lagrange. Of course, you, too, must succeed. You must become the_famous_ Aaron King. But perhaps you will tell me why you must, as youcall it, succeed?"

The artist hesitated before answering; then said with anxious earnestness, "I don't think I can explain Mr. Lagrange. My mother--" he paused. 

The older man stopped short, and, turning, stood for a little with hisface towards the mountains where San Bernardino's pyramid-like peak wasthrust among the stars. When he spoke, every bit of that bitter humor wasgone from his deep voice. "I beg your pardon, Mr. King"--he saidslowly--"I am as ugly and misshapen in spirit as in body. "

But when they had walked some way--again in silence--and were drawing nearthe hotel, the momentary change in his mood passed. In a tone of stingingsarcasm he said. "You are on the right road, Mr. King. You did well tocome to Fairlands. It is quite evident that you have mastered the moderntechnic of your art. To acquire fame, you have only to paint pictures offast women who have no morals at all--making them appear as innocentmaidens, because they have the price to pay, and, in the eyes of theworld, are of social importance. Put upon your canvases what the worldwill call portraits of distinguished citizens--making low-browedmoney--thugs to look like noble patriots, and bloody butchers of humanitylike benevolent saints. You need give yourself no uneasiness about yoursuccess. It is easy. Get in with the right people; use your family nameand your distinguished ancestors; pull a few judicious advertising wires;do a few artistic stunts; get yourself into the papers long and often, nomatter how; make yourself a fad; become a pet of the social autocrats--andyour fame is assured. And--you will be what I am. "

The young man, quietly ignoring the humor of the novelist's words, saidprotestingly, "But, surely, to portray human nature is legitimate art, Mr. Lagrange. Your great artists that the West is to produce will notnecessarily be landscape painters or write essays upon nature, will they?"

"To portray human nature is legitimate work for an artist, yes"--agreedthe novelist--"but he must portray human nature _plus_. The forces that_shape_ human nature are the forces that must be felt in the picture andin the story. That these determining forces are so seldom seen by the eyesof the world, is the reason _for_ pictures and stories. The artist whofails to realize for his world the character-creating elements in the lifewhich he essays to paint or write, fails, to just that degree, in being anartist; or is self-branded by his work as criminally careless, a charlatanor a liar. That one who, for a price, presents a picture or a storywithout regard for the influence of his production upon the characters ofthose who receive it, commits a crime for which human law provides noadequate punishment. Being the famous Conrad Lagrange, you understand, Ihave the right to say this. You will probably believe it, some day--ifyou do not now. That is, you will believe it if you have the soul and theintelligence of an artist--if you have not--it will not matter--and youwill be happy in your success. "

As the novelist finished speaking, the two men arrived at the hotel steps, where they halted, with that indecision of chance acquaintances who haveno plans beyond the passing moment, yet who, in mutual interest, wouldextend the time of their brief companionship. While they stood there, eachhesitating to make the advance, a big touring car rolled up the driveway, and stopped under the full light of the veranda. Aaron King recognized thelady of the observation car platform, with her two traveling companionsand the heavy-faced man who had met them at the depot. As the partygreeted the novelist and he returned their salutation, the artist turnedaway to find again the chair, where, an hour before, the strange characterwho was to play so large a part in his life and work had found him. Thedog, Czar, as if preferring the companionship of the artist to the companyof those who were engaging his master's attention, followed the young man. 

From where he sat, the painter could see the tall, uncouth figure of thefamous novelist standing beside the automobile, while the occupants of thecar were, apparently, absorbingly interested in what he was saying. Thebeautiful face of the woman was brightly animated as she evidently tookthe lead in the conversation. The artist could see her laughing andshaking her head. Once, he even heard her speak the writer's name;whereupon, every lounger upon the veranda, within hearing, turned toobserve the party with curious interest. Several times, the young mannoted that she glanced in his direction, half inquiringly, with asuggestion of being pleased, as though she were glad to have seen him incompany with her celebrated friend. Then the man who held so large a placein the eyes of the world drew back, lifting his hat; the automobilestarted forward; the party called, "Good night. " The woman's voice roseclear--so that the spectators might easily understand--"Remember, Mr. Lagrange--I shall expect you Thursday--day after to-morrow. "

As Conrad Lagrange came up the hotel steps, the eyes of all were upon him;but he--apparently unconscious of the company--went straight to theartist; where, without a word, he dropped into the vacant chair by theyoung man's side, and began thoughtfully refilling his brier pipe. Flipping the match over the veranda railing, and expelling a prodigiouscloud of smoke, the novelist said grimly, "And there--my fellow artist--goyour masters. I trust you observed them with proper reverence. I wouldhave introduced you, but I do not like to take the initiative in suchoutrages. That will come soon enough. The young should be permitted toenjoy their freedom while they may. "

Aaron King laughed. "Thank you for your consideration, " he returned, "butI do not think I am in any immediate danger. "

"Which"--the other retorted dryly--"betrays either innocence, caution, oran unusual understanding of life. I am not, now, prepared to say whetheryou know too much or too little. "

"I confess to a degree of curiosity, " said the artist. "I traveled in thesame Pullman with three of the party. May I ask the names of yourfriends?"

The other answered in his bitterest vein; "I have no friends, Mr. King--Ihave only admirers. As for their names"--he continued--"there is no reasonwhy I should withhold either who they are or what they are. Besides, Iobserved that the reigning 'Goddess' in the realm of 'Modern Art' has hereye upon you, already. As I shall very soon be commanded to drag you toher 'Court, ' it is well for you to be prepared. "

The young man laughed as the other paused to puff vigorously at his brierpipe. 

"That red-faced, bull-necked brute, is James Rutlidge, the son and heir ofold Jim Rutlidge, " continued the novelist. "Jim inherited a few oddmillions from _his_ father, and killed himself spending them inunmentionable ways. The son is most worthily carrying out his father'smission, with bright prospects of exceeding his distinguished parent'sfondest dreams. But, unfortunately, _he_ is hampered by lack of adequatecapital--the bulk of the family wealth having gone with the old man. "

"Do you mean James Rutlidge--the great critic?" exclaimed Aaron King, withincreased interest. 

"The same, " answered the other, with his twisted smile. "I thought youwould recognize his name. As an artist, you will undoubtedly have much todo with him. His friendship is one of the things that are vital to yoursuccess. Believe me, his power in modern art is a red-faced, bull-neckedpower that you will do well to recognize. Of his companions, " he went on, "the horrible example is Edward J. Taine--friend and fellow martyr ofJames Rutlidge, Senior. Satan, perhaps, can explain how he has managed tooutlive his partner. His home is in New York, but he has a big house onFairlands Heights, with large orange groves in this district. He comeshere winters for his health. He'll die before long. The effervescing youngcreature is his daughter, Louise--by his first wife. The 'Goddess'--who isnot much older than his daughter--is the present Mrs. Taine. "

"His wife!"

The artist's exclamation drew a sarcastic chuckle from the other. "I amprepared, now, to testify to your unworldly innocence of heart and mind, "he gibed. "And, pray, why not his wife? You see, she was the ward of oldRutlidge--a niece, it is said. Mrs. Rutlidge--as you have no doubtheard--killed herself. It was shortly after her death that Jim took thislittle one into his home. She and young Jim grew up together. What wasmore natural or fitting than that her guardian--when he was about todepart from this sad world where human flesh is not able to endure anunlimited amount of dissipation--should give the girl as a lively souvenirto his bosom friend and companion of his unmentionable deviltries? Thetransaction also enabled him, you understand, to draw upon the Tainemillions; and so permitted him to finish his distinguished career withcredit. You, with your artist's extravagant fancy, have, no doubt, beenthinking of her as fashioned for _love_. I assure you _she_ knows better. The world in which she has been schooled has left her no hazy ideas as towhat she was made for. "

"I have heard of the Taines, " said the younger man, thoughtfully. "Isuppose this is the same family. They are very prominent in the socialworld, and quite generous patrons of the arts?"

"In the eyes of the world, " said the novelist, "they are the noblest ofour Nobility. They dwell in the rarefied atmosphere of millions. By thedollarless multitudes they are envied. They assume to be the cultured ofthe cultured. Patrons of the arts! Why, man, _they have autographed copiesof all my books!_ They and their kind _feed_ me and my kind. They willfeed you, sir, or by God you'll starve! But you need have no fear that thecrust of genius will be your portion, " he added meaningly. "As Iremarked--the 'Goddess' has her eye upon you. "

"And why do you so distinguish the lady?" asked the artist, quietlyamused--with just a hint of well-bred condescension. "Has Mrs. Taine suchpowerful influence in the world of art?"

If Conrad Lagrange noticed his companion's manner he passed it by. "Iperceive, " he said, "that you are still somewhat lacking in the rudimentsof your profession. The statement of faith adhered to by modern climberson the ladder of fame--such as I have been, and you aspire to be--is that'Pull' wins. Our creed is 'Graft. ' By 'Influence' we stand, by'Influence' we fall. It pleases Mrs. Taine to be, in the world of art, alobbyist. She knows the insides of the inside rings and cliques andcommittees that say what is, and what is not, art; that declare who shallbe, and who shall not be, artists. She has power with those who, in theirmight, grant position and place in the halls of fame; as their kinsmen inthe political world pass the plums to those who court their favor. Thegreat critics who thunder anathemas at the poor devils who are outside, eat out of her hand. Jim Rutlidge and his unholy crew are at her beck andcall. Jim, you see, needing all he can get of the Taine millions, hopes tomarry Louise. You can scarcely blame the young and beautiful Mrs. Tainefor not being interested in her husband--who is going to die so soon. Thepoor girl must have some amusement, so she interests herself in art, don'tyou know. She gives more dinners to artists and critics; buys morepictures and causes more pictures to be bought; mothers more art-cultureclubs; discovers more new and startling geniuses; in short, has a largerand better trained company of lions than any one else in the business. Shedeals in lions. It's her fad to collect them--same as others collectbutterflies or postage stamps. She has one other fad that is less harmfuland just as deceptive--a carefully nourished reputation for prudery. Isometimes think the Gods must laugh or choke. That woman would no morespeak to you without a proper introduction than she would appear on thestreet without shoes or stockings. She has never been seen in an eveninggown. Her beautiful shoulders have never been immodestly bared to theeyes of the world. "

The artist thought of that moment on the observation car platform. 

Presently, the novelist--refilling his pipe--said whimsically, "Some day, Mr. King, I shall write a true story. It shall be a novel of to-day, withcharacters drawn from life; and these characters, in my story, shall bearthe names of the forces that have made them what they are and which they, in turn, have come to represent. I mean those forces that are so coloringand shaping the life and thought of this age. "

"That ought to be interesting, " said the other, "but I am not quite surethat I understand. "

"Probably you don't. You have not been thinking much of these things. Youhave your eye upon Fame, and that old witch lives in another direction. Toillustrate--our bull-necked friend and illustrious critic, James Rutlidge, in my story, will be named 'Sensual. ' His distinguished father was one'Lust. ' The horrible example, Mr. Edward Taine, --boon companion of'Lust, '--is 'Materialism'. "

"Good!" laughed the artist. "I see; go on. Who is the daughter of'Materialism?'"

"'Ragtime', " promptly returned the novelist, with a grin. "Who else couldshe be?"

"And Mrs. Taine?" urged the other. 

The novelist responded quickly; "Why, the reigning 'Goddess' in the realmof 'Modern Art, ' is 'The Age, ' of course. Do you see? 'The Age' given overto 'Materialism' for base purposes by his companion, 'Lust. ' And you----"he paused. 

"Go on, " cried the young man, "who or what am I in your story?"

"You, sir, "--answered Conrad Lagrange, seriously, --"in my story of modernlife, represent Art. It remains to be seen whether 'The Age' will add youto her collection, or whether some other influence will intervene. "

"And you"--persisted the artist--"surely you are in the story. "

"I am very much in the story, " the other answered. "My name is'Civilization. ' My story will be published when I am dead. I have areputation to sustain, you know. "

Aaron King was not laughing, now. Something, that lay deep hidden beneaththe rude exterior of the man, made itself felt in his deep voice. Somepowerful force, underlying his whimsical words, gripped the artist'smind--compelling him to search for hidden meanings in the novelist'sfanciful suggestions. 

A few moments passed in silence before the young man said slowly, "I met acharacter, yesterday, Mr. Lagrange, that might be added to your cast. "

"There are several that will be added to my cast, " the other answereddryly. 

To which the painter returned, "Did you notice that woman with thedisfigured face, at the depot?"

Conrad Lagrange looked at his companion, quickly. "Yes. "

"Do you know her?" questioned the artist. 

"No. Why do you ask?"

"Only because she interested me, and because she seemed to know yourfriends--Mr. Rutlidge and Mrs. Taine. "

The novelist knocked the ashes from his pipe by tapping it on the verandarailing. The action seemed to express a peculiar mental effort; as thoughhe were striving to recall something that had gone from his memory. "I sawwhat happened at the depot, of course, " he said slowly. "I have seen thewoman before. She lives here in Fairlands. Her name is Miss Willard. Noone seems to know much about her. I can't get over the impression that Iought to know her--that I have met and known her somewhere years ago. Hermanner, yesterday, at seeing Mrs. Taine, was certainly very strange. " Asif to free his mind from the unsuccessful effort to remember, he rose tohis feet. "But why should she be added to the characters in my novel, Mr. King? What does she represent?"

"Her name, "--said the artist, --"in your study of life, is suggested by herface--so beautiful on the one side--so distorted on the other--her nameshould be 'Symbol'. "

"There really is hope for you, " returned the older man, with his quizzingsmile. "Good night. Come, Czar. " He passed into the hotel--the dog at hisheels. 

It was two days later--Thursday--that Conrad Lagrange made his memorablevisit to the Taines--memorable, in my story, because, at that time, Mrs. Taine gave such unmistakable evidence of her interest in Aaron King andhis future. 

Chapter IV

At the House on Fairlands Heights

As my friend the social scientist would say; it is a phenomenon peculiarto urban life, that the social strata are more or less clearly definedgeographically. 

That is, --in the English of everyday, --people of different classes live indifferent parts of the city. As certain streets and blocks are given tothe wholesale establishments, others to retail stores, and still others tothe manufacturing plants; so there are the tenement districts, the slums, and the streets where may be found the homes of wealth and fashion. 

In Fairlands, the social rating is largely marked by altitude. The city, lying in the lap of the hills and looking a little down upon thevalley--plebeian business together with those who do the work of Fairlandsoccupies the lowest levels in the corporate limits. The heights are heldby Fairlands' Pride. Between these two extremes, the Fairlanders aregraded fairly by the levels they occupy. It is most gratifying to observehow generally the citizens of this fortunate community aspire to higherthings; and to note that the peculiarly proud spirit of this people isundoubtedly explained by this happy arrangement which enables every one tolook down upon his neighbor. 

The view from the winter home of the Taines was magnificent. 

From the window of the room where Mrs. Taine sat, that afternoon, onecould have looked down upon all Fairlands. One might, indeed, have donebetter than that. Looking over the wealth of semi-tropical foliagethat--save for the tower of the red-brick Y. M. C. A. Building, the white, municipal flagstaff, and the steeples and belfries of the churches--hidthe city, one might have looked up at the mountains. High, high, above thelow levels occupied by the hill-climbing Fairlanders, the mountains lifttheir heads in solemn dignity; looking down upon the loftiest Fairlanderof them all--looking down upon even the Taines themselves. 

But the glory of Mrs. Taine's God was not declared by the mountains. Shesat by the window, indeed, but her eyes were upon the open pages of abook--a popular novel that by some strange legal lapse of the governmentalconscience was--and is still--permitted in print. 

The author of the story that so engrossed Mrs. Taine was--in heropinion--almost as great in literature as Conrad Lagrange, himself. Bythose in authority who pronounce upon the worthiness or the unworthinessof writer folk, he is, to-day, said to be one of the greatest writers ofhis generation. He is a realist--a modern of the moderns. His pen hasnever been debased by an inartistic and antiquated idealism. His claim togenius rests securely upon the fact that he has no ideals. He writes forthat select circle of leaders who, like the Taines and the Rutlidges, arecapable of appreciating his art. All of which means that he tells filthystories in good English. That his stories are identical in material andmotive with the vile yarns that are permitted only in the lowest classbarber shops and in disreputable bar-rooms, in no way detracts from theadmiring praise of his critics, the generosity of his publishers, or theappreciation of those for whom he writes. 

With tottering step and feeble, shaking limbs, Edward Taine entered theapartment. As he stood, silently looking at his young wife, his glazed, red-rimmed eyes fed upon her voluptuous beauty with a look of sullen, impotent lustfulness that was near insanity. A spasm of coughing seizedhim; he gasped and choked, his wasted body shaken and racked, hisdissipated face hideously distorted by the violence of the paroxysm. Wrecked by the flesh he had lived to gratify, he was now the mocked andtortured slave of the very devils of unholy passion that he had so ofteninvoked to serve him. Repulsive as he was, he was an object to awaken thedeepest pity. 

Mrs. Taine, looking up from her novel, watched him curiously--withoutmoving or changing her attitude of luxurious repose--without speaking. Almost, one would have said, a shade of a smile was upon her too perfectfeatures. 

When the man--who had dropped weak and exhausted into a chair--couldspeak, he glared at her in a pitiful rage, and, in his throaty whisper, said with a curse, "You seem to be amused. "

Still, she did not speak. A tantalizing smile broke over her face, and shestretched her beautiful body lazily in her chair, as a well-conditionedanimal stirs in sleek, physical contentment. 

Again, with curses, he said, "I'm glad you so enjoy my company. To belaughed at, even, is better than your damned indifference. "

"You misjudge me, " she answered in a voice that, low and soft, was stillrichly colored by the wealth of vitality that found expression in hersplendid body. "I am not at all indifferent to your condition--quite thecontrary. I am intensely interested. As for the amusement you affordme--please consider--for three years I have amused you. Can you deny me myturn?"

He laughed with a hideously mirthless chuckle as he returned with ghastlyhumor, "I have had the worth of my money. I advise you to make the most ofyour opportunity. I shall make things as pleasant for you as I can, whileI am with you, but, as you know, I am liable to leave you at any time, now. "

"Pray don't hurry away, " she replied sweetly. "I shall miss you so whenyou are gone. "

He glared at her while she laughed mockingly. 

"Where is everybody?" he asked. "The place is as lonely as a tomb. "

"Louise is out riding with Jim. "

"And what are you doing at home?" he demanded suspiciously. 

"Me? Oh I remained to care for you--to keep you from being lonely. "

"You lie. You are expecting some one. "

She laughed. 

"Who is it this time?" he persisted. 

"Your insinuations are so unwarranted, " she murmured. 

"Whom are you expecting?"

"Dear me! how persistently you look for evil, " she mocked. "You knowperfectly well that, thanks to my tact, I am considered quite the modelwife. You really should cultivate a more trusting disposition. "

Another fit of coughing seized him, and while he suffered she againwatched him with that curious air of interest. When he could command hisvoice, he gasped in a choking whisper, "You fiend! I know, and you knowthat I know. Am I so innocent that Jack Hanover, and Charlie Rodgers, andBlack Whitman, and as many more of their kind, can make love to you undermy very nose without my knowing it? You take damned good care--posing as aprude with your fad about immodest dress--that the world sees nothing; butyou have never troubled to hide it from me. "

Deliberately, she arose and stood before him. "And why should I trouble tohide anything from you?" she demanded. "Look at me"--she posed as if toexhibit for his critical inspection the charm of her physicalbeauty--"Look at me; am I to waste all _this_ upon you? You tell me thatyou have had your money's worth--surely, the purchase price is mine tospend as I will. Even suppose that I were as evil as your foul mind seesme, what right have you to object? Are you so chaste that you dare cast astone at me? Am I to have no pleasure in this hell you have made for mebut the horrible pleasure of watching you in the hell you have made foryourself? Be satisfied that the world does not see your shame--thoughit's from no consideration of you, but wholly for myself, that I amcareful. As for my modesty--you know it is not a fad but a necessity. "

"That is just it"--he retorted--"it is the way you make a fad of anecessity! Forced to hide your shoulders, you make a virtue ofconcealment. You make capital of the very thing of which you are ashamed. "

"And is not that exactly what we all do?" she asked with brutal cynicism. "Do you not fear the eyes of the world as much as I? Be satisfied that Iplay the game of respectability with you--that I give the world no causefor talk. You may as well be, " she finished with devilish frankness, "foryou are past helping yourself in the matter. "

As she finished, a servant appeared to announce Mr. Conrad Lagrange; andthe tall, uncouth figure of the novelist stood framed in the doorway; hissharp eyes regarding them with that peculiar, quizzing, baffling look. 

Edward Taine laughed with that horrid chuckle. "Howdy-do, Lagrange--gladto see you. "

Mrs. Taine went forward to greet the caller; saying as she gave him herhand, "You arrived just in time, Mr. Lagrange; Edward and I werediscussing your latest book. We think it a masterpiece of realisticfiction. I'm sure it will add immensely to your fame. I hear it talked ofeverywhere as the most popular novel of the year. You wonderful man! Howdo you do it?"

"I don't do it, " answered Conrad Lagrange, looking straight into hereyes. "It does itself. My books are really true products of the age thatreads them; and--to paraphrase a statesman who was himself a product ofhis age--for those who read my books they are just the kind of books thatI would expect such people to read. "

Mrs. Taine looked at him with a curious, half-doubtful half-wistfulexpression; as though she glimpsed a hint of a meaning that did not appearupon the surface of his words. "You do say such--such--twisty things, " shemurmured. "I don't think I always understand what you mean; but when youlook at me that way, I feel as though my maid had neglected to finishhooking me up. "

The novelist bowed in mock gallantry--a movement which made his ungainlyform appear more grotesque than ever. "Indeed, madam, to my humble eyes, you are most beautifully and fittingly--ah--hooked up. " He turned towardthe invalid. "And how is the fortunate husband of the charming Mrs. Taineto-day?"

"Fine, Lagrange, fine, " said the man--a cough interrupting his words. "Really, I think that Gertrude is unduly alarmed about my condition. Inthis glorious climate, I feel like a three-year-old. "

"You _are_ looking quite like yourself, " returned the novelist. 

"There's nothing at all the matter with me but a slight bronchialtrouble, " continued the other, coughing again. Then, to hiswife--"Dearest, won't you ring, please; I'm sure it's time for my toddy;perhaps Mr. Lagrange will join me in a drink. What'll it be, Lagrange?"

"Nothing, thanks, at this hour. "

"No? But you'll pardon me, I'm sure--Doctor's orders you know. "

A servant appeared. Mrs. Taine took the glass and carried it to herhusband with her own hand, saying with tender solicitude, "Don't youthink, dear, that you should lie down for a while? Mr. Lagrange willremain for dinner, you know. You must not tire yourself. I'm sure he willexcuse you. I'll manage somehow to amuse him until Jim and Louise return. "

"I believe I will rest a little, Gertrude. " He turned to the guest--"Whilethere is nothing really wrong, you know, Lagrange, still it's best to beon the safe side. "

"By all means, " said the novelist, heartily. "You should take care ofyourself. Don't, I beg, permit me to detain you. "

Mrs. Taine, with careful tenderness, accompanied her husband to the door. When he had passed from the room, she faced the novelist, with--"Don't youthink Edward is really very much worse, Mr. Lagrange? I keep upappearances, you know, but--" she paused with a charming air of perplexedand worried anxiety. 

"Your husband is certainly not a well man, madam--but you keep upappearances wonderfully. I really don't see how you manage it. But Isuppose that for one of your nature it is natural. "

Again, she received his words with that look of doubtfulunderstanding--as though sensing some meaning beneath the polite, commonplace surface. Then, as if to lead away from the subject--"You mustreally tell me what you think of our California home. I told you in NewYork, you remember, that I should ask you, the first thing. We were sosorry to have missed you last year. Please be frank. Isn't it beautiful?"

"Very beautiful"--he answered--"exquisite taste--perfect harmony withmodern art. " His quizzing eyes twinkled, and a caricature of a smiledistorted his face. "It fairly smells to heaven of the flesh pots. "

She laughed merrily. "The odor should not be unfamiliar to you, " sheretorted. "By all accounts, your royalties are making you immensely rich. How wonderful it must be to be famous--to know that the whole world istalking about you! And that reminds me--who is your distinguished lookingfriend at the hotel? I was dying to ask you, the other night, but didn'tdare. I know he is somebody famous. "

Conrad Lagrange, studying her face, answered reluctantly, "No, he is notfamous; but I fear he is going to be. "

"Another twisty saying, " she retorted. "But I mean to have an answer, soyou 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 sameneighborhood. He is an artist. "

"How romantic! Do you mean that he belongs to that old family of NewEngland Kings?"

"He is the last of them. His father was Aaron King--a prominent lawyerand politician in his state. "

"Oh, yes! I remember! Wasn't there something whispered at the time of hisdeath--some scandal that was hushed up--money stolen--or something? Whatwas it? I can't think. "

"Whatever it was, Mrs. Taine, the son had nothing to do with it. Don't youthink we might let the dead man stay safely buried?" There was an ominousglint 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 alittle, through Jim, you know--bring him in touch with the right peopleand 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'mnot 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; shakingher head with mock sadness, and making a long sigh. "Another twister"--shesaid 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, exactlywhere I was twenty years ago. For God's sake, let him alone. Play yourgame 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! Youtalk 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_ bringhim now, you see. You might as well, for, if you don't, I'll manage someother way when you are not around to protect him. You don't want to trusthim to me unprotected, do you?"

"No, and I won't, " retorted Conrad Lagrange--which, though Mrs. Taine didnot 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 playfulwarning at her companion, and to whisper, "Mind you bring your artist tome, or I'll get him when you're not looking; and listen, don't tell Jimabout him; I must see what he is like, first. "

At lunch, the next day, Conrad Lagrange greeted the artist in hisbitterest humor. "And how is the famous Aaron King, to-day? I trust thatthe greatest portrait painter of the age is well; that the hotel peoplehave been properly attentive to the comfort of their illustrious guest?The world of art can ill afford to have its rarest genius suffer from anylack of the service that is due his greatness. "

The young man's face flushed at his companion's mocking tone; but helaughed. "I missed you at breakfast. "

"I was sleeping off the effect of my intellectual debauch--it takes timeto recover from a dinner with 'Materialism, ' 'Sensual, ' 'Ragtime' and 'TheAge', " the other returned, the menu in his hand. "What slop are theyoffering to put in our troughs for this noon's feed?"

Again, Aaron King laughed. But as the novelist, with characteristiccomments and instructions to the waitress, ordered his lunch, the artistwatched him as though waiting with interest his further remarks on thesubject of his evening with the Taines. 

When the girl was gone, Conrad Lagrange turned again to his companion, andfrom under his scowling brows regarded him much as a withered scientistmight regard an interesting insect under his glass. "Permit me tocongratulate you, " he said suggestively--as though the bug had succeededin acting in some manner fully expected by the scientist but whollydisgusting 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, AaronKing 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 bythe 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 obviousmeaning and by the sneering sarcasm of the novelist's words and tone. 

To which the other returned suggestively, "It is precisely because you cansay, 'nonsense, ' when you know it is no nonsense at all, but the exacttruth, 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 uponhis 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 Isought; and--they made me what I am. "

So it came about that Conrad Lagrange, in due time, introduced Aaron Kingto 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 youngman might sue for the royal favor. 

It was, perhaps, a month after the presentation ceremony, that the paintermade 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 rapidlyinto friendship. 

The man whom the world had chosen to place upon one of the highestpinnacles of its literary favor, and who--through some queer twist in hisnature--was so lonely and embittered by his exaltation, seemed to find inthe 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 ofLagrange's past; or, perhaps, some fancied recognition of the artist'sgenius and its possibilities; the strange man gave no hint; but heconstantly sought the company of Aaron King, with an openness that madehis preference for the painter's society very evident. If he had saidanything about it, at all, Conrad Lagrange, likely, would have accountedfor his interest, upon the ground that his dog, Czar, found thecompanionship agreeable. Their friendship, meanwhile--in the eyes of theworld--conferred a peculiar distinction upon the young man--a distinctionnot 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'sattention--there was in the personality of the odd character a somethingthat appealed to him with peculiar strength. Perhaps it was that the man'swords, so often sharp and stinging with bitter sarcasm, seemed always tocarry a hidden meaning that gave, as it were, glimpses of another natureburied deeply beneath a wreck of ruined dreams and disappointingachievements. Or, it may have been that, under all the cruel, world-hardness of the thoughts expressed, the young man sensed anundertone of pathetic sadness. Or, again, perhaps, it was those raremoments, when--on some walk that carried them beyond the outskirts of thetown, and brought the mountains into unobstructed view--the clouds ofbitterness were lifted; and the man spoke with poetic feeling of therealities of life, and of the true glory and mission of the arts;counseling his friend with an intelligence as true and delicate as it wasrare and fine. 

It was nearly two months after Conrad Lagrange had introduced the youngman at the house on Fairlands Heights. The hour was late. Thepainter--returning from a dinner and an evening at the Taine home--foundthe novelist, with pipe and dog, in a deserted corner of the hotelveranda. Dropping into the chair that was placed as if it awaited hiscoming, the artist--with no word of greeting to the man--bent over thebrown head that was thrust so insistently against his knee, as Czar, withgently waving tail, made him welcome. Looking affectionately into thebrown eyes while he stroked the silky coat, the young man answered in thelanguage that all dogs understand; while the novelist, from under hisscowling brows, regarded the two intently. 

"They were disappointed that you were not there, " said the painter, presently. "Mrs. Taine, particularly, charged me to say that she will notforgive, until you do proper penance for your sin. "

"I had better company, " retorted the other. "Czar and I went for a look atthe mountains. I suppose you have noticed that Czar does not care for theFairlands Heights crowd. He is very peculiar in his friendships--for adog. 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 thenovelist'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 formercy would do. "

"Humph; you should have reminded her that I purchased an indulgence someweeks ago. "

Again, the other laughed shortly. Watching him closely, Conrad Lagrangesaid, in his most sneering tones, "I trust, young man, that you are notfailing to make good use of your opportunities. Let's see--dinner and theevening five times--afternoon calls as many--with motor trips to points ofinterest--and one theater party to Los Angeles--believe me; it is notoften that struggling genius is so rewarded--before it has accomplishedanything 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 theland. These scientific, intensive cultivation farmers of California arenot in your class when it comes to utilizing the sunshine. Take my adviceand continue your present activity without bothering yourself by anysentimental thoughts of your palette and brushes. The mere vulgar tools ofyour 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 momentyou came up the steps there. I could tell it by your walk; by the air withwhich you carried yourself; by your manner, your voice, your laugh--youfairly reek of prosperity and achievement--you are going to paint herportrait. "

"And why not?" retorted the young man, rather sharply, a trifle nettled bythe other's tone. 

"Why not, indeed!" murmured the novelist. "Indeed, yes--by all means! Itis so exactly the right thing to do that it is startling. You scale theheights of fame with such confident certainty in every move that it ispositively uncanny to watch you. "

"If one's work is true, I fail to see why one should not take advantageof any influence that can contribute to his success, " said the painter. "Iassure you I am not so wealthy that I can afford to refuse such anattractive commission. You must admit that the beautiful Mrs. Taine is asubject worthy the brush of any artist; and I suppose it _is_ conceivablethat 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'swords, dropped his sneering tone and spoke earnestly; "The beautiful Mrs. Taine _is_ a subject worthy a master's brush, my friend. But take my wordfor it, if you paint her portrait _as a master would paint it_, you willsign your own death warrant--so far as your popularity and fame as anartist goes. "

"I don't believe it, " declared Aaron King, flatly. 

"I know you don't. If you _did_, and still accepted the commission, youwouldn't be fit to associate with honest dogs like Czar, here. "

"But why"--persisted the artist--"why do you insist that my portrait ofMrs. Taine will be disastrous to my success, just to the degree that it isa work of genuine merit?"

To which the novelist answered, cryptically, "If you have not the eyes tosee 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 yoursitter, 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 thehotel; the dog following with quiet dignity, at his heels. 

From the beginning of their acquaintance, almost, the novelist and theartist had dropped into the habit of taking their meals together. Atbreakfast, the next morning, Conrad Lagrange reopened the conversation hehad so abruptly closed the night before. "I suppose, " he said, "that youwill 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 wouldbe just the thing, " returned the young man. "It is across the road fromthat big grove owned by Mr. Taine. I was wondering if you would care towalk 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 ofhis genuine interest, and, an hour later--after Aaron King had interviewedthe agent and secured the keys, with the privilege of inspecting thepremises--the two set out together. 

They found the place on the eastern edge of the town; half-hidden by theorange groves that surrounded it on every side. The height of the palmsthat grew along the road in front, the pepper and eucalyptus trees thatovershadowed the house, and the size of the orange-trees that shut in thelittle yard with walls of green, marked the place as having beenestablished before the wealth of the far-away East discovered the peculiarcharm of the Fairlands hills. The lawn, the walks, and the drive wereunkempt and overgrown with weeds. The house itself, --a small cottage witha wide porch across the front and on the side to the west, --unpainted formany seasons, was tinted by the brush of the elements, a soft and restfulgray. 

But the artist and his friend, as they approached, exclaimed aloud at thebeauty 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. Upevery post of the porch they had climbed; over the porch roof, they spreadtheir wealth of color; over the gables, screening the windows withgraceful lattice of vine and branch and leaf and bloom; up to the ridgeand over the cornice, to the roof of the house itself--even to the top ofthe chimney they had won their way--and there, as if in an ecstasy ofwanton loveliness, flung, a spray of glorious, perfumed beauty high intothe air. 

On the front porch, the men turned to look away over the gentle slope ofthe orange groves, on the other side of the road, to the towering peaksand high ridges of the mountains--gleaming cold and white in the winter oftheir altitude. To the northeast, San Bernardino reared his head in lonelymajesty--looking directly down upon the foothills and the feeble dwellersin the valley below. Far beyond, and surrounded by the higher ridges andpeaks and canyons of the range, San Gorgonio sat enthroned in theskies--the ruler of them all. From the northeast, westward, they viewedthe mighty sweep of the main range to Cajon Pass and the San Gabriels, beyond, with San Antonio, Cucamonga, and their sister peaks lifting theirheads above their fellows. In the immediate landscape, no house orbuilding was to be seen. The dark-green mass of the orange groves hidevery work of man's building between them and the tawny foothills save thegable and chimney of a neighboring cottage on the west. 

"Listen"--said Conrad Lagrange, in a low tone, moved as always by thegrandeur and beauty of the scene--"listen! Don't you hear them calling?Don't you feel the mountains sending their message to these poor insectswho 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 bittersadness 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'sverdict--"but for a studio--impossible, " and there was a touch of regretin his voice. 

"Let's continue our exploration, " said the novelist, hopefully. "There's abarn out there. " And they went out of the house, and down the drive on theeastern 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 simplestructure--was almost hidden under a mass of vines. There was one largeroom below; with a loft above. The stable was in the rear. Built, evidently, at a later date than the house, the building was in betterrepair. The walls, so hidden without by the roses, were well sided; thefloors were well laid. The big, sliding, main door opened on the drive infront; between it and the corner, to the west, was a small door; and inthe western end, a window. 

Looking curiously from this window, Conrad Lagrange uttered anexclamation, 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 AaronKing had never seen. On three sides, the little plot was enclosed by atall hedge of Ragged Robins; above the hedge, on the south and west, wasthe dark-green wall of the orange grove; on the north, the pepper andeucalyptus trees in the yard, and a view of the distant mountains; and onthe east, the vine-hidden end of the barn. Against the southernwall, --and, so, directly opposite the trellised, vine-covered arch of theentrance, --a small, lattice bower, with a rustic table and seats within, was completely covered, as was the barn, by the magically woven tapestryof the flowers. In the corner of the hedge farthest from the entrance theyfound a narrow gate. Unlike the rest of the premises, the garden was inperfect order--the roses trimmed and cared for; the walks neatly edged andclean; with no weed or sign of untidiness or neglect anywhere. 

The two men had come upon the spot so suddenly--so unexpectedly--thecontrast with the neglected grounds and buildings was so marked--that theylooked at each other in silence. The little retreat--so lovely, so hiddenby its own beauty from the world, so cared for by careful hands--seemedhaunted by an invisible spirit. Very quietly, --almost reverently, --theymoved about; talking in low tones, as though half expecting--they knew notwhat. 

"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 itmeans?"

When they were again in the barn, Aaron King became eagerly enthusiasticover the possibilities of the big room. "Some rightly toned burlap on thewalls and ceiling, "--he pointed out, --"with floor covering and rugs inharmony; 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 stabledoor; your entrance over here in the corner, nicely out of the way; andthe window looking into the garden--it's great man, great!"

"And, " answered Conrad Lagrange, from where he stood in the big frontdoor, "the mountains! Don't forget the mountains. The soft, steady, northlight 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, andspoke in his mocking way--"over here, you will have a tea-table for theladies of the circle elect--who will come to, 'oh', and, 'ah', theiradmiration of the newly discovered genius, and to chatter theirmisunderstandings of his art. Of course, there will be a page in velvetand gold. By all means, get hold of an oriental kid of some kind--orientaljunk is quite the rage this year. You should take advantage of everyinfluence that can contribute to your success, you know. And, whatever youdo, don't fail to consult the 'Goddess' about these essentials of yourcraft. Many a promising genius has been lost to fame, through inviting thewrong people to take tea in his studio. But"--he finished whimsically, looking from the window into the garden--"but what the devil do yousuppose the spirit who lives out there will think about it all. "

 * * * * *

The days of the two following weeks were busy days for Aaron King. Heleased the place in the orange groves, and set men to work making ithabitable. The lawn and grounds were trimmed and put in order; theinterior of the house was renovated by painter and paper-hanger; and thebarn, 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 anothertrip to purchase the tools of the artist's craft. And, at last, there wasa Chinese cook and housekeeper to find; with supplies for his kitchen. Itwas at Conrad Lagrange's suggestion, that, from the first, every one wasgiven strict orders to keep out of the rose garden. 

Every day, the novelist--accompanied, always, by Czar--walked out that wayto see how things were progressing; and often, --if he had not been toobusy to notice, --Aaron King might have seen a look of wistfulness in thekeen, baffling eyes of the famous man--so world-weary and sad. And, whilehe did not cease to mock and jeer and offer sarcastic advice to hisyounger friend, the touch of pathos--that, like a minor chord, was sooften heard in his most caustic and cruel speeches--was more pronounced. As for Czar--he always returned to the hotel with evident reluctance; andmanaged to express, in his dog way, the thoughts his distinguished masterwould not put in words. 

Very often, too, the big touring car from the house on Fairlands Heightsstopped in front of the cottage, while the occupants inspected thepremises, and--with many exclamations of flattering praise, and a fewsuggestions--made manifest their interest. 

In time, it was finished and ready--from the big easel by the great, northwindow in the studio, to the white-jacketed Yee Kee in the kitchen. Whenthe last workman was gone with his tools; and the two men, after lookingabout the place for an hour, were standing on the front porch; ConradLagrange said, "And the stage is set. The scene shifters are off. Theaudience is waiting. Ring up the curtain for the next act. Even Czar haslooked upon everything and calls it good--heh Czar?"

The dog went to him; and, for some minutes, the novelist looked down intothe brown eyes of his four-footed companion who seemed so to understand. Still fondling the dog, --without looking at the artist, --the older mancontinued, "You will have your things moved over in the morning, Isuppose? Or, will we lunch together, once more?"

Aaron King laughed--as a boy who has prepared a surprise, and has beenstruggling manfully to keep the secret until the proper moment shouldarrive. Placing his hand on the older man's shoulder, he answeredmeaningly, "I had planned that _we_ would move in the morning. " At theother's puzzled expression he laughed again. 

"We?" said the novelist, facing his friend, quickly. 

"Come here, " returned the other. "I must show you something you haven'tseen. "

He led the way to a room that they had decided he would not need, and thedoor of which was locked. Taking a key from his pocket, he handed it tohis friend. 

"What's this?" said the older man, looking foolishly at the key in hishand. 

"It's the key to that door, " returned the other, with a gleeful chuckle. Then--"Unlock it. "

"Unlock it?"

"Sure--that's what I gave you the key for. "

Conrad Lagrange obeyed. Through the open door, he saw, not the bare andempty room he supposed was there, but a bedroom--charmingly furnished, complete in every detail. Turning, he faced his companion silently, inquiringly--with a look that Aaron King had never before seen in thosestrange, baffling eyes. 

"It's yours"--said the artist, hastily--"if you care to come. You'll havea free hand here, you know; for I will be in the studio much of the time. Kee will cook the things you like. You and Czar can come and go as youwill. There is the arbor in the rose garden, you know, and see here"--hestepped to the window--"I chose this room for you, because it looks outupon your mountains. "

The strange man stood at the window for, what seemed to the artist, a longtime. Suddenly, he turned to say sharply, "Young man, why did you dothis?"

"Why"--stammered the other, disconcerted--"because I want you--because Ithought you would like to come. I beg your pardon--if I have made amistake--but surely, no harm has been done. "

"And you think you could stand living with me--for any length of time?"

The' painter laughed with relief. "Oh, _that's_ it! I didn't know you hadsuch a tender conscience. You scared me for a minute, I should think youwould know by this time that you can't phase me with your wicked tongue. "

The novelist's face twisted into a grotesque smile. "I warn you--I willflay you and your friends just the same. You need it for the good of yoursoul. "

"As often and as hard as you like"--returned the other, heartily--"just soit's for the good of my soul. You will come?"

"You will permit me to stand my share of the expense?"

"Anything you like--if you will only come. "

The older man said gently, --for the first time calling the artist by hisgiven name, --"Aaron, I believe that you are the only person in the worldwho would, really want me; and I _know_ that you are the only person inthe world to whom I would be grateful for such an invitation. "

The artist was about to reply, when the big automobile stopped in front ofthe house. Czar, on the porch, gave a low growl of disapproval; and, through the open door, they saw Mr. Taine and his wife with James Rutlidgeand Louise. 

The novelist said something, under his breath, that had a vicioussound--quite unlike his words of the moment before. Czar, in disgust, retreated to the shelter of Yee Kee's domain. With a laugh, the youngerman went out to meet his friends. 

"Are you at home this afternoon, Sir Artist?" called Mrs. Taine, gaily, ashe went down the walk. 

"I will always be at home to the right people, " he answered, greeting theother members of the party. 

As they moved toward the house, --Mr. Taine choking and coughing, hisdaughter chattering and exclaiming, and James Rutlidge criticallyobserving, --Mrs. Taine dropped a little back to Aaron King's side. "Andare you really established, at last?" she asked eagerly; with a charming, confidential air. 

"We move to-morrow morning, " he answered. 

"We?" she questioned. 

"Conrad Lagrange and I. He is going to live with me, you know. "

"Oh!"

It is remarkable how much meaning a woman can crowd into that one smallsyllable; particularly, when she draws a little away from you as shespeaks it. 

"Why, " he murmured apologetically, "don't you approve?"

Mrs. Taine's beautiful eyebrows went up inquiringly--"And why should Ieither approve or disapprove?"

The young man was saved by the arrival of his guests at the porch steps, and by the appearance of Conrad Lagrange, in the doorway. 

"How delightful!" exclaimed Mrs. Taine, heartily; as she, in turn, greetedthe famous novelist. "Mr. King was just telling me that you were going toshare this dear little place with him. I quite envy you both. "

The others had passed into the house. 

"You are sometimes guilty of saying twisty things yourself, aren't you?"returned the man; and, as he spoke, his remarkable eyes were fixed uponher as though reading her innermost thoughts. 

She flushed under his meaning gaze, but carried it off gaily with--"Ohdear! I wonder if my maid has hooked me up properly, this time?"

They left Mr. Taine in an easy chair, with a bottle of his favoritewhisky; and went over the place--from the arbor in the rose garden to YeeKee's pantry--Mr. Rutlidge, critically and authoritatively approving;Louise, effervescing the same sugary nothings at every step; Mrs. Taine, with a pretty air of proprietorship; Conrad Lagrange, thoughtfullywatching; and Aaron King, himself, irresponsibly gay and boyishly proud ashe exhibited his achievements. 

In the studio, Mrs. Taine--standing before the big easel--demanded toknow of the artist, when he would begin her portrait--she was sointerested, so eager to begin--how soon could she come? Louise assumed aworshipful attitude, and, gazing at the young man with reverent eyes, waited breathlessly. James Rutlidge drew near, condescendingly attentive, to the center of attraction. Conrad Lagrange turned his back. 

"Really, " murmured the painter, "I hope you will not be too impatient, Mrs. Taine, I fear I cannot be ready for some time yet. I suppose I mustconfess to being over-sensitive to my environment; for it is a fact thatmy working mood does not come upon me readily amid strange surroundings. When I have become acclimated, as it were, I will be ready for you. "

"How wonderful!" breathed Louise. 

"Quite right, " agreed Mr. Rutlidge. 

"Whenever you are ready, " said Mrs. Taine, submissively. 

When their friends from the Heights were gone, Conrad Lagrange looked theartist up and down, as he said with cutting sarcasm, "You did that verynicely. Over-sensitive to your environment, hell! If you _are_ a bit finestrung, you have no business to make a _show_ of it. It's a weakness, nota virtue. And the man who makes capital out of any man's weakness, --evenof his own, --is either a criminal or a fool or both. "

Then they went back to the hotel for dinner. 

The next morning, the artist and the novelist moved from the hotel, toestablish themselves in the little house in the orange groves--thelittle house with its unobstructed view of the mountains, and with itsrose garden, so mysteriously tended. 

Chapter VI

An Unknown Friend

When Yee Kee announced lunch, the artist, the novelist, and the dog weresettled in their new home. In the afternoon, the painter spent an houror two fussing over portfolios of old sketches, in his studio; whileConrad Lagrange and Czar lounged on the front porch. 

Once, the dog rose quietly, and, walking sedately to the edge of theporch toward the west, stood for some minutes gazing intently into thedark green mass of the orange grave. At last, as if concluding thatwhatever it was it was all right, he went calmly back to his placebeside the novelist's chair. 

"Do you know, "--said the artist, as they sat on the porch that evening, with their after-dinner pipes, --"I believe this old place is haunted. "

"If it isn't, it ought to be, " answered the other, contentedly--playingwith Czar's silky ears. "A good ghost would fit in nicely here, wouldn'tit--or he, or she. Its spookship would travel far to find a moredelightful place for spooking in, and--providing, of course, she were aperfectly respectable hant--what a charming addition to our family hewould make. When it was weary of moping and mowing and sobbing andwailing and gibbering, she could curl up at the foot of your bed andsleep; as Czar, here, curls up and sleeps at the foot of mine. A goodghost, you know--if he becomes really attached to you--is as constantand faithful and affectionate and companionable as a good dog. "

"B-r-r-r, " said the artist. And Czar turned to look at him, questioningly. 

"All the same"--the painter continued--"when I was out there in thestudio, I could feel some one watching me--you know the feeling. "

Conrad Lagrange returned mockingly, "I trust your over-sensitive, artistictemperament is not to be so influenced by our ghostly visitor that youwill be unfitted for your work. "

The other laughed. Then he said seriously, "Joking aside, Lagrange, I feela presentiment--I can't put it into words--but--I feel that I _am_ goingto begin the real work of my life right here. I"--he hesitated--"it seemsto me that I can sense some influence that I can't define--it's themystery of the rose garden, perhaps, " he finished with another shortlaugh. 

The man, who, in the eyes of the world, had won so large a measure of thesuccess that his friend desired; and whose life was so embittered by thethings for which he was envied by many; made no reply other than his slow, twisted smile. 

Silently, they watched the purple shadows of the mountains deepen; and sawthe outlines of the tawny foothills grow vague and dim, until they werelost in the dusky monotone of the evening. The last faint tint of sunsetcolor went from the sky back of the San Gabriels; while, close to themountain peaks and ridges, the stars came out. The rows and the contour ofthe orange groves could no longer be distinguished the forms of the nearbytrees were lost--the rich, lustrous green of their foliage brushed outwith the dull black of the night; while the twinkling lights of thedistant towns and hamlets, in the valley below, shone as sparkling jewelson the inky, velvet robe that, fold on fold, lay over the landscape. 

When the two had smoked in silence, for some time, the artist said slowly, "You knew my mother very well, did you not, Mr. Lagrange?"

"We were children together, Aaron. " As he spoke, the man's deep voice wasgentle, as always, when the young man's mother was mentioned. 

Again, for a little, neither spoke. As they sat looking away to themountains, each seemed occupied with his own thoughts. Yet each felt thatthe other, to a degree, understood what he, himself, was thinking. 

Once more, the artist broke the silence, --facing his mother's friend withquiet resolution, --as though he felt himself forced to speak but knew notexactly how to begin. "Did you know her well--after--after my father'sdeath--and while I was abroad?"

The other bowed his head--"Yes. "

"Very well?"

"Very well. "

As if at loss for words, Aaron King still hesitated. "Mr. Lagrange, " hesaid, at last, "there are some things about--about mother--that I wouldlike to tell you--that I think she would want me to tell you, under thecircumstances. "

"Yes, " said Conrad Lagrange, gently. 

"Well, --to begin, --you know, perhaps, how much mother and I have alwaysbeen--" his fine voice broke and the older man bowed his head; but, with aslight lift of his determined chin, the painter went on calmly--"to eachother. After father's death, until I was seventeen, we were neverseparated. She was my only teacher. Then I went away to school, seeing heronly during my vacations, which we always spent, together in the country. Three years ago, I went abroad to finish my study. I did not see her againuntil--until I was called home. "

"I know, " came in low tones from the other. 

"But, sir, while it seemed necessary that I should be away fromhome, --that we should be separated, --all through this period, we exchangedalmost daily letters; planning for the future, and looking forward to thetime when we could, again, be together. "

"I know, Aaron. It was very unusual--and very beautiful. "

"When we were together, before I went away, I was a mere lad, " continuedthe artist. "I knew in a general way that father had been a successfullawyer, and quite prominent in politics; and--because there was no changein our manner of living after his death, and there seemed to be alwaysmoney for whatever we wanted, I suppose--I assumed, thoughtlessly, thatthere would always be plenty. During the years while I was at school, there was never, in any way, the slightest hint in mother's letters thatwould lead me to question the abundance of her resources. When they calledme home, --" his voice broke, "--I found my mother dying--almost inpoverty--our home stripped of the art treasures she loved--her own room, even, empty of everything save the barest necessities. " In bitter sorrowand shame, the young man buried his face in his hands. 

The novelist, his gaunt features twitching with the emotion that even hislong schooling in the tragedies of life could not suppress, waitedsilently. 

When the artist had regained, in a measure, his self-control, hecontinued, --and every word came from him in shame and humiliation, --"Beforeshe died, she told me about--my father. In the settlement of his affairs, at the time of his death, it appeared that he had taken advantage of theconfidence of certain clients and had betrayed his trust; appropriatinglarge sums to his own interests. He had even taken advantage of mother'sinfluence in certain circles, and, relying upon her unquestioning faithin his integrity, had made her an unconscious instrument in furtheringhis schemes. "

Conrad Lagrange made as if to speak, but checked himself and waited forthe other to continue. 

Aaron King went on; "Out of regard for my mother, the matter was kept asquiet as possible. The one who suffered the heaviest loss was able toprotect her--in a measure. All the others were fully reimbursed. Butmother--it would have been easier for her if she had died then. Shewithdrew from her friends and from the life she loved--she denied herselfto all who sought her and devoted her life to me. Above all, she plannedto keep me in ignorance of the truth until I should be equipped to win theplace in the world that she coveted for me. It was for that, she sent meaway, and kept me from home. As the demands for my educational expensesgrew naturally heavier, she supplemented the slender resources, left inthe final settlement of my father's estate, by sacrificing the treasuresof her home, and by giving up the luxuries to which she had beenaccustomed from childhood. She even provided for me after her death--notwealth, but a comfortable amount, sufficient to support me in goodcircumstances until I can gain recognition and an income from my work. "

Under the lash of his memories, the young man sprang to his feet. 

"In God's name, Lagrange, why did not some one tell me? I did not know--Idid not know--I thought--O mother, mother, mother--why did you do it? Whywas I not told? All these years I have lived a selfish fool, andyou--you--I would have given up everything--I would have worked in aditch, rather than accept this. "

The deep, quiet voice of Conrad Lagrange broke the stillness that followedthe storm of the artist's passionate words. "And that is the answer, Aaron. She knew, too well, that you would not have accepted her sacrifice, if you had known. That is why she kept the secret until you had finishedyour education. She forbade her friends--she forbade me to interfere. Anddon't you see that she was right? Don't you see it? We would have done herthe greatest injustice if we had, against her will, deprived her of thisprivilege. Her splendid pride, her high sense of honor, her nobility ofspirit demanded the sacrifice. It was her right. God forgive me--I triedto make her see it otherwise--but she knew best. She always knew best, Aaron. Her only hope of regaining for you that self-respect and thatposition in life to which you--by right of birth and naturalendowment--are entitled, was in you. The name which she had given to youcould be restored to honor by you only. To train and equip you for yourwork, and to enable you, unhampered by need, to gain your footing, was thedetermined passion of her life. Her sacrifice, her suffering to that end, was the only restitution she could make to you for that which your fatherhad squandered. Her proud spirit, her fine intelligence, her mother lovefor you, demanded it. "

"I know, " returned the artist. "She told me before she died. She made meunderstand. She said that it was my inheritance. She asked for my promisethat I would be true to her purpose. Her last words were an expression ofher confidence that I would not disappoint her--that I would win a placeand name that would wipe out the shame of my father's dishonor. And Iwill, Lagrange, I must. Mother--mother shall not be disappointed--sheshall not be disappointed. "

"No, "--said the older man, so softly that the other, torn by the passionof his own thoughts, did not hear, --"No, Aaron, your mother will not bedisappointed. "

For a time longer they sat in silence. Then the young man said, "I wish Iknew the name of my mother's friend--the one who suffered the heaviestloss through my father, and who so generously protected her in the crisis. I would like to thank him, at least. I begged her to tell me, but shewould not. She said he would not want me to know--that for me to attemptto reimburse him would, to his mind, rob him of his real reward. "

Conrad Lagrange, his head bowed, spoke quietly to the dog at his feet. Rising, Czar laid his soft muzzle on his master's knee and looked up intothe homely, world-worn face. Gently, the strange man--so lonely andembittered in the fame that he had won--at a price--stroked the brownhead. "Your mother knew best, Aaron, " he said slowly, without looking athis companion. "You must believe that she knew best. Her beautiful spiritcould not lead her astray. She was right in this, also. Your sentimentdoes you honor, but you must respect her wish. Whoever the man was--shehad reasons, I am sure, for feeling as she did--that it would be betterfor you not to know. It was some one, perhaps, whose influence upon you, she had cause to fear. "

"It was very strange, " returned the artist, hesitatingly. "Perhaps I oughtnot to say it. But I felt that, as you suggest, she feared for me to know. She seemed to want to tell me, but did not, for _my_ sake. It was verystrange. "

Conrad Lagrange made no reply. 

"I wanted you to know about mother, "--continued the artist, --"because Iwould like you to understand why--why I must succeed in my work. "

The older man smiled to himself, in the dusk. "I have always known whyyou must succeed, Aaron, " he returned. "I have never questioned yourmotives. I question only your understanding of success. I question--if youwill pardon me--your understanding of your mother's wish for you. "

Then, in one of those rare momentary moods, when he seemed to reveal tohis young friend his real nature that lay so deeply hidden from the world, he added, "You are right, Aaron. This place _is_ haunted--haunted by thespirit of the mountains, yonder--haunted by the spirit of the rose garden, out there. The silent strength of the hills, and the loveliness of thegarden will attend you in your studio, as you work. I do not wonder thatyou feel a presentiment that your artistic future is to be shaped here;for between these influences and the other influences that will be broughtto bear upon you, you will be forced to decide. May the God of all trueart and artists help you to make no mistake. Listen!"

As though in answer to the solemn words of the man who spoke from thefullness of a life-long experience and from the depths of a life-old love, a strain of music came from out the fragrant darkness. Somewhere, hiddenin the depths of the orange grove, the soul of a true musician was seekingexpression in the tones of a violin. 

Softly, sadly, with poignant clearness, the music lifted into thenight--low and pleadingly at first; then stronger and more vibrant withfeeling, as though sweetly insistent in its call; swelling next in volumeand passion, as though in warning of some threatening evil; ringing withloving fear; sobbing, wailing, moaning, in anguish; clearly, gloriously, triumphant, at last; then sinking into solemn, reverentbenediction--losing itself, finally, in the darkness, even as it had come. 

The two men, so fashioned by nature to receive such music, listened withemotions they could not have put into words. For the moment, the music tothem was the voice of the guarding, calling, warning spirit of themountains that, in their calm, majestic strength, were so far removed fromthe petty passions and longings of the baser world at their feet--it wasthe voice of the loving intimacy, the sweet purity, and the sacred beautyof the spirit of the garden. It was as though the things of which ConradLagrange had just spoken so reverently had cried aloud to them, out of thenight, in confirmation of his words. 

Chapter VII

Mrs. Taine in Quaker Gray

Aaron King seemed loth to begin his work on the portrait of Mrs. Taine. Day after day, without apparent reason, he put it off--spending the hoursin wandering aimlessly about the place, idling on the porch, or doingnothing in his studio. He would start from the house to the building atthe end of the rose garden, as though moved by some clearly definedpurpose--and then, for an hour or more, would dawdle among the things ofhis craft, with irresolute mind--turning over his sketches and drawingswith uncertain hands, as though searching for something he knew was notthere; toying with his paints and brushes; or sitting before his emptyeasel, looking away through the big window to the distant mountains. Heseemed incapable of fixing his mind upon the task to which he attached somuch importance. Several times, Mrs. Taine called, but he begged her to bepatient; and she, with pretended awe of the moods of genius, waited. 

Conrad Lagrange jeered and mocked, offered sneering advice or sarcasticcompliment; and, under it all, was keenly watchful and sympathetic--understanding better than the artist himself, perhaps, the secret of thepainter's hesitation. Every day, --sometimes in the morning, sometimes inthe afternoon or evening unseen musician, in the orange grove wroughtfor them melodie that, whether grave or gay, always carried, somehow, the feeling that had so moved them in the mysterious darkness ofthat first evening. 

They knew, now, of course, that the musician lived in the neighboringhouse--the gable and chimney of which was just visible above theorange-trees. But that was all. Obedient to some whimsical impulse thatprompted them both, and was born, no doubt, of the circumstance and moodof that first evening, they did not seek to learn more. Theyfeared--though they did not say it--that to learn the identity of themusician would rob them of the peculiar pleasure they found in the music, itself. So they spoke always of their unknown neighbor in a fanciful vein, as in like humor they spoke of the spirit that Aaron King still insistedhaunted the place, or as they alluded to the mystery of the carefullytended rose garden. 

When the artist could put it off no longer, a day was finally set whenMrs. Taine was to come for the beginning of her portrait. The appointedhour found the artist in his studio. A canvas stood ready upon the easel;palette, colors and brushes were at hand. The painter was standing at thebig, north window, looking up away to the mountains--the mountains thatthe novelist said called so insistently. Suddenly, he turned his head tolisten. Sweetly clear and low, through the green wall of the orange-trees, came the music of that hidden violin. 

As he stood there, --with his eyes fixed upon the mountains, listening tothe spirit that spoke in the tones of the unseen instrument, --Aaron Kingknew, all at once, that the passing moment was one of those raremoments--that come, all unexpectedly--when, with prophetic vision, onesees clearly the end of the course he pursues and the destiny that waitshim at its completion. As clearly, too, he saw the other way, and knew themeaning of the vision. But seldom is the strength given to man, in suchmoments, to choose for himself. Though he may see the other way clearly, his feet cling to the path he has elected to follow; nor will he, unlesssome one takes him by the hand saying, "Come, " turn aside. 

A voice, not at all in harmony with the music, broke upon the artist'sconsciousness. He turned to see Mrs. Taine standing expectantly in theopen door. "Hush!" said the painter, still under the spell of that momentso big with possibilities. "Listen, "--with a gesture, he checked heradvance, --"listen. "

A look of haughty surprise flashed over the woman's too perfect features. Then, as her ear caught the tones of the violin, she half turned--but onlyfor a moment. 

"Very clever, isn't it, " she said as she came forward "It must be oldProfessor Becker. He lives somewhere around here, I understand. They sayhe is very good. "

The artist looked at her for an instant, in amazement Then, as his normalmind asserted itself, he burst into an embarrassed laugh. 

At her look of puzzled inquiry, he said, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Taine. I did not realize how harshly I greeted you. The fact is I--I wasdreaming"--he turned suggestively toward the canvas upon the easel. "Yousee I was expecting you--I was thinking--then the musiccame--and--well--when you actually appeared in the flesh, I did not forthe moment realize that it was really you. "

"How charming of you!" she returned. "To be made the subject of anartist's dream--really it is quite the nicest compliment I have everreceived. Tell me, do you like me in this?" she slipped the wrap she worefrom her shoulders, and stood before him, gowned in the simple, gray dressof a Quaker Maid. Deliberately, she turned her beautiful self about forhis critical inspection. Moving to and fro, sitting, half-reclining, standing--in various graceful poses she invited, challenged, dared, hisclosest attention--professional attention, of course--to every curve anddetail. 

In spite of its simplicity of color and line, the gown still bore theunmistakable stamp of the wearer's world. The severity of line was subtlymade to emphasize the voluptuousness of the body that was covered but nothidden. The quiet color was made to accentuate the flesh the dressconcealed only to reveal. The very lack of ornament but served to centerthe attention upon the charms that so loudly professed to scorn them. Itwas worldliness speaking in the quiet voice of religion. It was vulgarityadvertising itself in terms of good taste. She had made modesty thehandmaiden of blatant immodesty, and the daring impudence of it allfairly stunned the painter. 

"Oh dear!" she said, watching his face, "I fear you don't like it, atall--and I thought it such a beautiful little gown. You told me to wearwhatever I pleased, you know. "

"It _is_ a beautiful gown, " he said--then added impulsively, "and you arebeautiful in it. You would be beautiful in anything. "

She shook her head; favoring him with an understanding smile. "You saythat to please me. I can see that you don't like me this way. "

"But I do, " he insisted. "I like you that way, immensely. I was a bitsurprised, that's all. You see, I thought, of course, that you wouldselect an evening gown of some sort--something, you know, that would fityour social position--your place in the world. In this costume, the beautyof your shoulders--"

Lowering her eyes as if embarrassed, she said coldly, "The beauty of myshoulders is not for the public. I have never worn--I will not wear--oneof those dreadful, immodest gowns. "

Aaron King was bewildered. Suddenly, he remembered what Conrad Lagrangehad said about her fad. But after so frankly exhibiting herself beforehim, dressed as she was in a gown that was deliberately planned toadvertise her physical charms, to be particular about baring her shouldersin a conventional costume--! It was quite too much. 

"Again, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Taine, " he managed to say. "I did notknow. Under the circumstances, this is exactly the thing. Your portrait, in what is so frankly a costume assumed for the purpose, takes us out ofthe dilemma very nicely, indeed. "

"Why, that's exactly what I thought, " she returned eagerly. "And this isso in keeping with my real tastes--don't you see? A real portrait--I meana serious work of art, you know--should always be something more than amere likeness, should it not? Don't you think that to be genuinely good, aportrait must reveal the spirit and character--must portray the soul, aswell as the features? I _do_ so want this to be a truly great picture--foryour sake. " Her manner seemed to say that she was doing it all for him. "Ihave never permitted any one to paint my portrait before, you know, " sheadded meaningly. 

"You are very kind, Mrs. Taine, " he returned gravely. "Believe me, I doappreciate this opportunity I shall do my best to express my appreciationhere"--he indicated the canvas on the easel. 

When his sitter was posed to his liking, and the artist, with a few bold, sweeping, strokes of the charcoal had roughed out his subject on thecanvas, and was bending over his color-box--he said, casually, to put herat ease, "You came alone this afternoon, did you?"

"Oh, no, indeed! I brought Louise with me. I shall always bring her, orsome one. One cannot be too careful, you know, " she added with simulatedartlessness. 

The painter, studying her face, replied mechanically "No indeed. "

As he turned back to his canvas, Mrs. Taine continued, "I left her in thehouse, with a box of chocolates and a novel. I felt that you would ratherwe were alone. "

"Please don't look down, " said the artist. "I want your eyes abouthere"--he indicated a picture on the wall, a little back and to the leftof where he stood at the easel. 

After this, there was silence in the studio, for a little while. Mrs. Taine obediently kept the pose; her eyes upon the point the artist hadindicated; but--as the man, himself, was almost directly in her line ofvision--it was easy for her to watch him at his work, when his eyes wereon his canvas or palette. The arrangement was admirable in that itrelieved the tedium of the hour for the sitter; and gave her face anexpression of animated interest that, truthfully fixed upon the canvas, should insure the fame and future of any painter. 

It would be quite too much to say that Aaron King became absorbed in hisoccupation. Thorough master of the tools of his craft, and of his owntechnic, as well; he was interested in the mere exercising of his skill, but he in no sense lost himself in his work. Two or three times, Mrs. Taine saw him glance quickly over his shoulder, as though expecting someone. Once, for quite a moment, he deliberately turned from his easel tostand at the window, looking up at the distant mountain peaks. Severaltimes, he seemed to be listening. 

"May I talk?" she said at last. 

"Why, certainly, " he returned. "I want you to feel perfectly at ease. Youmust be altogether at home here. Just let yourself go--say what you like, with no conventional restraints whatever--consider me a mechanicalsomething that is no more than an article of furniture--be as thoroughlyyourself as if alone in your own room. "

"How funny, " she said musingly. 

"Not at all"--he returned--"just a matter of business. "

"But it _would_ be funny if I were to take you at your word, " she replied;suddenly breaking the pose and meeting his gaze squarely. "Is it--is itquite necessary for the mechanical something to look at me like that?"

"I said that you were to _consider_ me as an article of furniture. Ididn't say that I _felt_ like a table or chair. "

"Oh!"

"Don't look down; keep the pose, please, " came somewhat sharply from theman at the easel, as though he were mentally taking himself in hand. 

After that, she watched him with increasing interest and, when he turnedhis head in that listening attitude, a curious, resentful light came intoher eyes. 

Presently, she asked abruptly, "What is it that you hear?"

"I thought I heard music, " he answered, coloring slightly and turning tohis work with suddenly absorbing interest. 

"The violin that so enchanted you when I came to break the spell?" shepersisted playfully--though the light in her eyes was not a playful light. 

"Yes, " he answered shortly; stepping back and shading his eyes with hishand for a careful look at his canvas. 

"And don't you know who it is?"

"You said it was an old professor somebody. "

"That was my _first_ guess, " she retorted. "Was I right?"

"I don't know. "

"But it comes from that little box of a house, next door, doesn't it?"

"Evidently, " the artist answered. Then, laying aside his palette andbrushes he said abruptly, "That is all for to-day; thank you. "

"Oh, so soon!" she exclaimed; and the regret in her voice was verypleasing to the man who was decidedly not a mechanical something. 

She started eagerly forward toward the easel. But the artist, with a quickmotion, drew a curtain across the canvas, to hide his work; while hechecked her with--"Not yet, please. I don't want you to see it until I sayyou may. "

"How mean of you, " she protested; charmingly submissive. Then, eagerly--"And do you want me to-morrow? You do, don't you?"

"Yes, please--at the same hour. "

When the Quaker Maiden's dress was safely hidden under her wrap, Mrs. Taine stood, for a moment, looking thoughtfully about the studio; whilethe artist waited at the door, ready to escort her to the automobile. "Iam going to love this room, " she said slowly; and, for the first time, hervoice was genuinely sincere, with a hint of wistfulness in its tone thatmade him regard her wonderingly. 

She went to him impulsively. "Will you, when you are famous--when you area great artist and all the great and famous people go to you to have theirportraits painted--will you remember poor me, I wonder?"

"Am I really going to be famous?" he returned doubtfully. "Are you so surethat this picture will mean success?"

"Of course I am sure--I _know_. You want to succeed don't you?"

Aaron King returned her look, for a moment, without answering. Then, witha quick, fierce determination that betrayed a depth of feeling she hadnever before seen in him, he exclaimed, "Do I want to succeed! I--I mustsucceed. I tell you I _must_. "

And the woman answered very softly, with her hand upon his arm, "And youshall--you shall. "

 * * * * *

Conrad Lagrange and Czar found the artist on the front porch, pullingmoodily at his pipe. 

"Is it all over for to-day?" asked the novelist as he stood looking downupon the young man with that peculiarly piercing, baffling gaze. 

"All over, " replied the artist, answering the greeting thrust of Czar'smuzzle against his knee, with caressing hand. "Where did you fly to?"

The other dropped into a chair. "I would fly anywhere to escape beingentertained by that Ragtime' piece of human nonentity--Louise Taine. Isaw them coming, just in time. " He was filling his pipe as he spoke. "Andhow did the work go?"

"All right, " replied the painter, indifferently. 

The older man shot a curious sidewise glance at his moody companion; then, striking a match, he gave careful attention to his pipe. Watching thecloud of blue smoke, he said quizzingly, "I suppose 'Her Majesty' wasroyally apparelled for the occasion-properly arrayed in purple and finelinen; as befits the dignity of her state?"

The artist turned at the mocking, suggestive tone and answered savagely, "I suppose you have got to know, damn you! I'm painting her as a QuakerMaiden. "

Conrad Lagrange's reply was as surprising in its way as was the outburstof the artist. Instead of the tirade of biting sarcasm and stinging abusethat the painter expected, the older man only gazed at him from under hisscowling brows and, shaking his head, sadly, said with sincere regret andunderstanding "You poor fellow! It must be hell. " Then, as his keen mindgrasped the full significance of the artist's words, he murmuredmeditatively, "The personification of the age masquerading in Quakergray--Shades of the giants who used to be! What an opportunity--if youonly had the nerve to do it. "

The artist flung out his hand in protest as he rose from his chair to paceup and down the porch. "Don't, Lagrange, don't! I can't stand it, justnow. "

"All right. " said the other, heartily, "I won't. " Rising, he put his handon his friend's shoulder. "Come, let's go for a look at the roses, beforeYee Kee calls us to dinner. "

In the garden, the artist's eye caught sight of something white lying inthe well-kept path. With an exclamation, he went quickly to pick it up. Itwas a dainty square of lace--a handkerchief--with an exquisitelyembroidered "S" in the corner. 

The two men looked at each other in silence; with smiling, questioningeyes. 

Chapter VIII

The Portrait That Was Not a Portrait

Aaron King was putting the last touches to his portrait of the womanwho--Conrad Lagrange said--was the personification of the age. 

From that evening when the young man told his friend the story of hismother's sacrifice, their friendship had become like that friendship whichpasseth the love of women. While the novelist, true to his promise, didnot cease to flay his younger companion--for the good of the artist'ssoul--those moments when his gentler moods ruled his speech were, perhaps, more frequent; and the artist was more and more learning to appreciate therare imagination, the delicacy of feeling, the intellectual brilliancy, and the keenness of mental vision that distinguished the man whose lifewas so embittered by the use he had made of his own rich gifts. 

The novelist steadily refused to look at the picture while the work was inprogress. He said, bluntly, that he preferred to run no risk ofinterfering with the young man's chance for fame; and that it would bequite enough for him to look upon his friend's shame when it wasaccomplished; without witnessing the process in its various stages. Theartist laughed to hide the embarrassing fact that he was rather pleasedto be left to himself with this particular picture. 

Conrad Lagrange did not, however, refuse to accompany his friend, occasionally, to the house on Fairlands Heights; where the paintercontinued to spend much of his time. When Mrs. Taine made mockingreferences to the novelist's promise not to leave the artist unprotectedto her tender mercies, he always answered with some--as she said--twistysaying; to the effect that the present situation in no way lessened hisdetermination to save the young man from the influences that wouldaccomplish the ruin of his genius. "If"--he always added--"if he is worthsaving; which remains to be seen. " Always, at the Taine home, they metJames Rutlidge. Frequently the celebrated critic dropped in at the cottagein the orange grove. 

Under the skillful management of Rutlidge, --at the request of Mrs. Taine, --the newspapers were already busy with the name and work of AaronKing. True, the critic had never seen the artist's work; but, never-the-less, the papers and magazines throughout the country oftenmentioned the high order of the painter's genius. There were littlestories of his study and success abroad; tactful references to hisaristocratic family; entertaining accounts of his romantic life with thefamous novelist in the orange groves of Fairlands, and of how, in hisCalifornia studio among the roses, the distinguished painter was at workupon a portrait of the well-known social leader, Mrs. Taine--this beingthe first portrait ever painted of that famous beauty. That the picturewould create a sensation at the exhibition, was the unanimous verdict ofall who had been permitted to see the marvelous creation by this raregenius whose work was so little known in this country. 

Said Conrad Lagrange--"It is all so easy. "

Once or twice, the artist or his friend had seen the woman of thedisfigured face; and the novelist still tried in vain to fix her in hismemory. Every day, they heard, in the depths of the neighboring orangegrove, the music of that unseen violin. They spoke, often, in playfulmood, of the spirit that haunted the place; but they made no effort tosolve the mystery of the carefully tended rose garden. They knew thatwhoever cared for the roses worked there only in the early morning hours;and they carefully avoided going into the yard back of the house untilafter breakfast. They felt that an investigation might rob them of thepeculiar humor of their fancy--a fancy that was to them, both, such apleasure; and gave to their home amid the orange-trees and roses such anadded charm. 

But the other member of the trio of friends was not so reticent. Czar hadformed an--to his most proper dogship--unusual habit. Frequently, when thethree were sitting on the porch in the evening, he would rise suddenlyfrom his place beside his master's chair, and walking sedately to the sideof the porch facing that neighboring gable and chimney, would standlistening attentively; then, without so much as a "by-your-leave, " hewould leap to the ground, and vanish somewhere around the corner of thehouse. Later, he would come sedately back; greeting each, in turn, withthat insistent thrust his soft muzzle against a knee; and assuring them, in the wordless speech of his expressive, brown eyes, that his mission hadbeen a most proper one, and that they might trust him to make no foolishmistakes that would mar the peace and harmony of their little household. The men never failed to agree with him that it was all right. In fact, sofully did they trust him that they never even stepped to the corner of theporch to see where he went; nor would they leave their chairs until he hadreturned. 

Upon those days when Mrs. Taine came to the studio, --being always carefulthat Louise accompanied her as far as the house, --Conrad Lagrangevanished. The man swore by all the strange and wonderful gods he knew--andthey were many--that he feared to spend an hour with that effervescingyoung female devotee of the Arts--lest the mountains in their wrath shouldfall upon him. 

But that day, when Mrs. Taine came for the last sitting, thenovelist--engaged in interesting talk with the artist--forgot. 

"You are caught, " cried the painter, gleefully, as the big automobilestopped at the gate. 

"I'll be damned if I am, " retorted the novelist, with no profane intentbut with meaning quite literal; and, seizing a book, he bolted through thekitchen--nearly upsetting the startled Yee Kee. 

"What's matte', " inquired the Chinaman, putting his head in at theliving-room door; his almond eyes as wide as they could go, with anexpression of celestial consternation that convulsed the artist. Catchingsight of the automobile, his oriental features wrinkled into a yellow grinof understanding; "Oh! see um come! Ha! I know. He all time go, she come. He say no like lagtime gal. Dog Cza', him all time gone, too; him no likelagtime--all same Miste' Laglange. Ha! I go, too, " and he, in turn, vanished. 

"You are early, to-day, " said Aaron King, as he escorted Mrs. Taine to thestudio. 

Just inside the door, she turned impulsively to face him--standing close, her beautifully groomed and voluptuous body instinct with the lure of hersex, her too perfect features slightly flushed, and her eyes submissivelydowncast. "And have you forgotten that this is the last time I can come?"she asked in a low tone. 

"Surely not"--he returned calmly--"you are coming to-morrow, with theothers, aren't you?" Her husband with James Rutlidge and Louise Taine wereinvited for the next day, to view the portrait. 

"Oh, but that will be so different!" She loosed the wrap she wore, andthrew it aside with an indescribable familiar gesture. "You don't realizewhat these hours have meant to me--how could you? You do not live in myworld. Your world is--is so different You do not know--you do not know. "With a sudden burst of passion, she added, "The world that I live in ishell; and this--this--oh, it has been heavenly!"

Her words, her voice, the poise of her figure, the gesture withoutstretched arms--it was all so nearly an invitation, so nearly asurrender of herself to him, that the man started forward impulsively. For the moment he forgot his work--he forgot everything--he was consciousonly of the woman who stood before him. But even as the light of triumphblazed up in the woman's eyes, the man halted, --drew back; and his facewas turned from her as he listened to the sweetly appealing message of thegentle spirit that made itself felt in the music of that hidden violin. Itwas as though, in truth, the mountains, themselves, --from their calmheights so remote from the little world wherein men live their basertragedies, --watched over him. "Don't you think we had better proceed withour work?" he said calmly. 

The light in the woman's eyes changed to anger which she turned away tohide. Without replying, she went to her place and assumed the pose; and, as she had watched him day after day when his eyes were upon the canvas, she watched him now. Since that first day, when she had questioned himabout the unseen musician, they had not mentioned the subject, although--as was inevitable under the circumstances--their intimacy hadgrown. But not once had he turned from his work in that listeningattitude, or looked from the window as though half-expecting some one, without her noting it. And, always, her eyes had flashed with resentment, which she had promptly concealed when the painter, again turning to hiseasel, had looked from his canvas to her face. 

Scarcely was the artist well started in his work, that afternoon, when themusic ceased. Presently, Mrs. Taine broke her watchful silence, with thequite casual remark; "Your musical neighbor is still unknown to you, Isuppose?"

"Yes, "--he answered smiling, as though more to himself than at her, --"wehave never tried to make her acquaintance. "

The woman caught him up quickly; "To make _her_ acquaintance? Why do yousay, '_her_, ' if you do not know who it is?"

The artist was confused. "Did I say, _her_?" he questioned, his faceflushed with embarrassment. "It was a slip of the tongue. Neither ConradLagrange nor I know anything about our neighbor. "

She laughed ironically. "And you _could_ know so easily. "

"I suppose so; but we have never cared to. We prefer to accept the musicas it comes to us--impersonally--for what it is--not for whoever makesit. " He spoke coldly, as though the subject was distasteful to him, underthe circumstances of the moment. 

But the woman persisted. "Well, _I_ know who it is. Shall I tell you?"

"No. I do not care to know. I am not interested in the musician. "

"Oh, but you might be, you know, " she retorted. 

"Please take the pose, " returned Aaron King professionally. Mrs. Taine, wisely, for the time, dropped the subject; contenting herself with ameaning laugh. 

The artist silently gave all his attention to the nearly finishedportrait. He was not painting, now, with full brush and swift surestrokes, --as had been his way when building up his picture, --but workedwith occasional deft touches here and there; drawing back from the canvasoften, to study it intently, his eyes glancing swiftly from the picture tothe sitter's face and back again to the portrait; then stepping forwardquickly, ready brush in hand; to withdraw an instant later for anotherlong and searching study. Presently, with an air of relief, he laid asidehis palette and brushes; and turning to Mrs. Taine, with a smile, held outhis hand. "Come, " he said, "tell me if I have done well or ill. "

"It is finished?" she cried. "I may see it?"

"It is all that I can do"--he answered--"come. " He led her to the easel, where they stood side by side before his work. 

The picture, still fresh from the painter's brush, was a portrait of Mrs. Taine--yet not a portrait. Exquisite in coloring and in its harmony oftone and line, it betrayed in every careful detail--in every mark of thebrush--the thoughtful, painstaking care--the thorough knowledge and highlytrained skill of an artist who was, at least, master of his own technic. But--if one might say so--the painting was more a picture than a portrait. The face upon the canvas was the face of Mrs. Taine, indeed, in that thefeatures were her features; but it was also the face of a sweetly modestQuaker Maid. The too perfect, too well cared for face of the beautifulwoman of the world was, on the canvas, given the charm of a naturalunconscious loveliness. The eyes that had watched the artist with suchcertain knowledge of life and with the boldness born of that knowledgewere, in the picture, beautiful with the charm of innocent maidenhood. The very coloring and the arrangement of the hair were changed subtly toexpress, not the skill of high-priced beauty-doctors and of fashionablehair-dressers, but the instinctive care of womanliness. The costume that, when worn by the woman, expressed so fully her true character; in thepicture, became the emblem of a pure and deeply religious spirit. 

Mrs. Taine turned impulsively to the artist, and, placing her hand uponhis arm, exclaimed in delight, "Oh, is it true? Am I really so beautiful?"

The artist laughed. "You like it?"

"Like it? How could I help liking it? It is lovely. "

"I am glad, " he returned. "I hoped it would please you. "

"And you"--she asked, with eager eyes--"are you satisfied with it? Does itseem good to you?"

"Oh, as for that, " he answered, "I suppose one is never satisfied. I knowthe work is good--in a way. But it is very far from what it should be, Ifear. I feel that, after all, I have not made the most of my opportunity. "He spoke with a shade of sadness. 

Again, she put out her hand impulsively to touch his arm, as she answeredeagerly, "Ah, but no one else will say that. No one else will dare. Itwill be the sensation of the year--I tell you. Just you wait until JimRutlidge sees it. Wait until it is hung for exhibition, and he tells theworld about it. Everybody worth while will be coming to you then. And I--Iwill remember these hours with you, and be glad that I could help--evenso little. Will you remember them, too, I wonder. Are you glad the pictureis finished?"

"And are you not glad?" he returned meaningly. 

They had both forgotten the painting before them. They did not see it. They each saw only the other. 

"No, I am not glad, " she said in a low tone. "People would very soon betalking if I should come here, alone--now that the picture is finished. "

"I suppose in any case you will be leaving Fairlands soon, for thesummer, " he returned slowly. 

"O listen, "--she cried with quick eagerness--"we are going to LakeSilence. What's to hinder your coming too? Everybody goes there, you know. Won't you come?"

"But would it be altogether safe?" He reflected doubtfully. 

"Why, of course, --Mr. Taine, Louise, and Jim, --we are all goingtogether--don't you see? I don't believe you want to go, " she pouted. "Ibelieve you want to forget. "

Her alluring manner, the invitation conveyed in her words and voice, thetouch of her hand on his arm, and the nearness of her person, fairly sweptthe man off his feet. With quick passion, he caught her hand, and hiswords came with reckless heat. "You know that I will not forget you. Youknow that I could not, if I would. Do you think that I have been soengrossed with my brushes and canvas that I have been unconscious of you?What is that painted thing beside your own beautiful self? Do you thinkthat because I must turn myself into a machine to make a photograph ofyour beauty, I am insensible to its charm? I am not a machine. I am a man;as you are a woman; and I--"

She checked him suddenly--stepping aside with a quick movement, and thewords, "Hush, some one is coming. "

The artist, too, heard voices, just without the door. 

Mrs. Taine moved swiftly across the room toward her wrap. Aaron King, going to his easel, drew the velvet curtain to hide the picture. 

Chapter IX

Conrad Lagrange's Adventure

Certainly, when Conrad Lagrange fled so precipitately from Louise Taine, that afternoon, he had no thought that the trivial incident was to markthe beginning of a new era in his life; or that it would work out in thelife of his dearest friend such far reaching results. His only purpose wasto escape an hour of the frothy vaporings of the poor, young creature whobelieved herself so interested in art and letters, and who succeeded soadmirably in expressing the spirit of her environment and training. 

With his pipe and book, the novelist hid himself in the rose garden;finding a seat on the ground, in an angle of the studio wall and theRagged Robin hedge, where any one entering the enclosure would be leastlikely to observe him. Czar, heartily approving of his master's action, stretched himself comfortably under the nearest rose-bush, and waitedfurther developments. 

Presently, the novelist heard his friend, with Mrs. Taine, come from thehouse and enter the studio. For a moment, he entertained the uncomfortablefear that the artist, in a spirit of sheer boyish fun that so often movedhim, would bring Mrs. Taine to the garden. But the moment passed, and thenovelist, --mentally blessing the young man for his forbearance, --with achuckle of satisfaction, lighted his pipe and opened his book. Scarcelyhad he found his place in the pages, however, when he was againinterrupted--this time, by the welcome tones of their neighbor's violin. Putting his book aside, the man reclining in the shelter of the roses, with half-closed eyes, yielded himself to the fancy of the spirit thatcalled from the depths of the fragrant orange grove. 

The mass of roses in the hedge and on the wall of the studio above hishead dropped their lovely petals down upon him. The warm, slanting rays ofthe afternoon sun, softened by the screen of shining leaves and branches, played over the bewildering riot of color. Here and there, golden-bodiedbees and velvet-winged butterflies flitted about their fairy-like duties. Far above, in the deep blue, a hawk floated on motionless wings and alonely crow laid his course toward the distant mountain peaks thatgleamed, silvery white, above the blue and purple of the lower ridges andthe tawny yellow of their foothills. The air was saturated with thefragrance of the rose and orange blossoms, of eucalyptus and pepper trees, and with the thousand other perfumes of a California spring. 

The music ceased. The man waited--hoping that it would begin again. But itdid not; and he was about to take up his book, once more, when Czar arose, stretched himself, stood for a moment in a picturesque, listeningattitude, then trotted off among the roses; leaving the novelist with anodd feeling of uneasy expectancy--half resolved to stay, half determinedto go. The thought of Louise in the house decided him, and he kept hisplace, hidden as he was, in the corner--a whimsical smile hovering overhis world-lined features as though, after all, he felt himself enteringupon some enjoyable adventure. 

Presently, he heard indistinctly, somewhere in the other end of thegarden, a low murmuring voice. As it came nearer, the man's smile grewmore pronounced It was a wonderfully attractive voice, clear and full inits pure-toned sweetness. The unseen speaker was talking to the novelist'sdog. The smile on the man's face was still more pronounced, as hewhispered to himself, "The rascal! So this is what he has been up to!"Rising quietly to his knees, he peered through the flower-laden bushes. 

A young woman of rare and exquisite beauty was moving about thegarden--bending over the roses, and talking in low tones to Czar, who--tohis hidden master--appeared to appreciate fully the favor of his gentlecompanion's intimacy. The novelist--old in the study of character andtrained by his long years of observation and experience in the world ofartificiality--was fascinated by the loveliness of the scene. 

Dressed simply, in some soft clinging material of white, with a modestlylow-cut square at the throat, and sleeves that ended in filmy lace justbelow the elbow--her lithe, softly rounded form, as she moved here andthere, had all the charm of girlish grace with the fuller beauty ofripening womanhood. As she bent over the roses, or stooped to caress thedog, in gentle comradeship, her step, her poise, her every motion, wasinstinct with that strength and health that is seldom seen among those whowear the shackles of a too conventionalized society. Her face, --warmlytinted by the golden out-of-doors, firm fleshed and clear, --in itsunconscious naturalness and in its winsome purity was like the flowers shestooped to kiss. 

As he watched, the man noticed--with a smile of understanding--that shekept rather to the side of the garden toward the house; where the artist, at his easel by the big, north light, could not see her through the smallwindow in the end of the room; and where, hidden by the tall hedge, shewould not be noticed from Yee Kee's kitchen. Often, too, she paused tolisten, as if for any chance approaching step--appearing, to the fancy ofthe man, as some creature from another world--poised lightly, ready tovanish if any rude observer came too near. Soon, --after a cautious, hesitating, listening look about, --she slipped, swift footed as a fawn, across the garden, and--followed by the dog--disappeared into the latticedrose-covered arbor against the southern wall. 

With a chuckle to himself, Conrad Lagrange crept quietly along the hedgeto the door of her retreat. 

When she saw him there, she gave a little cry and started as though toescape. But the novelist, smiling barred her way; while Czar, joyfullygreeting his master, turned from the man to the girl and back to the managain, as if, by dividing his attention equally between the two, he wasbent upon assuring each that the other was a friend of the right sort. There was no mistaking the facts that the dog was introducing them, andthat he was as proud of his new acquaintance as he was pleased to presenthis older and more intimate companion. 

A sunny smile broke over the girl's winsome face, as she caught themeaning of Czar's behavior. "O, " she said, "are you his master?" Hermanner was as natural and unrestrained as a child's--her voice, musicallysweet and low, as one unaccustomed to the speech of noisy, crowded citiesor shrill chattering crowds. 

"I am his most faithful and humble subject, " returned the man, whimsically. 

She was studying his face openly, while her own countenance--unschooled tohide emotions, untrained to deceive--frankly betrayed each passing thoughtand mood. The daintily turned chin, sensitive lips, delicate nostrils, andlarge, blue eyes, --with that wide, unafraid look of a child that has neverbeen taught to fear, --revealed a spirit fine and rare; while the low, broad forehead, shaded by a wealth of soft brown hair, --that, arrangeddeftly in some simple fashion, seemed to invite the caress of everywayward breath of air, --gave the added charm of strength and purpose. Theman, seeing these things and knowing--as few men ever know--their value, waited her verdict. 

It came with a smile and a pretty fancy, as though she caught the mood ofthe novelist's reply. "He has told me so much about you--how kind you areto him, and how he loves you. I hope you don't mind that he and I havelearned to be good friends. Won't you tell me his name? I have triedeverything, but nothing seems to fit. To call such a royal fellow, 'doggie', doesn't do at all, does it?"

Conrad Lagrange laughed--and it was the laugh of a Conrad Lagrange unknownto the world. "No, " he said with mock seriousness, "'doggie, ' doesn't doat all. He's not that kind of a dog. His name is Czar. That is"--he added, giving full rein to his droll humor--"I gave it to him for a name. He hasmade it his title. He did that, you know, so I would always remember thathe is my superior. "

She laughed--low, full-throated and clear--as a girl who has not sadlylearned that she is a woman, laughs. Then she fell to caressing the dogand calling him by name; while Czar--in his efforts to express his delightand satisfaction--was as nearly undignified as it was possible for him tobe. 

As he watched them, the rugged, world-worn features of the famous novelistwere lighted with an expression that transformed them. 

"And I suppose, " she said, --still responding to the novelist's playfulmood, --"that Czar told you I was trespassing in your garden. Of course itwas his duty to tell. I hope he told you, also, that I do not steal yourroses. "

The man shook his head, and his sharp, green-gray eyes were twinklingmerrily, now--as a boy in the spirit of some amusing venture. "Oh, no!Czar said nothing at all about trespassers. He did tell me, though, abouta wonderful creature that comes every day to visit the garden. A nymph, hethought it was--a beautiful Oread from away up there among the silverpeaks and purple canyons--or, perhaps, a lovely Dryad from among the oaksand pines. I felt quite sure, though, that the nymph must be an Oread;because he said that she comes to gather colors from the roses, and thatevery morning and every evening she uses these colors to tint the highestpeaks and crests of her mountains--making them so beautiful that mortalswould always begin and end each day by looking up at them. Of course, themoment I saw, you I knew who you were. "

Unaffectedly pleased as a child at his quaint fancy, she answered merrily, "And so you hid among the roses to trap me, I suppose. "

"Indeed, I did not, " he retorted indignantly. "I was forced to fly from awicked Flibbertigibbet who seeks to torment me. I barely escaped with mylife, and came into the garden to hide and recover from my fright. Then Iheard the most wonderful music and guessed that you must be somewherearound. Then Czar, who had come with me to hide from the Flibbertigibbetin the house, left me. I looked to see where he had gone, and so I saw, sure enough, that it was you. All my life, you know, I have wanted tocatch a real nymph; but never could. So when you came into the arbor, Icouldn't resist trying again. And, now, here we are--with Czar to say itis all right. "

At his fanciful words, she laughed again, and her cheeks flushed withpleasure. Then, with grave sweetness, she said, "Won't you sit down, please, and let me explain seriously?"

"I suppose you must pretend to be like the rest of us, " he returned withan air of resignation, "but all the same, Czar and I know you are not. "

When they were seated, she said simply, "My name is Sibyl Andres. Thisplace used to be my home. My mother planted this garden with her ownhands. Many of these roses were brought from our home in the mountains, where I was born, and where I lived with father and mother until fiveyears ago. I feel, still, as though the old place in the hills were myreal home, and every summer, when nearly every one goes away fromFairlands and there is nothing for me to do, Myra Willard and I go upthere, for as long as we can. You see, I teach music and play in thechurches. Miss Willard taught me. She and mother are the only teachers Ihave ever had. After father's death, mother and Myra and I lived here fortwo years; then mother died, and Myra and I moved to that little houseover there, because we could not afford to keep this place. But the manwho bought it gave me permission to care for the garden; so I come almostevery day--through that little gate in the corner of the hedge, there--totend the roses. Since you men moved in, though, I come, mostly, in themorning--early--before you are up. I only slip in, sometimes, for a fewminutes, in the afternoon--when I think it will be safe. You see, beingstrangers, I--I feared you would think me bold--if I--if I asked to come. So many people really wouldn't understand, you know. "

Conrad Lagrange's deep voice was very gentle as he said, "Mr. King and Ihave known, all the time, that we had no real claim upon this garden, Miss Andrés. " Then, with his whimsical smile, he added, "You see, we felt, from the very first, that it was haunted by a lovely spirit that wouldvanish utterly if we intruded. That is why we have been so careful. We didnot want to frighten you away. And besides, you know, Czar told us that itwas all right!"

The blue eyes shone through a bright mist as she answered the man's kindlywords. "You _are_ good, Mr. Lagrange. And all the time it was really _you_of whom I was so afraid. "

"Why me, more than my friend?" he asked, regarding her thoughtfully. 

She colored a little under his searching gaze, but answered with thatchildlike frankness that was so much a part of her winsome charm, "Why, because your friend is an _artist_--I thought _he_ would be sure tounderstand. I knew, of course, that you were the famous author; everybodytalks about your living here. " She seemed to think that her wordsexplained. 

"You mean that you were afraid of me because I am famous?" he askeddoubtfully. 

"Oh no, " she answered, "not because you are famous. I mean--I was notafraid of your _fame_, " she smiled. 

"And now, " said the novelist decisively, "you must tell me at once--do youread my books?" He waited, as though much depended upon her answer. 

The blue eyes were gazing at him with that wide, unafraid look as sheanswered sadly, "No, sir. I have tried, but I can't. They spoil my music. They hurt me, somehow, all over. "

Conrad Lagrange received her words with mingled emotions--with pleaseddelight at her ingenuous frankness; with bitter shame, sorrow, andhumiliation and, at the last, with genuine gladness and relief. "I knewit"--he said triumphantly--"I knew it. It was because of my books that youwere so afraid of me?" He asked eagerly, as one would ask to have a deepconviction verified. 

"You see, " she said, --smiling at the manner of his words, --"I did not knowthat an author _could_ be so different from the things he writes about. "Then, with a puzzled air--"But why do you write the horrid things thatspoil my music and make me afraid? Why don't you write as youtalk--about--about the mountains? Why don't you make bookslike--like"--she seemed to be searching for a word, and smiled withpleasure when she found it--"like yourself?"

"Listen"--said the novelist impressively, taking refuge in his fancifulhumor--"listen--I'll tell you a secret that must always be for just youand me--you like secrets don't you?"--anxiously. 

She laughed with pleasure--responding instantly to his mood. "Of course Ilike secrets. "

He nodded approval. "I was sure you did. Now listen--I am not reallyConrad Lagrange, the man who wrote those books that hurt you so--not whenI am here in your rose garden, or when I am listening to your music, orwhen I am away up there in your mountains, you know. It is only when I amin the unclean world that reads and likes my books that I am the man whowrote them. "

Her eyes shone with quick understanding. "Of course, " she agreed, "you_couldn't_ be _that_ kind of a man, and love the music, and like to behere among the roses or up in the mountains, could you?"

"No, and I'll tell you something else that goes with our secret. Your nameis not really Sibyl Andrés, you know--any more than you really live overthere in that little house. Your real home is in the mountains--just asyou said--you _really_ live among the glowing peaks, under the dark pines, on the ridges, and in the purple shadows of the canyons. You only comedown here to the Fairlands folk with a message from your mountains--and_we_ call your message music. Your name is--"

She was leaning forward, her face glowing with eagerness. "What is myname?"

"What can it be but 'Nature', " he said softly. "That's it, 'Nature'. "

"And you? Who are you when you are not--when you are not in that otherworld?"

"Me? Oh, my real name is 'Civilization'. Can't you guess why?"

She shook her head. "Tell me. "

"Because, --in spite of all that the world that reads my books cangive, --poor old 'Civilization' cannot be happy without the message that'Nature' brings from her mountains. "

"And you, too, love the mountains and--and this garden, and my music?" sheasked half doubtingly. "You are not pretending that too--just to amuseme?"

"No, I am not pretending that, " he said. 

"Then why--how can you do the--the other thing? I can't understand. "

"Of course, you can't understand--how could you? You are 'Nature' and'Nature' must often be puzzled by the things that 'Civilization' does. "

"Yes. I think that is true, " she agreed. "But I'm glad you like my music, anyway. "

"And so am I glad--that I _can_ like it. That's the only thing that savesme. "

"And your friend, the artist, --does he like my mountain music, do youthink?"

"Very much. He needs it too. "

"I am glad, " she answered simply. "I hoped he would like it, and that itwould help him. It was really for him that I have played. "

"You played for him?"

"Yes, " she returned without confusion. "You see, I did not know aboutyou--then. I thought you were altogether the man who wrote thosebooks--and so I _could_ not play for you. That is--I mean--youunderstand--I could not play--" again she seemed to search for a word, andfinding it, smiled--"I could not play _myself_ for you. But I thought thatbecause he was an _artist_ he would understand; and that if I _could_ makethe music tell him of the mountains it would, perhaps, help him a littleto 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 thescreen of vines a little, said to him, "Look here!"

Standing beside her, Conrad Lagrange, through the window in the end of thestudio next the garden, saw Aaron King at his easel; the artist's positionin the light of the big, north window being in a direct line between thetwo openings and the arbor. Mrs. Taine was sitting too far out of line tobe seen. 

The girl laughed gleefully. "Do you see him at his work? At first, I onlyhid 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 youboth were, I came because I love to watch him; as I try to make the musicI think he would love to hear. "

The novelist studied her intently. She was so artless--so unaffected bythe conventions of the world--in a word, so natural in expressing herthoughts, that the man who had given the best years of his life to feedthe vicious, grossly sensual and bestial imaginations of his readers wasdeeply 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 funnyquestion--when I have never even talked with him. How _could_ I like anyone 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. " Sheturned to look through the tiny opening in the arbor. "How I wish I couldsee inside that beautiful room. I know it must be beautiful. Once, whenyou were all gone, I tried to steal in; but, of course, he keeps itlocked. "

"I'll tell you what we'll do, " said the man, suddenly--prompted by herconfession 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, makeyour 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 toplay _yourself_ for just him alone but for me too--I'll fix it so that youcan 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 couldintroduce 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 thinkI was intruding, I am sure. "

"Well then, we will do it this way--the first day that Mr. King and I areboth away, and Tee Kee is gone, too; I'll slip out here and leave a letterand 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 ornot, and how long you can stay. Only"--he became very serious--"only, youmust 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 youmust not look at it until I say it is ready. Mr. King wouldn't like you tosee that picture, I am sure. In fact, he doesn't like for any one to seethe picture he is working on just now. "

"How funny, " she said, with a puzzled look. "What is he painting it for? Ilike for people to hear my music. "

The man answered before he thought--"But I don't like people to read mybooks. "

She shrank back, with troubled eyes, "Oh! is he--is he _that_ kind of anartist?"

"No, no, no!" exclaimed the novelist, hastily. "You must not think that. Idid not mean you to think that. If he was _that_ kind of an artist, Iwouldn't let you go into the studio at all. Mr. King is a good man--thebest man I have ever known. He is my friend because he knows the secretabout me that you know. He does not read my books. He would not read oneof them for anything. It is only that this picture is not finished. Whenit 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 putthe 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, utteredan exclamation of fear and drew back, turning to her companionappealingly. "O please, please don't let that man find me here. "

Conrad Lagrauge looked and saw James Rutlidge coming down the path towardthe arched entrance to the garden, which was directly across from thearbor. 

"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. "Iwon't let him come into the garden. When we are gone, you can make yourescape. 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 meetMr. Rutlidge, who had called for Mrs. Taine and Louise. 

But all the while that Conrad Lagrange was talking to the man, and leadinghim toward the door of the studio, he was wondering--why that look of fearupon the face of the girl in the garden? What had Sibyl Andrés to do withJames Rutlidge?

Chapter X

A Cry in the Night

As Conrad Lagrange and Mr. Rutlidge entered the studio, Aaron King turnedfrom the easel, where he had drawn the velvet curtain to hide the finishedportrait. Mrs. Taine was standing at the other side of the room, wrap inhand, calmly waiting, ready to go. The artist greeted Mr. Rutlidgecordially, while the woman triumphantly announced the completion of herportrait. 

"Ah! permit me to congratulate you, old man, " said Rutlidge, addressingthe artist familiarly. "It is too much, I suppose, to expect a look at itthis 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 thebest light; and I would like for _you_ to see it under the most favorableconditions possible. "

The critic was visibly flattered by the painter's manner and by hiswell-chosen emphasis upon the personal pronoun. "Quite right"--he saidapprovingly--"quite right, old boy. " He turned to the novelist--"Thesepainter chaps, you know, Lagrange, like to have a few hours for a lasttouch or two before _I_ come around. " He laughed pompously at his ownwords--the others joining. 

When Mrs. Taine and her companions were gone, the artist said hurriedlyto his friend, "Come on, let's get it over. " He led the way back to thestudio. 

"I thought the light was too bad, " said the older man, quizzingly, as theyentered the big room. 

"It's good enough for _your_ needs, " retorted the painter savagely. "Youcould see all you want by candle-light. " He jerked the curtain angrilyaside, and--without a glance at the canvas--walked away to stand at thewindow looking out upon the rose garden--waiting for the flood of thenovelist's scorn to overwhelm him. At last, when no sound broke the quietof the room, he turned--to find himself alone. 

Conrad Lagrange, after one look at the portrait on the easel, had slippedquietly out of the building. 

The artist found his friend, a few minutes later, meditatively smoking hispipe on the front porch, with Czar lying at his feet. 

"Well, " said the painter, curiously, --anxious, as he had said, to have itover, --"why the deuce don't you _say_ something?"

The novelist answered slowly, "My vocabulary is too limited, for onereason, and"--he looked thoughtfully down at Czar--"I prefer to wait untilyou have finished the portrait. "

"It _is_ finished, " returned the artist desperately. "I swear I'll nevertouch a brush to the damned thing again. "

The man with the pipe spoke to the dog at his feet; "Listen to him, Czar--listen to the poor devil of a painter-man. "

The dog arose, and, placing his head upon his master's knee, looked upinto the lined and rugged face, as the novelist continued, "If he was onlya wee bit puffed up and cocky over the thing, now, we could exertourselves, so we could, couldn't we?" Czar slowly waved a feathery tail indignified approval. His master continued, "But when a fellow can do acrime like that, and still retain enough virtue in his heart to hear hiswork shrieking to heaven its curses upon him for calling it intoexistence, it's best for outsiders to keep quite still. Your poor oldmaster knows whereof he speaks, doesn't he, dog? That he does!"

"And is that all you have to say on the subject?" demanded the artist, asthough for some reason he was disappointed at his friend's reticence. 

"I _might_ add a word of advice, " said the other. 

"Well, what is it?"

"That you pray your gods--if you have any--to be merciful, and bestow uponyou either less genius or more intelligence to appreciate it. "

 * * * * *

At three o'clock, the following afternoon, the little party from FairlandsHeights came to view, the portrait Or, --as Conrad Lagrange said, while theautomobile was approaching the house, "Well, here they come--'The Age', accompanied by 'Materialism', 'Sensual', and 'Ragtime'--to look upon theprostitution of Art, and call it good. " Escorted by the artist, and thenovelist, they went at once to the studio. 

The appreciation of the picture was instantaneous--so instantaneous, infact, that Louise Taine's lips were shaped to deliver an expressive "oh"of admiration, even _before_ the portrait was revealed. As though thepainter, in drawing back the easel curtain, gave an appointed signal, that"oh" was set off with the suddenness of a sky-rocket's rush, and wasaccompanied in its flight by a great volume of sizzling, sputtering, glittering, adjectival sparks that--filling the air to no purposewhatever--winked out as they were born; the climax of the pyrotechnicaldisplay being reached in the explosive pop of another "oh" which releaseda brilliant shower of variegated sighs and moans and ecstatic looks andinarticulate exclamations--ending, of course, in total darkness. 

Mrs. Taine hastened to turn the artist's embarrassed attention to anappreciation that had the appearance, at least, of a more enduring value. Drawing, with affectionate solicitude, close to her husband, sheasked, --in a voice that was tremulous with loving care and anxiety toplease, --"Do you like it, dear?"

"It is magnificent, splendid, perfect!" This effort to give his praise ofthe artist's work the appearance of substantial reality cost the wretchedproduct of lust and luxury a fit of coughing that racked his burnt-outbody almost to its last feeble hold upon the world of flesh and, with aforce that shamed the strength of his words, drove home the truth thatneither his praise nor his scorn could long endure. When he could againspeak, he said, in his husky, rasping whisper, --while grasping thepainter's hand in effusive cordiality, --"My dear fellow, I congratulateyou. It is exquisite. It will create a sensation, sir, when it isexhibited. Your fame is assured. I must thank you for the honor you havedone me in thus immortalizing the beauty and character of Mrs. Taine. " Andthen, to his wife, --"Dearest, I am glad for you, and proud. It is asworthy of you as paint and canvas could be. " He turned to Conrad Lagrangewho was an interested observer of the scene--"Am I not right, Lagrange?"

"Quite right, Mr. Taine, --quite right. As you say, the portrait is mostworthy the beauty and character of the charming subject. "

Another paroxysm of coughing mercifully prevented the poor creature'sreply. 

With one accord, the little group turned, now, to James Rutlidge--thedreaded authority and arbiter of artistic destinies. That distinguishedexpert, while the others were speaking, had been listening intently;ostensibly, the while, he examined the picture with a show of trainedskill that, it seemed, could not fail to detect unerringly those moresubtle values and defects that are popularly supposed to be hidden fromthe common eye. Silently, in breathless awe, they watched the process bywhich professional criticism finds its verdict. That is, they _thought_they were watching the process. In reality, the method is more subtle thanthey knew. 

While the great critic moved back and forth in front of the easel; drewaway from or bent over to closely scrutinize the canvas; shifted the easela hair breadth several times; sat down; stood erect; hummed and mutteredto himself abstractedly; cleared his throat with an impressive "Ahem";squinted through nearly closed eyes, with his head thrown back, or turnedin every side angle his fat neck would permit: peered through hishalf-closed fist; peeped through funnels of paper; sighted over and underhis open hand or a paper held to shut out portions of the painting;--theothers _thought_ they saw him expertly weighing the evidence for andagainst the merit of the work. In _reality_ it was his _ears_ and not his_eyes_ that helped the critic to his final decision--a decision which wasdelivered, at last, with a convincing air of ponderous finality. Indeed itwas a judgment from which there could be no appeal, for it expressedexactly the views of those for whose benefit it was rendered. Then, in amanner subtly insinuating himself into the fellowship of the famous, he, too, turned to Conrad Lagrange with a scholarly; "Do you not agree, sir?"

The novelist answered with slow impressiveness; "The picture, undoubtedly, fully merits the appreciation and praise you have given it. I have alreadycongratulated Mr. King--who was kind enough to show me his work before youarrived. "

After this, Yee Kee appeared upon the scene, and tea was served in thestudio--a fitting ceremony to the launching of another genius. 

"By the way, Mr. Lagrange, " said Mrs. Taine, quite casually, --when, underthe influence of the mildly stimulating beverage, the talk had assumed amore frivolous vein, --"Who is your talented neighbor that so charms Mr. King with the music of a violin?"

The novelist, as he turned toward the speaker, shot a quick glance at theArtist. Nor did those keen, baffling eyes fail to note that, at thequestion, James Rutlidge had paused in the middle of a sentence. "That isone of the mysteries of our romantic surroundings madam, " said ConradLagrange, easily. 

"And a very charming mystery it seems to be, " returned the woman. "It hasbeen quite affecting to watch its influence upon Mr. King. "

The artist laughed. "I admit that I found the music, in combination withthe beauty I have so feebly tried to out upon canvas, very stimulating. "

A flash of angry color swept into the perfect cheeks of Mrs. Taine, as sheretorted with meaning; "You are as flattering in your speech as you arewith your brush. I assure you I do not consider myself in your unknownmusician's class. "

The small eyes of James Rutlidge were fixed inquiringly upon the speakers, while his heavy face betrayed--to the watchful novelist--an interest hecould not hide. "Is this music of such exceptional merit?" he asked withan attempt at indifference. 

Louise Taine--sensing that the performances of the unnamed violinist hadbeen acceptable to Conrad Lagrange and Aaron King--the two representativesof the world to which she aspired--could not let the opportunity slip. Shefairly deluged them with the spray of her admiring ejaculations in praiseof the musician--employing, hit or miss, every musical term that poppedinto her vacuous head. 

"Indeed, "--said the critic, --"I seem to have missed a treat. " Then, directly to the artist, --"And you say the violinist is wholly unknown toyou?"

"Wholly, " returned the painter, shortly. 

Conrad Lagrange saw a faint smile of understanding and disbelief flit foran instant over the heavy face of James Rutlidge. 

When the automobile, at last, was departing with the artist's guests; thetwo friends stood for a moment watching it up the road to the west, towardtown. As the big car moved away, they saw Mrs. Taine lean forward to speakto the chauffeur while James Rutlidge, who was in the front seat, turnedand shook his head as though in protest. The woman appeared to insist. Themachine slowed down, as though the chauffeur, in doubt, awaited theoutcome of the discussion. Then, just in front of that neighboring house, Rutlidge seemed to yield abruptly, and the automobile turned suddenly intoward the curb and stopped. Mrs. Taine alighted, and disappeared in thedepths of the orange grove. 

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange looked at each other, for a moment, inquestioning silence. The artist laughed. "Our poor little mystery, " hesaid. 

But the novelist--as they went toward the house--cursed Mrs. Taine, JamesRutlidge, and all their kin and kind, with a vehement earnestness thatstartled his companion--familiar as the latter was with his friend'speculiar talent in the art of vigorous expression. 

After dinner, that evening, the painter and the novelist sat on theporch--as their custom was--to watch the day go out of the sky and thenight come over valley and hill and mountain until, above the highestpeaks, the stars of God looked down upon the twinkling lights of the townsof men. At that hour, too, it was the custom, now, for the violinisthidden in the orange grove, to make the music they both so loved. 

In the music, that night, there was a feeling that, to them, was new--avague, uncertain, halting undertone that was born, they felt, of fear. Itstirred them to question and to wonder. Without apparent cause or reason, they each oddly connected the troubled tone in the music with the stoppingof the automobile from Fairlands Heights, that afternoon, at the gate ofthe little house next door--the artist, because of Mrs. Taine's insistentinquiry about the, to him, unknown musician;--Conrad Lagrange, because ofthe manner of the girl in the garden when James Rutlidge appeared andbecause of the critic's interest when they had spoken of the violinist inthe studio. But neither expressed his thought to the other. 

Presently, the music ceased, and they sat for an hour, perhaps, insilence--as close friends may do--exchanging only now and then a word. 

Suddenly, they were startled by a cry. In the still darkness of the night, from the mysterious depths of the orange grove, the sound came with such ashock that the two men, for the moment, held their places, motionless--questioning each other sharply--"What was that?" "Did youhear?"--as though they doubted, almost, their own ears. 

The cry came again; this time, undoubtedly, from that neighboring house tothe west. It was unmistakably the cry of a woman--a woman in fear andpain. 

They leaped to their feet. 

Again the cry came from the black depths of the orange grove--shuddering, horrible--in an agony of fear. 

The two men sprang from the porch, and, through the darkness that in theorange grove was like a black wall, ran toward the spot from which thesound came--the dog at their heels. 

Breathless, they broke into the little yard in front of the tiny box-likehouse. Lights shone in the windows. All seemed peaceful and still. Czarbetrayed no uneasiness. Going to the front door, they knocked. 

There was no answer save the sound of some one moving inside. 

Again, the artist knocked vigorously. 

The door opened, and a woman stood on the threshold. 

Standing a little to one side, the men saw her features clearly, in thelight from the room. It was the woman with the disfigured face. 

Conrad Lagrange was first to command himself. "I beg your pardon, madam. We live in the house next door. We thought we heard a cry of distress. Maywe offer our assistance in any way? Is there anything we can do?"

"Thank you, sir, you are very kind, "--returned the woman, in a lowvoice, --"but it is nothing. There is nothing you can do. "

And the voice of Sibyl Andrés, who stood farther back in the room, wherethe artist from his position could not see her, added, "It was good of youto come, Mr. Lagrange; but it is really nothing. We are so sorry you weredisturbed. "

"Not at all, " returned the men, as the woman of the disfigured face drewback from the door. "Good night. "

"Good night, " came from within the house, and the door was shut. 

Chapter XI

Go Look In Your Mirror, You Fool

As the Taine automobile left Aaron King and his friend, that afternoon, Mrs. Taine spoke to the chauffeur; "You may stop a moment, at the nexthouse, Henry. "

If she had fired a gun, James Rutlidge could not have turned with a morestartled suddenness. 

"What in thunder do you want there?" he demanded shortly. 

"I want to stop, " she returned calmly. 

"But I must get down town, at once, " he protested. "I have already lostthe best part of the afternoon. "

"Your business seems to have become important very suddenly, " sheobserved, sarcastically. 

"I have something to do besides making calls with you, " he retorted. "Goon, Henry. "

Mrs. Taine spoke sharply; "Really, Jim, you are going too far. Henry, turnin at the house. " The machine moved toward the curb and stopped. As shestepped from the car, she added, "I will only be a minute, Jim. "

Rutlidge growled an inarticulate curse. 

"What deviltry do you suppose she is up to now, " rasped Mr. Taine. 

Which brought from his daughter the usual protest, --"O, papa, don't, "

As Mrs. Taine approached the house, Sibyl Andrés--busy among the flowersthat bordered the walk--heard the woman's step, and stood quietly waitingher. Mrs. Taine's face was perfect in its expression of cordial interest, with just enough--but not too much--of a conscious, well-bred superiority. The girl's countenance was lighted by an expression of childlike surpriseand wonder. What had brought this well-known leader in the social worldfrom Fairlands Heights to the poor, little house in the orange grove, sofar down the hill?

"Good afternoon, " said the caller. "You are Miss Andrés, are you not?"

"Yes, " returned the girl, with a smile. "Won't you come in? I will callMiss Willard. "

"Oh, thank you, no. I have only a moment. My friends are waiting. I amMrs. Taine. "

"Yes, I know. I have often seen you passing. "

The other turned abruptly. "What beautiful flowers. "

"Aren't they lovely, " agreed Sibyl, with frank pleasure at the visitor'sappreciation. "Let me give you a bunch. " Swiftly she gathered a generousarmful. 

Mrs. Taine protested, but the girl presented her offering with such graceand winsomeness that the other could not refuse. As she received the gift, the perfect features of the woman of the world were colored by a blushthat even she could not control. "I understand, Miss Andrés, " she said, "that you are an accomplished violinist. "

"I teach and play in Park Church, " was the simple answer. 

"I have never happened to hear you, myself, "--said Mrs. Tainesmoothly, --"but my friends who live next door--Mr. Lagrange and Mr. King--have told me about you. "

"Oh!" The girl's voice was vaguely troubled, while the other, watching, saw the blush that colored her warmly tinted cheeks. 

"It is good of you to play for them, " continued the woman from FairlandsHeights, casually. "You must enjoy the society of such famous men, verymuch. There are a great many people, you know, who would envy you yourfriendship with them. "

The girl replied quickly, "O, but you are mistaken. I am not acquaintedwith them, at all; that is--not with Mr. King--I have never spoken tohim--and I only met Mr. Lagrange, for a few minutes, by accident. "

"Indeed! But I am forgetting the purpose of my call, and my friends willbecome impatient. Do you ever play for private entertainments, MissAndrés?--for--say a dinner, or a reception, you know?"

"I would be very glad for such an engagement, Mrs. Taine. I must earn whatI can with my music, and there are not enough pupils to occupy all mytime. But perhaps you should hear me play, first. I will get my violin. "

Mrs. Taine checked her, "Oh, no, indeed. It is quite unnecessary, mydear. The opinion of your distinguished neighbors is quite enough. I shallkeep you in mind for some future occasion. I just wished to learn if youwould accept such an engagement. Good-by. Thanks--so much--for yourflowers. "

She was upon the point of turning away, when a low cry from the nearbyporch startled them both. Turning, they saw the woman with the disfiguredface, standing in the doorway; an expression of mingled wonder, love, andsupplication upon her hideously marred features. As they looked, shestarted toward them, --impulsively stretching out her arms, as though thegesture was an involuntary expression of some deep emotion, --then checkedherself, suddenly as though in doubt. 

Sibyl Andrés uttered an exclamation. "Why, Myra! what is it, dear?"

Mrs. Taine turned away with a gesture of horror, saying to the girl in alow, hurried voice, "Dear me, how dreadful! I really must be going. "

As she went down the flower-bordered path towards the street, the woman onthe porch, again, stretched out her arms appealingly. Then, as Sibylreached her side, the poor creature clasped the girl in a close embrace, and burst into bitter tears. 

 * * * * *

Upon the return of the Taines and James Rutlidge to the house on FairlandsHeights, Mrs. Taine retired immediately to her own luxuriously appointedapartments. 

At dinner, a maid brought to the household word that her mistress wassuffering from a severe headache and would not be down and begged that shemight not be disturbed during the evening. 

Alone in her room, Mrs. Taine--her headache being whollyconventional--gave herself unreservedly to the thoughts that she couldnot, under the eyes of others, entertain without restraint. She was seatedat a window that looked down upon the carefully graded levels of theenvying Fairlanders and across the wide sweep of the valley below to themountains which, from that lofty point of vantage, could be seen from thebase of their lowest foothills to the crests of their highest peaks. Butthe woman who lived on the Heights of Fairlands saw neither the homes oftheir neighbors, the busy valley below, nor the mountains that lifted sofar above them all. Her thoughts were centered upon what, to her, was morethan these. 

When night was gathering over the scene, her maid entered softly. Mrs. Taine dismissed the woman with a word, telling her not to return until sherang. Leaving the window, after drawing the shades close, she paced thenow lighted room, in troubled uneasiness of mind. Here and there, shepaused to touch or handle some familiar object--a photograph in a silverframe, a book on the carved table, the trifles on her open desk, or anornamental vase on the mantle--then moved restlessly away to continue heraimless exercise. When the silence was rudely broken by the sound of aknock at her door, she stood still--a look of anger marring thewell-schooled beauty of her features. 

The knock was repeated. 

With an exclamation of impatient annoyance, she crossed the room, andflung open the door. 

Without leave or apology, her husband entered; and, as he did so, wasseized by a paroxysm of coughing that sent him reeling, gasping andbreathless, to the nearest chair. 

Mrs. Taine stood watching her husband coldly, with a curious, speculativeexpression on her face that she made no attempt to hide. When his torturewas abated--for the time--leaving him exhausted and trembling withweakness, she said coldly, "Well, what do you want? What are you doinghere?"

The man lifted his pallid, haggard face and, with a yellow, claw-like handwiped the beads of clammy sweat from his forehead; while his deep-sunkeneyes leered at her with an insane light. 

The woman was at no pains to conceal her disgust. In her voice there wasno hint of pity. "Didn't Marie tell you that I wished to be alone?"

"Of course, " he jeered in his rasping whisper, "that's why I came. " Hegave a hideous resemblance to a laugh, which ended in a cough--and, again, he drew his skinny, shaking hand across his damp forehead "That's the timethat a man should visit his wife, isn't it? When she is alone. Or"--hegrinned mockingly--"when she wishes to be?"

She regarded him with open scorn and loathing. "You unclean beast! Willyou take yourself out of my room?"

He gazed at her, as a malevolent devil might gloat over a soul deliveredup for torture. "Not until I choose to go, my dear. "

[Illustration: "Well, what do you want? What are you doing here?"]

Suddenly changing her manner, she smiled with deliberate, mocking humor. While he watched, she moved leisurely to a deep, many-cushioned couch;and, arranging the pillows, reclined among them in the carelessabandonment of voluptuous ease and physical content. Openly, ostentatiously, she exhibited herself to his burning gaze in variousgraceful poses--lifting her arms above her head to adjust a cushion moreto her liking; turning and stretching her beautiful body; moving her limbswith sinuous enjoyment--as disregardful of his presence as though she werealone. At last she spoke in cool, even, colorless tones; "Perhaps you willtell me what you want?"

The wretched victim of his own unbridled sensuality shook withinarticulate rage. Choking and coughing he writhed in his chair--hisemaciated limbs twisted grotesquely; his sallow face bathed inperspiration his claw-like hands opening and closing; his bloodless lipscurled back from his yellow teeth, in a horrid grin of impotent fury. Andall the while she lay watching him with that pitiless, mocking, smile. Itwas as though the malevolent devil and the tortured soul had suddenlychanged places. 

When the man could speak, he reviled her, in his rasping whisper, withcurses that it seemed must blister his tongue. She received his effortwith jeering laughter and taunting words; moving her body, now and then, among the cushions, with an air of purely physical enjoyment that, to theother, was maddening. 

"If this is all you came for, "--she said, easily, --"might have sparedyourself the effort--don't you think?"

Controlling himself, in a measure, he returned, "I came to tell you thatyour intimacy with that damned painter must stop. "

Her eyes narrowed slightly. One hand, hidden in the cushions, clencheduntil her rings hurt. "Just what do you mean by my intimacy?" she askedevenly. 

"You know what I mean, " he replied coarsely. "I mean what intimacy with aman always means to a woman like you. "

"The only meaning that a creature of your foul mind can understand, " sheretorted smoothly. "If it were worth while to tell you the truth, I wouldsay that my conduct when alone with Mr. King has been as proper as--aswhen I am alone with you. "

The taunt maddened him. Interrupted by spells of coughing--choking, gasping, fighting for breath, his eyes blazing with hatred and lust, mingling his words with oaths and curses--he raged at her. "And do youthink--that, because I am so nearly dead, --I do not resent what--I saw, to-day? Do you think--I am so far gone that I cannot--understand--yourinterest in this man, --after--watching you, together, all--the afternoon?Has there been any one--in his studio, except you two, when--he waspainting you in that dress--which you--designed for his benefit? Oh, no, indeed, --you and your--genius could not be interrupted, --for the sake--ofhis art. His art! Great God!--was there ever such a damnable farce--sincehell was invented? Art!--you--_you_--_you_!--" crazed with jealous fury, he pointed at her with his yellow, shaking, skeleton fingers; andstruggled to raise his voice above that rasping whisper until the cordsof his scrawny neck stood out and his face was distorted with the strainof his effort--"_You!_ painted as a--modest Quaker Maid, --with all thecharm of innocence, --virtue, and religious piety in your face. _You!_ Andthat picture will be exhibited--and written about--as a work of _art!_You'll pull all the strings, --and use all your influence, --and thething--will be received as a--masterpiece. "

"And, " she added calmly, "you will write a check--and lie, as you did thisafternoon. "

Without heeding her remark, he went on, --"You know the picture isworthless. He knows it, --Conrad Lagrange knows it, --Jim Rutlidge knowsit, --the whole damned clique and gang of you know it, He's like all hiskind, --a pretender, --a poser, --playing into the hands--of such women asyou; to win social position--and wealth. And we and our kind--we pretendto believe--in such damned parasites, --and exalt them and what we--calltheir art, --and keep them in luxury, and buy their pictures;--because theyprostitute--their talents to gratify our vanity. We know it's all a damnedsham--and a pretense that if they were real artists, --with an honestworkman's respect for their work, --they wouldn't--recognize us. "

"Don't forget to send him a check, "--she murmured--"you can't afford toneglect it, you know--think how people would talk. "

"Don't worry, " he replied. "There'll be no talk. I'll send the genius hischeck--for making love--to my wife in the sacred name of art, --and I'lllie--about his picture with--the rest of you. But there will be--no moreof your intimacy with him. You're my wife, --in spite of hell, --and fromnow on--I'll see--that you are true--to me. Your sickening pose--ofmodesty in dress shall be something--more than a pose. For the little timeI have left, --I'll have--you to--myself or I'll kill you. "

His reference to her refusal to uncover her shoulders in public broke thewoman's calm and aroused her to a cold fury. Springing to her feet, shestood over him as he sat huddled in his chair, exhausted by his effort. 

"What is your silly, idle threat beside the fact, " she said with stingingscorn. "To have killed me, instead of making me your wife, would have beena kindness greater than you are capable of. You know how unspeakably vileyou were when you bought me. You know how every hour of my life with youhas been a torment to me. You should be grateful that I have helped you tolive your lie--that I have played the game of respectability withyou--that I am willing to play it a little while longer, until you laydown your hand for good, and release us both. 

"Suppose I _were_ what you think me? What right have _you_ to object to mypleasures? Have you--in all your life of idle, vicious, luxury--have youever feared to do evil if it appealed to your bestial nature? You know youhave not. You have feared only the appearance of evil. To be as evil asyou like so long as you can avoid the appearance of evil; that's the gameyou have taught me to play. That's the game we have played together. That's the game we and our kind insist the artists and writers shall helpus play. That's the only game I know, and, by the rule of our game, solong as the world sees nothing, I shall do what pleases me. 

"You have had your day with me. You have had what you paid for. What righthave you to deny me, now, an hour's forgetfulness? When I think of what Imight have been, but for you, I wonder that I have cared to live, and Iwould not--except for the poor sport of torturing you. 

"You scoff at Mr. King's portrait of me because he has not painted me as Iam! What would you have said if he _had_ painted me as I am? What wouldyou say if Conrad Lagrange should write the truth about us and our kind, for his millions of readers? You sneer at me because I cannot uncover myshoulders in the conventional dress of my class, and so make a virtue of anecessity and deceive the world by a pretense of modesty. Go look in yourmirror, you fool! Your right to sneer at me for my poor little pretense isdenied you by every line of your repulsive countenance Now get out. I'mgoing to retire. "

And she rang for her maid. 

Chapter XII

First Fruits of His Shame

When the postman, in his little cart, stopped at the home of Aaron Kingand his friend, that day, it was Conrad Lagrange who received the mail. The artist was in his studio, and the novelist, knowing that the painterwas not at work, went to him there with a letter. 

The portrait--still on the easel--was hidden by the velvet curtain. Sitting by a table that was littered with a confusion of sketches, booksand papers, the young man was re-tying a package of old letters that hehad, evidently, just been reading. 

As the novelist went to him, the artist said quietly, --indicating thepackage in his hand, --"From my mother. She wrote them during the last yearof my study abroad. " When the other did not reply, he continuedthoughtfully, "Do you know, Lagrange, since my acquaintance with you, Ifind many things in these old letters that--at the time I received them--Idid not, at all, appreciate. You seem to be helping me, somehow, to abetter understanding of my mother's spirit and mind. " He smiled. 

Presently, Conrad Lagrange, when he could trust himself to speak, said, "Your mother's mind and spirit, Aaron, were too fine and rare to be fullyappreciated or understood except by one trained in the school of life, itself. When she wrote those letters, you were a student of merecraftsmanship. She, herself no doubt, recognized that you would not fullycomprehend the things she wrote; but she put them down, out of the veryfullness of her intellectual and spiritual wealth--trusting to your loveto preserve the letters, and to the years to give you understanding. "

"Why, " cried the artist, "those are almost her exact words--as I have justbeen reading them!"

The other, smiling, continued quietly, "Your appreciation andunderstanding of your mother will continue to grow through all your life, Aaron. When you are old--as old as I am--you will still find in thoseletters hidden treasures of thought, and truths of greater value than you, now, can realize. But here--I have brought you your share of theafternoon's mail. "

When Aaron King opened the envelope that his friend laid on the tablebefore him, he sat regarding its contents with an air of thoughtfulmeditation--lost to his surroundings. 

The novelist--who had gone to the window and was looking into the rosegarden--turned to speak to his friend; but the other did not reply. Again, the man at the window addressed the painter; but still the younger man wassilent. At this, Conrad Lagrange came back to the table; an expression ofanxiety upon his face. "What is it, old man? What's the matter? No badnews, I hope?"

Aaron King, aroused from his fit of abstraction, laughed shortly, and heldout to his friend the letter he had just received. It was from Mr. Taine. Enclosed was the millionaire's check. The letter was a formal businessnote; the check was for an amount that drew a low whistle from thenovelist's lips. 

"Rather higher pay than old brother Judas received for a somewhat similarservice, isn't it, " he commented, as he passed the letter and check backto the artist. Then, as he watched the younger man's face, he asked, "What's the matter, don't you like the flavor of these first fruits ofyour shame? I advise you to cultivate a taste for this sort of thing asquickly as possible--in your own defense. "

"Don't you think you are a little bit too hard on us all, Lagrange?" askedthe artist, with a faint smile. "These people are satisfied. The picturepleases them. "

"Of course they are pleased, " retorted the other. "You know your business. That's the trouble with you. That's the trouble with us all, thesedays--we painters and writers and musicians--we know our business toodamned well. We have the mechanics of our crafts, the tricks of ourtrades, so well in hand that we make our books and pictures and music saywhat we please. We _use_ our art to gain our own vain ends instead ofbeing driven _by_ our art to find adequate expression for some great truththat demands through us a hearing. You have said it all, my friend--youhave summed up the whole situation in the present-day world of creativeart--these people are satisfied. You have given them what they want, prostituting your art to do it. That's what I have been doing all theseyears--giving people what they want. For a price we cater to them--even astheir tailors, and milliners, and barbers. And never again will the worldhave a truly great art or literature until men like us--in the divineselfishness of their, calling--demand, first and last, that they, _themselves_, be satisfied by the work of their hands. "

Going to the easel, he rudely jerked aside the curtain. Involuntarily, thepainter went to stand by his side before the picture. 

"Look at it!" cried the novelist. "Look at it in the light of your owngenius! Don't you see its power? Doesn't it tell you what you _could_ do, if you would? If you couldn't paint a picture, or if you couldn't feel apicture to be painted, it wouldn't matter. I'd let you ride to hell onyour own palette, and be damned to you. But this thing shows a power thatthe world can ill afford to lose. It is so bad because it is so good. Comehere!" he drew his friend to the big window, and pointed to the mountains. "There is an art like those mountains, my boy--lonely, apart from theworld; remotely above the squalid ambitions of men; Godlike in its calmstrength and peace--an art to which men may look for inspiration andcourage and hope. And there is an art that is like Fairlands--petty andshallow and mean--with only the fictitious value that its devotees assume, but never, actually, realize. Listen, Aaron, don't continue to misreadyour mother's letters. Don't misunderstand her as thinking that the placeshe coveted for you is a place within the power of these people to give. Come with me into the mountains, yonder. Come, and let us see if, in thosehills of God, you cannot find yourself. "

When Conrad Lagrange finished, the artist stood, for a little, withoutreply--irresolute, before his picture--the check in his hand. At last, still without speaking, he went back to the table, where he wrote brieflyhis reply to Mr. Taine. When he had finished, he handed his letter to theolder man, who read:

 Dear Sir:

 In reply to yours of the 13th, inst. , enclosing your check in payment for the portrait of Mrs. Taine; I appreciate your generosity, but cannot, now, accept it. 

 I find, upon further consideration, that the portrait does not fully satisfy me. I shall, therefore, keep the canvas until I can, with the consent of my own mind, put my signature upon it. 

 Herewith, I am returning your check; for, of course, I cannot accept payment for an unfinished work. 

 In a day or two, Mr. Lagrange and I will start to the mountains, for an outing. Trusting that you and your family will enjoy the season at Lake Silence I am, with kind regards, Yours sincerely, Aaron King. 

 * * * * *

That evening, the two men talked over their proposed trip, and laid theirplans to start without delay As Conrad Lagrange put it--they would losethemselves in the hills; with no definite destination in view; and no setdate for their return. Also, he stipulated that they should travellight--with only a pack burro to carry their supplies--and that theyshould avoid the haunts of the summer resorters, and keep to the moreunfrequented trails. The novelist's acquaintance with the country intowhich they would go, and his experience in woodcraft--gained upon manylike expeditions in the lonely wilds he loved--would make a guideunnecessary. It would be a new experience for Aaron King; and, as thenovelist talked, he found himself eager as a schoolboy for the trip; whilethe distant mountains, themselves, seemed to call him--inviting him tolearn the secret of their calm strength and the spirit of their loftypeace. The following day, they would spend in town; purchasing an outfitof the necessary equipment and supplies, securing a burro, and attendingto numerous odds and ends of business preparatory to their indefiniteabsence. 

It so happened, the next day, that Yee Kee, --who was to care for the placeduring their weeks of absence had matters of importance to himself, thatdemanded his attention in town. When his masters informed him that theywould not be home for lunch, he took advantage of the opportunity andasked for the day. 

Thus it came about that Conrad Lagrange--in the spirit of a boy bent uponsome secret adventure--stole out into the rose garden, that morning, toleave the promised letter and key at the little gate in the corner of theRagged Robin hedge. 

Chapter XIII

Myra Willard's Challenge

Since her meeting with Conrad Lagrange in the rose garden, Sibyl Andréshad looked, every day, for that promised letter. She found it early in theafternoon. It was a quaint letter--written in the spirit of theirmeeting--telling her the probable time of her neighbor's return; warningher, in fear of some fanciful horror, to beware of the picture on theeasel; and wishing her joy of the adventure. With the note, was a key. 

A few minutes later, the girl unlocked the door of the studio, and enteredthe building that had once been so familiar to her, but was now, in itsinterior, so transformed. Slowly, she pushed the door to, behind her. Asthough half frightened at her own daring, she stood quite still, lookingabout. In the atmosphere of that somewhat richly furnished apartment;poised timidly as if for ready flight; she seemed, indeed, the spirit thatthe novelist--in playful fancy--insisted that she was. Her cheeks wereglowing with color; her eyes were bright with the excitement of herinnocent adventure, and with her genuine admiration and appreciation ofthe beautiful room. 

Presently, --growing bolder, --she began moving about thestudio--light-footed and graceful as a wild thing from her own mountainhome, and, indeed, with much the air of a gentle creature of the woodsthat had strayed into the haunts of men. Intensely interested in thethings she found, she gradually forgot her timidity, and gave herself tothe enjoyment of her surroundings, with the freedom and abandon of achild. From picture to picture, she went, with wide, eager eyes. Sheturned over the sketches in the big portfolios that were so invitinglyopen; looked with awe upon the brushes stuck in the big Chinese jar--uponthe palettes, and at the tubes of color; flitting to the window thatlooked out upon her garden, and back to the great, north light with itsview of the distant mountains; and again and again, paused to stand withher hands clasped behind her, in front of the big easel with its canvashidden under the velvet curtain. Then she must try the chairs, theoriental couch, and even the stool--where she had seen the artist sitting, sometimes, at his work, when she had watched him from the arbor; andlast--in a pretty make believe--she tried the seat on the model throne, asthough posing herself, for her portrait. 

Suddenly, with a startled cry, she sprang to her feet; then shrank back, white and trembling--her big eyes fixed with pleading fear upon the manwho stood in the open doorway, regarding her with a curious, triumphantsmile. It was James Rutlidge. 

Sibyl, occupied with her childlike delight, had failed to hear theautomobile when it stopped in front of the house. Finding no one in thehouse the man had gone on to the studio, where--with the assurance of anintimate acquaintance--he had pushed open the door that was standing ajar. 

At the girl's frightened manner, the man laughed. Closing the door, hesaid, with an insinuating sneer, "You were not expecting me, it seems. "

His words aroused Sibyl from her momentary weakness. Rising, she saidcalmly, "I was not expecting any one, Mr. Rutlidge. "

Again he laughed--with unpleasant meaning. "You certainly look to be verymuch at home. " He moved confidently to the easel stool and, seatinghimself continued with a leering smile, "What's the matter with my takingthe artist's place for a little while--at least, until he comes?"

The girl was too innocent to understand his assumption but her pure mindcould not fail to sense the evil in his words. 

"I had permission to come here this afternoon, " she said--her voicetrembling a little with the fear that she did not understand. "Won't yougo, please? Neither Mr. King nor Mr. Lagrange are at home. "

"I do not doubt your having permission to come here, " he returned, withmeaning stress upon the word, "permission". "I see you even carry a key tothis really delightful room. " He motioned with his head toward the doorwhere he had seen the key in the lock, as she had left it. 

At this, she grasped a hint of the man's thought and, for an instant, drewhack in shame. Then, suddenly with a burst of indignant anger, she took astep toward him, demanding clearly; "Are you saying that I am in thehabit of coming here to meet Mr. King?"

He laughed mockingly. "Really, my dear, no one, seeing you, now, couldblame the man for giving you a key to this place where he is popularlysupposed to be undisturbed. Mr. King is neither such a virtuous saint, norso engrossed in his art, as to resent the companionship of such a visionof loveliness--simply because it comes in the form of good flesh andblood. Why be angry with me?"

Her cheeks were crimson as she said, again, "Will you go?"

"Not until you have settled the terms of peace, " he answered with thatleering smile. "Fortune has favored me, this afternoon, and I mean toprofit by it. "

For an instant, she looked at him--frightened and dismayed. Suddenly, withthe flash-like quickness that was a part of her physical inheritance fromher mountain life, she darted past him; eluding his effort to detainher--and was out of the building. 

With an oath, the man, acting upon the impulse of the moment, ran afterher. Outside the door of the studio, he caught a glimpse of her whitedress as she disappeared into the rose garden. In the garden, he saw heras she slipped through the little gate in the far corner of the hedge, into the orange grove. Recklessly he followed. Among the trees, heglimpsed, again, the white flash of her skirts, and dashed forward. At thefarther edge of the grove that walled in the little yard where Sibyllived, he saw her standing by the kitchen door. But between the girl andthat last row of close-set trees, waiting his coming, stood the woman withthe disfigured face. 

Rutlidge paused--angry with himself for so foolishly yielding to theimpulse of his passion. 

Myra Willard went toward him fearlessly--her fine eyes blazing withrighteous indignation. "What are you trying to do, James Rutlidge?" shedemanded--and her words were bold and clear. 

The man was silent. 

"You are evidently a worthy son of your father, " the womancontinued--every clear-cut word biting into his consciousness withstinging scorn. "He, in his day, did all he knew to turn this world into ahell for those who were unfortunate enough to please his vile fancy. You, I see, are following faithfully his footsteps. I know you, and the creedof your kind--as I knew your father before you. No girl of innocent beautyis safe from you. Your unclean mind is as incapable of believing invirtue, as you are helpless in the grip of your own insane lust. "

The man was stung to fury by her cutting words. "Take your ugly face outof my sight, " he said brutally. 

Fearlessly, she drew a step nearer. "It is because I am a woman that Ihave this ugly face, James Rutlidge. " She touched her disfiguredcheek--"These scars are the marks of the beast that rules you, sir, bodyand soul. Leave this place, or, as there is a God, I'll tell a tale thatwill forbid you ever showing your own evil countenance in public, again. "

Something in her eyes and in her manner, as she spoke, caused theman--beside himself with rage, as he was--to draw back. Some mysteriousforce that made itself felt in her bold words told him that hers was noidle threat. A moment they stood face to face, in the edge of the shadowyorange grove--the man of the world, prominent in circles of art andculture; and the woman whose natural loveliness was so distorted into ahideous mask of ugliness. With a short, derisive laugh, James Rutlidgeturned and walked away. 

 * * * * *

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange were returning from town. As they nearedtheir home, they saw one of the Taine automobiles in front of the house. "Company, " said the artist with a smile--thinking of his letter to themillionaire. 

"It's Rutlidge, " said the novelist--noting the absence of the chauffeur. 

They were turning in at the entrance, when Czar--who had dashed ahead asif to investigate--halted, suddenly, with a low growl of disapproval. 

"Huh!" ejaculated Conrad Lagrange, with his twisted grin. "It's Senior'Sensual' all right. Look at Czar; he knows the beast is around. Go fetchhim, Czar. "

With an angry bark, the dog disappeared around the corner of the porch. The two men, following, were met by Rutlidge who had made his way backthrough the grove and the rose garden from the house next door. The dog, with muttering growls, was sniffing suspiciously at his heels. 

"Czar, " said his master, suggestively. With a meaning glance, the dogreluctantly ceased his embarrassing attentions and went to see ifeverything was all right about the premises. 

In answer to their greeting and the quite natural question if he had beenwaiting long, Rutlidge answered with a laugh. "Oh, no--I have been amusingmyself by prowling around your place. Snug quarters you have here; really, I never quite appreciated their charm, before. "

They seated themselves on the porch. Conrad Lagrange--thinking of SibylAndrés and that letter which he had left on the gate--from under hisbrows, watched their caller closely; the while he filled with painstakingcare his brier pipe. 

"We like it, " returned the artist. 

"I should think so--I'd be sorry to leave it if I were you. Mr. Tainetells me you are going to the mountains. "

"We're not giving up this place, though, " replied Aaron King. "Yee Keestays to take care of things until our return. "

"Oh, I see. I generally go into the mountains, myself for a little huntwhen the deer season opens. It may be that I will run across yousomewhere. By the way--you haven't met your musical neighbor yet, haveyou?"

The novelist gave particular attention to his pipe which did not seem tobe behaving properly. 

The artist answered shortly, "No. "

"I'd certainly make her acquaintance, if I were you, " said Rutlidge, withhis suggestive smile. "She is a dream. A delightful little retreat--thatstudio of yours. "

The painter, puzzled by the man's words and by his insinuating air, returned coldly, "It does very well for a work-shop. "

The other laughed meaningly; "Yes, oh yes--a great little work-shop. Isuppose you--ah--do not fear to trust your _art treasures_ to theChinaman, during your absence?"

Conrad Lagrange--certain, now, that the man had seen Sibyl Andrés eitherentering or leaving the studio--said abruptly, "You need give yourself noconcern for Mr. King's studio, Rutlidge. I can assure you that thetreasures there will be well protected. "

James Rutlidge understood the warning conveyed in the novelist's wordsthat, to Aaron King, revealed nothing. 

"Really, " said the painter to their caller, "you are not uneasy for thesafety of Mrs. Taine's portrait, are you, old man? If you are, ofcourse--"

"Damn Mrs. Taine's portrait!" ejaculated the man, rising hurriedly. "Youknow what I mean. It's all right, of course. I must be going. Hope youhave a good outing and come back to find all your art treasures safe. " Helaughed coarsely, as he went down the walk. 

When the automobile was gone, the artist turned to his friend. "Now whatin thunder did he mean by that? What's the matter with him? Do you supposethey imagine that there is anything wrong because I wouldn't turn over thepicture?"

"He is an unclean beast, Aaron, " the novelist answered shortly. "Hisfather was the worst I ever knew, and he's like him. Forget him. Herecomes the delivery boy with our stuff. Let's overhaul the outfit. I hopethey'll get here with that burro, before dark. Where'll we put him, in thestudio, heh?"

"Look here, "--said the artist a few minutes later, returning from a visitto the studio for something, --"this is what was the matter with Rutlidge. And you did it, old man. This is your key. "

"What do you mean?" asked the other in confusion taking the key. 

"Why, I found the studio door wide open, with your key in the lock. Youmust have been out there, just before we left this morning, and forgot toshut the door. Rutlidge probably noticed it when he was prowling about theplace, and was trying to roast me for my carelessness. "

Conrad Lagrange stared stupidly at the key in his hand. "Well I _am_damned, " he muttered. Then added, in savage and--as it seemed to theartist--exaggerated wrath, "I'm a stupid, blundering, irresponsible oldfool. " Nor was he consoled when the painter innocently assured him that noharm had resulted from his carelessness. 

That night, as the two men sat on the porch, watching the last of thelight on the mountain tops, they heard again the cry of fear and pain thatcame from the little house hidden in the depths of the orange grove. Wonderingly they listened. Once more it came--filled with shudderingterror. 

When the sound was not repeated, Conrad Lagrange thoughtfully knocked theashes from his pipe. "Poor soul, " he said. "Those scars did more thandisfigure her beautiful face. I'll wager there's a sad story there, Aaron. It's strange how I am haunted by the impression that I ought to know her. But I can't make it come clear. Heigho, "--he added a moment later as if tofree his mind from unpleasant thoughts, --"I'll be glad when we are safelyup in the hills yonder. Do you know, old man, I feel as though we'regetting away just in the nick of time. My back hair and the pricking of mythumbs warn me that your dearly beloved spooks are combining to put upsome sort of a spooking job on us. I hope Yee Kee has a plentiful supplyof joss-sticks to stand 'em off, if they get too busy while we are gone. "

Aaron King laughed quietly in the dusk, as he returned "And I have apresentiment that those precious members of our household are preparing toaccompany us to the hills. I feel in my bones that something is going tohappen up there"--he pointed to the distant mountains, then added--"to me, at least. I feel as though I were about to bid myself good-by--if you knowwhat I mean. I hope that donkey of ours isn't a psychic donkey, or, if heis, that he'll listen to reason and be content with his escorts of fleshand blood. "

As he finished speaking, the quiet of the evening was broken by a lusty, "Hee-haw, hee-haw, " in front of the house. 

"There, I told you so!" ejaculated the painter. 

Laughing, the two men followed Czar down the walk, in the dark, toreceive the shaggy, long-eared companion for their wanderings. 

As many a man has done--Aaron King had spoken, in jest, more truth than heknew. 

Chapter XIV

In The Mountains

In the gray of the early morning, hours before the dwellers on FairlandsHeights thought of leaving their beds, Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange madeready for their going. 

The burro, Croesus--so named by the novelist because, as the famous writerexplained, "that ancient multi-millionaire, you know, really was anass"--was to be entrusted with all the available worldly possessions ofthe little party. An arrangement--the more experienced man carefullypointed out--that, considering the chief characteristics of Croesus, wasquite in accord with the customs of modern pilgrimages. Conrad Lagrange, himself, skillfully fixed the pack in place--adjusting the saddle withcareful hand; accurately dividing the weight, with the blankets on top, and, over all, the canvas tarpaulin folded the proper size and neatlytucked in around the ends; and finally securing the whole with the, to theuninitiated, intricate and complicated diamond hitch. The order of theirmarch, also, would place Croesus first; which position--the novelist, again, gravely explained, as he drew the cinches tight--is held by all whovalue good form, to be the donkey's proper place in the procession. As hewatched his friend, the artist felt that, indeed, he was about to go farfrom the ways of life that he had always known. 

When all was ready, the two men--dressed in flannels, corduroys, andhigh-laced, mountain boots--called good-by to Yee Kee, respectfullyinvited Croesus to proceed, and set out--with Czar, the fourth member ofthe party, flying here and there in such a whirlwind of good spirits thatnot a shred of his usual dignity was left. The sun was still below themountain's crest, though the higher points were gilded with its light, when they turned their backs upon the city made by men, and set theirfaces toward the hills that bore in every ridge and peak and cliff andcrag and canyon the signature of God. 

As Conrad Lagrange said--they might have hired a wagon, or even anautomobile, to take them and their goods to some mountain ranch where theywould have had no trouble in securing a burro for their wanderings A teamwould have made the trip by noon. A machine would have set them down inClear Creek Canyon before the sun could climb high enough to look over thecanyon walls. "But that"--explained the novelist, as they trudgedleisurely along between rows of palms that bordered the orange groves oneither side of their road, and sensed the mystery that marks the birth ofa new day--"but that is not a proper way to go to the mountains. 

"The mountains"--he continued, with his eyes upon the distantheights--"are not seen by those who would visit them with a rattle andclatter and rush and roar--as one would visit the cities of men. They areto be seen only by those who have the grace to go quietly; who have theunderstanding to go thoughtfully; the heart to go lovingly; and the spiritto go worshipfully. They are to be approached, not in the manner of onegoing to a horse-race, or a circus, but in the mood of one about to entera great cathedral; or, indeed, of one seeking admittance to the verythrone-room of God. When going to the mountains, one should take time tofeel them drawing near. They are never intimate with those who hurry. Meresight-seers seldom see much of anything. If possible, "--insisted thespeaker, smiling gravely upon his companion, --"one should always spend, atleast, a full day in the approach. Before entering the immediate presenceof the hills, one should first view them from a distance, seeing them frombase to peak--in the glory of the day's beginning, as they watch the worldawake; in the majesty of full noon, as they maintain their calm above theturmoil of the day's doing; and in the glory of the sun's departure, as itlights last their crests and peaks. And then, after such a day, one shouldsleep, one night, at their feet. "

The artist listened with delight, as he always did when his friend spokein those rare moods that revealed a nature so unknown to the world thathad made him famous. When the novelist finished, the young man saidgently, "And your words, my friend, are almost a direct quotation fromthat anonymous book which my mother so loved. "

"Perhaps they are, Aaron"--admitted Conrad Lagrange--"perhaps they are. "

So it was that they spent that day--in leisure approach--the patientCroesus, with his burden, always in the lead, and Czar, like a merrysprite, playing here and there. Several times they stopped to rest besidethe road, while provident Croesus gathered a few mouthfuls of grass orweeds. Many times they halted to enjoy the scene that changed with everystep. 

Their road led always upward, with a gradual, easy grade; and by noon theyhad left the cultivated section of the lower valley for the higher, untilled lands. The dark, glossy-green of the orange and the lightershining tints of the lemon groves, with the rich, satiny-gray tones of theolive-trees, were replaced now by the softer grays, greens, yellows, andbrowns of the chaparral. The air was no longer heavy with the perfume ofroses and orange-blossoms, but came to their nostrils laden with thepungent odors of yerba santa and greasewood and sage. Looking back, theycould see the valley--marked off by its roads into many squares of green, and dotted here and there by small towns and cities--stretching awaytoward the western ocean until it was lost in a gray-blue haze out ofwhich the distant San Gabriels, beyond Cajon Pass, lifted into the clearsky above, like the shore-line of dreamland rising out of a dream sea. Before them, the San Bernardinos drew ever nearer and moreintimate--silently inviting them; patiently, with a world old patience, bidding them come; in the majestic humbleness of their lofty spirit, offering themselves and the wealth of their teaching. 

So they came, in the late afternoon, to that spot where the road for thefirst time crosses the alder and cottonwood bordered stream that, beforeit reaches the valley, is drawn from its natural course by the irrigationflumes and pipes. 

The sound of the mountain waters leaping down their granite-bouldered wayreached the men while they were yet some distance. Croesus pointed hislong ears forward in burro anticipation--his experience telling him thatthe day's work was about to end. Czar was already ranging along the sideof the creek--sending a colony of squirrels scampering to the tree tops, and a bevy of quail whirring to the chaparral in frightened flight. Theartist greeted the waters with a schoolboy shout of gladness. ConradLagrange, with the smile and the voice of a man miraculously recreated, said quietly, "This is the place where we stop for the night. "

Their camp was a simple matter. Croesus asked nothing but to be releasedfrom his burden--being quite capable of caring for himself. A wash in theclear, cold water of the brook; a simple meal, prepared by Conrad Lagrangeover a small fire made of sticks gathered by the artist; their tarpaulinand blankets spread within sound of the music of the stream; a watching ofthe sun's glorious going down; a quiet pipe in the hush of the mysterioustwilight; a "good night" in the soft darkness, when the myriad starslooked down upon the dull red glow of their camp-fire embers; with theguarding spirit of the mighty hills to give them peace--and they lay downto sleep at the mountain's feet. 

There is no sleeping late in the morning when one sleeps in the open, under the stars. After breakfast, the artist received another lesson inpacking, and they moved on toward the world that already seemed to dwarfthat other world which they had left, by one day's walking, so far below. A heavy fog, rolling in from the ocean in the night, submerged the valleyin its dull, gray depths--leaving to the eye no view but the view of themountains before them, and forcing upon the artist's mind the weirdimpression that the life he had always known was a fantastically unrealdream. 

And now, --as they approached, --the frowning entrance of Clear Creek Canyongrew more and more clearly defined. The higher peaks appeared to draw backand hide themselves behind the foothills, which--as the men came closerunder their immediate slopes and walls--seemed to grow magically in heightand bulk. A little before noon, they were in the rocky vestibule of thecanyon. On either hand, the walls rose almost sheer, while their road, now, was but a narrow shelf under the overhanging cliffs, below which thewhite waters of the stream--cold from the snows so far above--tumbledimpetuously over the boulders that obstructed their way--filling thehall-like gorge with tumultuous melody. Soon, the canyon narrowed to lessthan a stone's throw in width. The walls grew more grim and forbidding intheir rocky nearness. And then they came to that point where, on eitherside, great cliffs, projecting, form the massive, rugged portals of themountain's gate. 

First seen, from a point where the road rounds a jutting corner on theextreme right, the projecting cliffs ahead appear as a blank wall of rockthat forbids further progress. But, as the men moved forward, --the roadswinging more toward the center of the gorge, --the cliffs seemed to drawapart, and, through the way thus opened, they saw the great canyon and themountains beyond. It was as though a mighty, invisible hand rolledsilently back those awful doors to give them entrance. 

Abruptly, upon the inner side of the narrow passage the canyon widens tomany times the width of the outer vestibule; and the road, crossing thecreek, curves to the left; so that, looking back as they went, the two mensaw the mighty doors closing again, behind them--as they had opened to letthem in. It was as though that spirit sentinel, guarding the treasures ofthe hills, had jealously barred the way, that no one else from the worldof men might follow. 

Aaron King stopped. Drawing a deep breath, and removing his hat, he turnedhis face from that mountain wall, upward to the encircling pine-fringedridges and towering peaks. He had, indeed, come far from the world that hehad always known. 

Conrad Lagrange, smiling, watched his friend, but spoke no word. 

Clear Creek Canyon is a deep, narrow valley, some fifteen miles in length, and approaching a mile in its greatest width; lying between the main rangeof the San Bernardinos and the lower ridge of the Galenas. The lower endof the canyon is shut in by the sheer cliff walls, and by the ruggedportals of the narrow entrance; the upper end is formed by the dividingridge that separates the Clear Creek from the Cold Water country whichopens out onto the Colorado Desert below San Gorgonio Pass and the peaksof the San Jacintos. Perhaps two miles above the entrance the canyonwidens to its greatest width; and in this portion of the littlevalley, --which extends some five miles to where the walls again drawclose, --located on the benches above the boulder-strewn wash of ClearCreek, are the homes of several mountain ranchers, and the GovernmentForest Ranger Station. 

At the Ranger Station, they stopped--Conrad Lagrange wishing to greet themountaineer official, whom he had learned to know on his former trip. Butthe Ranger was away somewhere, riding his lonely trails, and they did nottarry. 

Just above the Station, they left the main road to follow the way thatleads to the Morton Ranch in the mouth of Alder Canyon--a small sidecanyon leading steeply up to a low gap in the main range. Beyond Morton's, there is only a narrow trail. Three hundred yards above the ranch corral, where the road ends and the trail begins, the buildings of themountaineer's home were lost to view. Except for the narrow winding paththat they must follow single file, there was no sign of human life. 

For three weeks, they knew no roads other than those lonely, mountaintrails. At times, they walked under dark pines where the ground wasthickly carpeted with the dead, brown needles and the air was redolentwith the odor of the majestic trees; or made their camps at night, feedingtheir blazing fires with the pitchy knots and cones. At other times, theyfound their way through thickets of manzanita and buckthorn, along themountain's flank; or, winding zigzag down some narrow canyon wall, madethemselves at home under the slender, small-trunked alders; and added tothe stores that Croesus packed, many a lusty trout from the tumbling, icytorrent. Again, high up on some wind-swept granite ridge or peak, wherethe pines were twisted and battered and torn by the warring elements, theylooked far down upon the rolling sea of clouds that hid the world below;or, in the shelter of some mighty cliff, built their fires; and, when thenight was clear, saw, miles away and below, the thousands of twinklingstar-like lights of the world they had left behind. Or, again, they haltedin some forest and hill encircled glen; where the lush grass in thecienaga grew almost as high as Croesus' back, and the lilies even higher;and where, through the dark green brakes, the timid deer come down todrink at the beginning of some mountain stream. At last, their wanderingscarried them close under the snowy heights of San Gorgonio--the loftiestof all the peaks. That night, they camped at timber-line and in themorning, --leaving Croesus and the outfit, while it was still dark, --madetheir way to the top, in time to see the sun come up from under the edgeof the world. 

So they were received into the inner life of the mountains; so the spiritthat dwells in that unmarred world whispered to them the secrets of itsenduring strength and lofty peace. 

From San Gorgonio, they followed the trail that leads down to upper ClearCreek--halting, one night, at Burnt Pine Camp on Laurel Creek, above thefalls. Then--leaving the Laurel trail--they climbed over a spur of themain range, and so down the steep wall of the gorge to Lone Cabin on FernCreek. The next day, they made their way on down to the floor of the maincanyon--five miles above the point where they had left it at the beginningof their wanderings. 

Crossing the canyon at the Clear Creek Power Company's intake, they tookthe company trail that follows the pipe-line along the southern wall. Fromthe headwork to the reservoir two thousand feet above the power-house atthe mouth of Clear Creek Canyon, this trail is cut in the steep side ofthe Galena range--overhanging the narrow valley below--nine beautifulmiles of it. At Oak Knoll, --where a Government trail for the Forest Rangerzigzags down from the pipe-line to the wagon road below, --they halted. 

Conrad Lagrange explained that there were three ways back to the worldthey had left, nearly a month before--the pipe-line trail to the reservoirand so down to the power-house and the Fairlands road; the Governmenttrail from the pipe-line, over the Galenas to the valley on the otherside; or, the Oak Knoll trail down to Clear Creek and out through thecanyon gates--the way they had come. 

"But, " objected Aaron King, lazily, --from where he lay under a live-oak onthe mountainside, a few feet above the trail, --"either route presupposesour wish to return to Fairlands. "

The novelist laughed. "Listen to him, Czar, "--he said to the dog lying athis feet, --"listen to that painter-man. He doesn't want to go back toFairlands any more than we do, does he?"

Rising, Czar looked at his master a moment, with slow waving tail, thenturned inquiringly toward the artist. 

"Well, " said the young man, "what about it, old boy? Which trail shall wetake? Or shall we take any of them?"

With a prodigious yawn, --as though to indicate that he wearied of theirfoolish indecision, --Czar turned, with a low "woof, " toward the fourthmember of the company, who was browsing along the edge of the trail. Whenever Czar was in doubt as to the wants of his human companions healways barked at the burro. 

"He says, 'ask Croesus', " commented the artist. 

"Good!" cried the older man, with another laugh. "Let's put it up to thefinancier and let him choose. "

"Wait, "--said the artist, as the other turned toward the burro, --"don't behasty--the occasion calls for solemn meditation and lofty discourse. "

"Your pardon, "--returned the novelist, --"'tis so. I will orate. " Carefullyselecting a pebble in readiness to emphasize his remarks, he addressed theshaggy arbiter of their fate. "Sir Croesus, thy pack is lighter by manymeals than when first thou didst set out from that land where we didrescue thee from the hands of thy tormenting trader; but thyresponsibilities are weightier, many fold. Upon the wisdom of thy choice, now, great issue rests. Thou hast thy chance, O illustrious ass, torecompense the world, this day, for the many evils wrought by thy odiousancestor and by all his long-eared kin. Choose, now, the way thybenefactors' feet shall go; and see to it, Croesus, that thou dost choosewisely; or, by thy ears, we'll flay thy woolly hide and hang it on themountainside--a warning to thy kind. "

The well-thrown pebble struck that part of the burro's anatomy at which itwas aimed; the dog barked; and Croesus--with an indignant jerk of hishead, and a flirt of his tail--started forward. At the fork of the trail, he paused. The two men waited with breathless interest. With an air ofaccepting the responsibility placed upon him, the burro whirled andtrotted down the narrow path that led to the floor of the canyon below. Laughing, the men followed--but far enough in the rear to permit theirleader to choose his own way when they should reach the wagon road at thefoot of the mountain wall. Without an instant's hesitation, Croesus turneddown the road--quickening his pace, almost, into a trot. 

"By George!" ejaculated the novelist, "he acts like he knew where he wasgoing. "

"He's taking you at your word, " returned the artist. "Look at him go!Evidently, he's still under the inspiration of your oratory. "

The burro had broken into a ridiculous, little gallop that caused thefrying-pan and coffee-pot, lashed on the outside of the pack, to rattlemerrily. Splashing through the creek, he disappeared in the dark shadow ofa thicket of alders and willows, where the road crosses a tiny rivuletthat flows from a spring a hundred yards above. Climbing out of thisgloomy hollow, the road turns sharply to the left, and the men hurried onto overtake their four-footed guide before he should be too long out oftheir sight. Just at the top of the little rise, before rounding the turn, they stopped. A few feet to the right of the road, with his nose at anold gate, stood Croesus. Nor would he heed Czar's bark commanding him togo on. 

On the other side of the fence, an old and long neglected apple orchard, atumble-down log barn, and the wreck of a house with the fireplace andchimney standing stark and alone, told the story. The place was one ofthose old ranches, purchased by the Power Company for the water rights, and deserted by those who once had called it home. From the gate, ancientwagon tracks, overgrown with weeds, led somewhere around the edge of theorchard and were lost in the tangle of trees and brush on its lower side. 

The two men looked at each other in laughing surprise. The burro, turninghis head, gazed at them over his shoulder, inquiringly, as much as to say, "Well, what's the matter now? Why don't you come along?"

"When in doubt, ask Croesus, " said the artist, gravely. 

Conrad Lagrange calmly opened the gate. 

Promptly, the burro trotted ahead. Following the ancient weed-growntracks, he led them around the lower end of the orchard; crossed a littlestream; and, turning again, climbed a gentle rise of open, grassy landbehind the orchard; stopping at last, with an air of having accomplishedhis purpose, in a beautiful little grove of sycamore trees that bordered asmall cienaga. 

Completely hidden by the old orchard from the road in front, and backed bythe foot of the mountain spur that here forms the northern wall of thelittle valley, the spot commanded a magnificent view of the encirclingpeaks and ridges. San Bernardino was almost above their heads. To theeast, were the more rugged walls of the upper and narrower end of thecanyon; in their front, the beautiful Oak Knoll, with the dark steeps andpine-fringed crest of the Galenas against the sky; while to the west, theblue peaks of the far San Gabriels showed above the lower spurs andfoothills of the more immediate range. The foreground was filled in by thegentle slope leading down to the tiny stream at the edge of the oldorchard and, a little to the left, by the cienaga--rich in the color ofits tall marsh grass and reeds, gemmed with brilliant flowers of gold andscarlet, bordered by graceful willows, and screened from the eye of thechance traveler by the lattice of tangled orchard boughs. 

Seated in the shade of the sycamores on the little knoll, the two friendsenjoyed the beauty of the scene, and the charming seclusion of the lovelyretreat; while Croesus stood patiently, as though waiting to be rewardedfor his virtue, by the removal of his pack. Even Czar refrained fromcharging here and there, and lay down contentedly at their feet, with anair of having reached at last the place they had been seeking. 

A few days later found them established in a comfortable camp; with tentsand furniture and hammocks and books and the delighted Yee Kee to takecare of them. It had been easy to secure permission from the neighboringrancher who leased the orchard from the Company. Conrad Lagrange, withthe man and his big mountain wagon, had made a trip to town--returning thenext day with Yee Kee and the outfit. He brought, also, things from thestudio; for the artist declared that he would no longer be without thematerials of his art. 

The first day after the camp was built, the artist--declaring that hewould settle the question, at once, as to whether Yee Kee could cook atrout as skillfully as the novelist--took rod and flies, and--leaving thefamous author in a hammock, with Czar lying near--set out up the canyon. For perhaps two miles, the painter followed the creek--taking here andthere from clear pool or swirling eddy a fish for his creel, and pausingoften, as he went, to enjoy--in artist fashion--the beauties of the everchanging landscape. 

The afternoon was almost gone when he finally turned back toward camp. Hehad been away, already longer than he intended; but still--as allfishermen will understand--he could not, on his way back down the stream, refrain from casting here and there over the pools that tempted him. 

The sun was touching the crest of the mountains when he had made butlittle more than half the distance of his return. He had just sent his flyskillfully over a deep pool in the shadow of a granite boulder, for whathe determined must be his last cast, when, startlingly clear and sweet, came the tones of a violin. 

A master trout leaped. The hand of the unheeding fisherman felt the tugas the leader broke. Giving the victorious fish no thought, Aaron Kingslowly reeled in his line. 

There was no mistaking the pure, vibrant tones of the music to which theman listened with amazed delight. It was the music of the, to him, unknownviolinist who lived hidden in the orange grove next door to his studiohome in Fairlands. 

Chapter XV

The Forest Ranger's Story

Perhaps the motive that, in Fairlands, had restrained the artist fromseeking to know his neighbor was without force in the mountains. Perhapsit was that, in the unconventional freedom of the hills, the man obeyedmore readily his impulse. Aaron King did not stop to question. As thoughin answer to the call of that spirit which spoke in the tones of theviolin, he moved in the direction from which the music came. 

Climbing out of the bed of the stream to the bench that slopes hack--aquarter of a mile, perhaps--to the foot of the canyon wall, he foundhimself in an old road that, where it once crossed the creek, had beendestroyed by the mountain floods. Wonderingly he followed the dimly markedtrack that led through the chaparral toward a thicket of cedars, frombeyond which the music seemed to come. Where the road curved to find itsway through the green barrier he paused--the musician, undoubtedly, now, was just beyond. Still acting upon the impulse of the moment, hecautiously parted the boughs and peered through into a little, open gladethat was closed in on every side by the rank growth of the mountainvegetation, by the thicket of dark cedars and by tangled masses of wildrose-bushes. Opposite the spot where he stood, and half concealed by greatsycamore trees, was a small, log house with a thread of blue smoke curlinglazily from the chimney. The place was another of those old ranches thathad been purchased by the Power Company and permitted to go back to thewilderness from which it had been won by some hardy settler. The littleplot of open ground--well sodded with firm turf and short-cropped byroving cattle and deer--had evidently been, at one time, the front yard ofthe mountaineer's home. A little out from the porch, and in full view ofthe artist, --her graceful form outlined against the background of wildroses, --stood Sibyl Andrés with her violin. 

As the girl played, --her winsome face upturned to the mountain heights andher body, lightly poised, swaying with the movement of her arm as easilyas a willow bough, --she appeared, to the man hidden in the cedars, as somebeautiful spirit of the woods and hills--a spirit that would vanishinstantly if he should step from his hiding place. He was so close that hecould see her blue eyes, wide and unmindful of her surroundings; her lips, curved in an unconscious smile; and her cheeks, flushed with emotion undertheir warm brown tint--as she appeared to listen for the music that she, in turn, --seemingly with no effort of her will, --gave forth again in thetones of the instrument under her chin. 

Aaron King was moved by the beauty of the picture as he had never beenstirred before. The peculiar charm of the music; the loveliness of thegirl herself; the setting of the scene in the little glade with its wildroses, giant sycamores, dark cedars, and encircling mountain walls, all inthe soft mystery of the twilight's beginning; and, withal, theunexpectedness of the vision--combined to make an impression upon theartist's mind that would endure for many years. 

Suddenly, as he watched, the music ceased. The girl lowered her violin, and, with a low laugh, said to some one on the porch--concealed from thepainter by the trunk of a sycamore--"O Myra, I want to dance. I can't keepstill. I'm so glad, glad to be home again--to see old 'San Berdo' and'Gray Back' and all the rest of them up there!" She stretched out her armsas if in answer to a welcome from the hills. Then, whirling quickly, shegave the violin to her companion on the porch. "Play, Myra; please, dear, play. "

At her word, the music of the violin began again--coming now, from behindthe trunk of the sycamore. In the hands of the unseen musician, theinstrument laughed and sang a song of joyous abandonment--of freedom andrejoicing--of happiness and love--while in perfect harmony with the spiritand the rhythm of the melody, the girl danced upon the firm, green carpetof grass. Here and there, to and fro, about the little glade shut in fromthe world by its walls of living green, she tripped and whirled inunstudied grace--lightly as if winged--unconscious as the wild creaturesthat play in the depths of the woods--wayward as the zephyr that tripsalong the mountainside. 

It was a spontaneous expression of her spiritual and physical exaltationand was as natural as the laughter in her voice or the flush upon hercheeks. It was a dance that was like no dance that Aaron King had everseen. 

The artist--watching through the screen of cedar boughs beside the oldwagon road and scarcely daring to breathe lest the beautiful vision shouldvanish--forgot his position--forgot what he was doing. Fascinated by thescene to which he had been led, so unexpectedly by the music he had sooften heard while at work in his studio, he was unmindful of the rude parthe was playing. He was brought suddenly to himself by a heavy hand uponhis shoulder. As he straightened, the hand whirled him half around and hefound himself looking into a face that was tanned and seamed by many yearsin the open. 

The man who had so unceremoniously commanded the artist's attention stooda little above six feet in height, and was of that deep-chested, lean, butfull-muscled build that so often marks the mountain bred. He wore no coat. At his hip, a heavy Colt revolver hung in its worn holster from a full, loosely buckled, cartridge belt. Upon his unbuttoned vest was the shieldof the United States Forest Service. From under the brim of his slouchhat, he gazed at Aaron King questioningly--in angry disapproval. 

Instinctively, neither of the men spoke. A word would have been heard theother side of the cedars. With a gesture commanding the artist to follow, the Ranger quietly, withdrew along the wagon road toward the creek. 

When they were at a distance where their voices would not reach the girlin the glade, the Ranger said with angry abruptness, "Now, sir, perhapsyou will tell me who you are and what you mean by spying upon a couple ofwomen, like that. "

The other could not conceal his embarrassment. "I don't blame you forcalling me to account, " he said. "If it were me--if our positions werereversed I mean--I should kick you down into the creek there. "

The cold, blue eyes--that had been measuring the painter soshrewdly--twinkled with a hint of humor. "You _do_ look like a gentleman, you know, " the officer said, --as if excusing himself for not following theartist's suggestion. "But, all the same, you must explain. Who are you?"

"That part is easy, at least, " returned the other. "Though thecircumstance of our meeting _is_ a temptation to lie. "

"Which would do you no good, and might lead to unpleasant complications, "retorted the Ranger, sharply. 

The man under question, still embarrassed, laughed shortly, as hereturned, "I really was not thinking of it seriously. My name is AaronKing. I am an artist. You are Mr. Oakley, I suppose. "

The officer nodded--beginning to smile. "Yes, I am Brian Oakley. "

The artist continued, "A month ago, Conrad Lagrange and I came into themountains for an outing. We stopped at the Station, but there was no oneat home. Most of the time, we have been just roaming around. Now, we arecamped down there, back of that old apple orchard. "

The Ranger broke into a laugh. "Mrs. Oakley was visiting friends up thecanyon, the day you came in; but Morton told me. I've crossed your trail adozen times, and sighted you nearly as many; but I was always too busy togo to you. I knew Lagrange didn't need any attention, you see; so I justfigured on meeting up with you somewhere by accident like--about mealtime, mebbe. " He laughed again. "The accident part worked out all right. "He paused, still laughing--enjoying the artist's discomfiture; then endedwith a curious--"What in thunder were you sneaking around in the brushlike that for, anyway? Those women won't bite. "

Aaron King explained how he had heard the music while fishing; and how, following the sound, he had acted upon an impulse to catch a glimpse ofthe unknown musician before revealing himself; and then, in his interest, had forgotten that he was playing the part of a spy--until so rudelyaroused by the hand of the Ranger. 

Brian Oakley chuckled; "If _I'd_ acted upon impulse when I first saw youpeeking through those cedars, you would have been more surprised than youwere. But while I was sneaking up on you I noticed your get-up--with yourcreel and rod--and figured how you might have come there. So I thought Iwould go a little slow. "

"And you wear rather heavy boots too, " said the artist suggestively. Then, more at ease, he joined in the laugh at himself. 

"Catch any fish?" asked the Ranger--lifting the cover of the creel. "Whee!" as he saw the contents. "That's bully! And I'm hungry as a shewolf too! Been in the saddle since sunup without a bite. What do you sayif I make that long deferred social call upon you and Lagrange thisevening?"

"I say, good! Mr. Oakley, " returned the artist, heartily. "I guess youknow what Lagrange will say. "

"You bet I do. " He whistled--a low, birdlike note. In answer, a beautiful, chestnut saddle-horse came out of the chaparral, where it had not beenseen by the painter. "We're going, Max, " said the officer, in amatter-of-fact way. And, as the two men set out, the horse followed, witha business-like air that brought a word of admiring comment from theartist. 

That Aaron King had won the approval of the Ranger was evidenced by themountaineer's inviting himself to supper the camp in the sycamores. Thefact that the officer considerately told Conrad Lagrange only that he hadmet the artist with his creel full of trout, and so had been tempted toaccompany him, won the enduring gratitude of the young man. Thus thecircumstances of their meeting introduced each to the other, withrecommendations of peculiar value, and marked the beginning of a genuineand lasting friendship. But, while, out of delicate regard for theartist's feelings, he refrained from relating the--to the youngman--embarrassing incident, Brian Oakley could not resist making, at everyopportunity, sly references to their meeting--for the painter's benefitand his own amusement. Thus it happened that, after supper, as they satwith their pipes, the talk turned upon Sibyl Andrés and the woman with thedisfigured face. 

The Ranger, to tease the artist, had remarked casually, --aftercomplimenting them upon the location of their camp, --"And you've got somemighty nice neighbors, less than a mile above too. "

"Neighbors!" ejaculated Conrad Lagrange--in a tone that left no doubt asto his sentiment in the matter. 

The others laughed; while the officer said, "Oh, I know how _you_ feel!You think you don't want anybody poaching on your preserves. You're uphere in the hills to get away from people, and all that. But you don'tneed to be uneasy. You won't even see these folks--unless you sneak up onthem. " He stole a look at the artist, and chuckled maliciously as thepainter covertly shook his fist at him. "You may _hear_ them though. "

"Which would probably be as bad, " retorted the novelist, gruffly. 

"Oh, I don't know!" returned the other. "You might be able to stand it. Idon't reckon you would object to a little music now and then, wouldyou?--_real_ music, I mean. "

"So our neighbors are musical, are they?" The novelist seemed slightlyinterested. 

"Sibyl Andrés is the most accomplished violinist I have ever heard, " saidthe Ranger. "And I haven't always lived in these mountains, you know. Asfor Myra Willard--well--she taught Sibyl--though she doesn't pretend toequal her now. "

Conrad Lagrange was interested, now, in earnest He turned to the artist, eagerly--but with caution--"Do you suppose it could be our neighbors inthe orange grove, Aaron?"

Brian Oakley watched them with quiet amusement. 

"I know it is, " returned the artist. 

"You know it is!" ejaculated the other. 

"Sure--I heard the violin this afternoon. While I was fishing, " he addedhastily, when the Ranger laughed. 

The novelist commented savagely, "Seems to me you're mighty careful aboutkeeping your news to yourself!"

This brought another burst of merriment from the mountaineer. 

When the two men had explained to the Ranger about the music in the orangegrove, Conrad Lagrange related how they had first heard that cry in thenight; and how, when they had gone to the neighboring house, they had seenthe woman of the disfigured face standing in the doorway. 

"It was Miss Willard who cried out, " said Brian Oakley, quietly. "Shedreams, sometimes, of the accident--or whatever it was--that left her withthose scars--at least, that's what I think it is. Certainly it's noordinary dream that would make a woman cry like that. The first time Iheard her--the first time that she ever did it, in fact--she and Sibylwere stopping over night at my house. It was three years ago. Jim Rutlidgehad just come West, on his first trip, and was up in the hills on a hunt. He happened along about sundown, and when he stepped into the room andMyra saw him, I thought she would faint. He looked like some one she hadknown--she said. And that night she gave that horrible cry. Lord! but itthrew a fright into me. My wife didn't get over being nervous, for a week. Myra explained that she had dreamed--but that's all she would say. Ifigured that being upset by Rutlidge's reminding her of some one she hadknown started her mind to going on the past--and then she dreamed ofwhatever it was that gave her those scars. "

"You have known Miss Willard a long time, haven't you, Brian?" askedConrad Lagrange, with the freedom of an old comrade--for men may growcloser together in one short season in the mountains than in years ofmeeting daily in the city. 

"I've known her ever since she came into the hills. That was the yearSibyl was born. All that anybody knows is what has happened since. Sibyl'smother, even--a month before she died--told me that Myra's history, beforeshe came to them, was as unknown to her as it was the day she stopped attheir door. "

"I can't get over the feeling that I ought to know her--that I have seenher somewhere, years ago, " said the novelist, by way of explaining hisinterest. 

"Then it was before she got those scars, " returned the Ranger. "No onecould ever forget her face as it is now. "

"At the same time, " commented the artist, "the scars would prevent youridentifying her if she received them after you had known her. "

"All the same, " said Conrad Lagrange, --as though his mind was bothered byhis inability to establish some incident in his memory, --"I'll place heryet. Do you mind, Brian, telling us what you _do_ know of her?"

"Why, not at all, " returned the officer. "The story is anybody's property. Its being so well known is probably the reason you didn't hear it when youwere up here before. 

"Sibyl's father and mother were here in the mountains when I came. Theylived up there at the old place where Myra and Sibyl are camping now, andI never expect to meet finer people--either in this world or the next. Fortwenty years I knew them intimately. Will Andrés was as true and squareand white a man as ever lived and Nelly was just as good a woman as he wasa man. They and my wife and I were more like brothers and sisters thanmost folks who are actually blood kin. 

"One day, along toward sundown, about a month before Sibyl was born, Nellyheard the dogs barking and went to see what was up. There stood MyraWillard at the gate--like she'd dropped out of the sky. Where she camefrom God only knows--except that she'd walked from some station on therailroad over toward the pass. She was just about all in; and, of course, Nelly had her into the house and was fixing her up in no time. She wantedto work, but admitted that she had never done much housework. She said, straight out, that they should never know more about her than they knew, then; but insisted that she was not a bad woman. At first, Will and I wereagainst it for, of course, it was easy to see that she was trying to getaway from something. But the women--Nelly and my wife--somehow, believedin her, and--with the baby due to arrive in a month and any kind of helphard to get--they carried the day. Well, sir, she made good. If twentyyears acquaintance goes for anything, she's one of God's own kind, and Idon't care a damn what her history is. 

"We soon saw that she was educated and refined, and--as you can see foryourself--she must have been remarkably beautiful before she got sodisfigured. When the baby was born, she just took the little one into herpoor, broken heart like it had been her own, until Sibyl hardly knew whichwas her own mother. When the girl was old enough for school, Myra beggedWill and Nelly to let her teach the child. She was always sending forbooks and it was about that time that she sent for a violin. The girl tookto music like a bird. And--well--that's the way Sibyl was raised. She'sgot all the education that the best of them have--even to French andItalian and German--and she's missed some things that the schools teachoutside of their text-books. She has a library--given to her mostly byMyra, a book at a time--that represents the best of the world's bestwriters. You know what her music is. But, hell!"--the Ranger interruptedhimself with an apologetic laugh--"I'm supposed to be talking about MyraWillard. I don't know as I'm so far off, either, because what Sibylis--aside from her natural inheritance from Will and Nelly--Myra has madeher. 

"When Will was killed by those Mexican outlaws, --which is a story initself, --Nelly sold the ranch to the Power Company, and bought an orangegrove in Fairlands--which was the thing for her to do, as she and Myracould handle that sort of property, and the ranch had to go, anyway. Before Nelly died, she and I talked things over, and she put everything inMyra's hands, in trust for the girl. Later, Myra sold the grove and thehouse where you men live, now, and bought the little place nextdoor--putting the rest of the money into gilt-edged securities in Sibyl'sname; which insures the girl against want, for years to come. Sibyl helpsout their income with her music. And that's the story, boys, except thatthey come up here into the mountains, every summer, to spend a month or soin the old home place. "

The Ranger rose to go. 

"But do you think it is safe for those women to stay up there alone?"asked Aaron King. 

Brian Oakley laughed. "Safe! You don't know Myra Willard! Sibyl, herself, can pick a squirrel out of the tallest pine in the mountains with hersix-shooter. Will and I taught her all we knew, as she grew up. Besides, you see, I drop in every day or so, to see that they're all right. " Helaughed meaningly as he added, --to Conrad Lagrange for the artist'sbenefit, --"I'm going to tell them, though, that Sibyl must be careful howshe goes dancing around these hills--now that she has such distinguishedbut irresponsible neighbors. "

He whistled--and the chestnut horse was at his side before the echo oftheir laughter died away. 

With a "so-long, " the Ranger rode away into the night. 

Chapter XVI

When the Canyon Gates Are Shut

If Aaron King had questioned what it was that had held him in the cedarthicket until Brian Oakley's heavy hand broke the spell, he would probablyhave answered that it was his artistic appreciation of the beautifulscene. But--deep down in the man's inner consciousness--there was a still, small voice--declaring, with an insistency not to be denied, that--forhim--there was a something in that picture that was not to be put into thevernacular of his profession. 

Had he acted without his habitual self-control, the day following theRanger's visit, he would, again, have gone fishing--up Clear Creek--atleast, to the pool where that master trout had broken his leader. But hedid not. Instead, he roamed aimlessly about the vicinity of thecamp--explored the sycamore grove; climbed a little way up the mountainspur, and down again; circled the cienaga; and so came, finally, to theruins of the house and barn on the creek side of the orchard. 

Not far from the lonely fireplace with its naked chimney, a little, oldgate of split palings, in an ancient tumble-down fence, under a greatmistletoe-hung oak, at the top of a bank--attracted his carelessattention. From the gate, he saw what once had been a path leading downthe bank to a spring, where the tiny streamlet that crossed the road ahundred yards away, on its course to Clear Creek, began. Pushing open thegate that sagged dejectedly from its leaning post, the artist went downthe path, and found himself in a charming nook--shut in on every side bythe forest vegetation that, watered by the spring, grew rank and dense. 

For a space on the gate side of the spring, the sod was firm andsmooth--with a gray granite boulder in the center of the little glade, and, here and there, wild rose-bushes and the slender, gray trunks ofalder trees breaking through. From the higher branches of the alders thatshut out the sky with their dainty, silvery-green leaves, hung--with manya graceful loop and knot--ropes of wild grape-vine and curtains ofvirgin's-bower. Along the bank below the old fence, the wild blackberriesdisputed possession with the roses; while the little stream was mottledwith the tender green of watercress and bordered with moss and fragrantmint. Above the arroyo willows, on the farther side of the glade, OakKnoll, with bits of the pine-clad Galenas, could be glimpsed; but on theorchard side, the vine-dressed bank with the old gate under the mistletoeoak shut out the view. Through the screen of alder and grape and willowand virgin's-bower the sunlight fell, as through the delicate traceries ofa cathedral window. The bright waters of the spring, softly held by thegreen sod, crept away under the living wall, without a sound; but the deepmurmur of the distant, larger stream, reached the place like the lowtones of some great organ. A few regularly placed stones, where once hadstood the family spring-house; with the names, initials, hearts and datescarved upon the smooth bark of the alders--now grown over and almostobliterated--seemed to fill the spot with ghostly memories. 

All that afternoon, the artist remained in the little retreat. The nextday, equipped with easel, canvas and paint-box, he went again to theglade--determined to make a picture of the charming scene. 

For a month, now, uninterrupted by the distractions of social obligationsor the like, Aaron King had been subjected to influences that had arousedthe creative passion of his artist soul to its highest pitch. With hisgenius clamoring for expression, he had denied himself the medium that washis natural language. Forbidding his friend to accompany him, he workednow in the spring glade with a delight--with an ecstasy--that he hadseldom, before, felt. And Conrad Lagrange, wisely, was content to let himgo uninterrupted. 

As the hours of each day passed, the artist became more and more engrossedwith his art. His spirit sang with the joy of receiving the loveliness ofthe scene before him, of making it his own, and of giving it forthagain--a literal part of himself. The memories suggested by the stones ofthe spring-house foundation and the old carvings on the trees; thesunlight, falling so softly into the hushed seclusion of the glade, asthrough the traceried windows of a church; and the deep organ-tones of thedistant creek; all served to give to the spot the religious atmosphere ofa sanctuary; while the artist's abandonment in his work was little shortof devotion. 

It was the third afternoon, when the painter became conscious that he hadbeen hearing for some time--he could not have said how long--a low-sungmelody--so blending with the organ-tones of the mountain stream that itseemed to come out of the music of the tumbling waters. 

With his brush poised between palette and canvas, the artistpaused, --turning his head to listen, --half inclined to the belief that hisfancy was tricking him. But no; the singer was coming nearer; the melodywas growing more distinct; but still the voice was in perfect harmony withthe deep-toned accompaniment of the distant creek. 

Then he saw her. Dressed in soft brown that blended subtly with the greenof the willows, the gray of the alder trunks, the russet of rose andblackberry-bush, and the umber of the swinging grape-vines--in theflickering sunshine, the soft changing half-lights, and deep shadows--sheappeared to grow out of the scene itself; even as her low-sung melody grewout of the organ-sound of the waters. 

To get the effect that satisfied him best, the painter had placed hiseasel a little back from the grassy, open spot. Seated as he was, on a lowcamp-stool, among the bushes, he would not have been easily observed--evenby eyes trained to the quickness of vision that belongs to those reared inthe woods and hills. As the girl drew closer, he saw that she carried abasket on her arm, and that she was picking the wild blackberries thatgrew in such luscious profusion in the rich, well watered ground at thefoot of the sheltering bank. Unconscious of any listener, as she gatheredthe fruit of Nature's offering, she sang to the accompaniment of Nature'smusic, with the artless freedom of a wild thing unafraid in its nativehaunts. 

The man kept very still. Presently, when the girl had moved so that hecould not see her, he turned to his canvas as if, again, absorbed in hiswork--but hearing still, behind him, the low-voiced melody of her song. 

Then the music ceased; not abruptly, but dying away softly--losing itself, again, in the organ-tones of the distant waters, as it had come. For awhile, the artist worked on; not daring to take his eyes from his picture;but feeling, in every tingling nerve of him, that she was there. At last, as if compelled, he abruptly turned his head--and looked straight into herface. 

The man had been, apparently, so absorbed in his work, when first the girlcaught sight of him, that she had scarcely been startled. When she hadceased her song, and he, still, had not looked around; drawn by herinterest in the picture, she had softly approached until she was standingquite close. Her lips were slightly parted, her face was flushed, and hereyes were shining with delight and excited pleasure, as she stood leaningforward, her basket on her arm. So interested was she in the painting, that she seemed to have quite forgotten the painter, and was not in theleast embarrassed when he so suddenly looked directly into her face. 

"It is beautiful, " she said, as though in answer to his question. And noone--hearing her, and watching her face as she spoke--could have doubtedher sincerity. "It is so true, so--so"--she searched for a word, andsmiled in triumph when she found it--"so _right_--so beautifully right. It--it makes me feel as--as I feel when I am at church--and the organplays soft and low, and the light comes slanting through the window, andsome one reads those beautiful words, 'The Lord is in his holy temple; letall the earth keep silence before him'. "

"Why!" exclaimed the artist, "that is exactly what I wanted it to say. When I saw this place, and heard the waters over there, like a greatorgan; and saw how the sunshine falls through the trees; I felt as yousay, and I am trying to paint the picture so that those who see it willfeel that way too. "

Her face was aglow with enthusiastic understanding as she cried eagerly, "Oh, I know! I know! I'm like that with my music! When I look at themountains sometimes--or at the trees and flowers, or hear the waters sing, or the winds call--I--I get so full and so--so kind of choked up insidethat it hurts; and I feel as though I must try to tell it--and then I takemy violin and try and try to make the music say what I feel. I never canthough--not altogether. But _you_ have made your picture say what youfeel. That's what makes it so right, isn't it? They said in Fairlands thatyou were a great artist, and I understand why, now. It must be wonderfulto put what you see and feel into a picture like that--where nothing canever change or spoil it. "

Aaron King laughed with boyish embarrassment. "Oh, but I'm not a greatartist, you know. I am scarcely known at all. "

She looked at him with her great, blue eyes sincerely troubled. "And mustone be _known_--to be great?" she asked. "Might not an artist be great andstill be _unknown_? Or, might not one who was really very, very"--againshe seemed to search for a word and as she found it, smiled--"very_small_, be known all over the world? The newspapers make some really badpeople famous, sometimes, don't they? No, no, you are joking. You do notreally think that being known to the world and greatness are the same. "

The man, studying her closely, saw that she was speaking her thoughts asopenly as a child. Experimentally, he said, "If putting what you feel intoyour work is greatness, then _you_ are a great artist, for your music doesmake one feel as though it came from the mountains, themselves. "

She was frankly pleased, and cried intimately, "Oh! do you like my music?I so wanted you to. "

It did not occur to her to ask when he had heard her music. It did notoccur to him to explain. They, neither of them, thought to remember thatthey had not been introduced. They really should have pretended that theydid not know each other. 

"Sometimes, " she continued with winsome confidence, "I think, myself, thatI am really a great violinist--and then, again, "--she added wistfully, --"Iknow that I am not. But I am sure that I wouldn't like to be famous, atall. "

He laughed. "Fame doesn't seem to matter so much, does it; when one is uphere in the hills and the canyon gates are closed. "

She echoed his laughter with quick delight. "Did you see that? Did you seethose great doors open to let you in, and then close again behind you asif to shut the world outside? But of course you would. Any one who coulddo that"--she pointed to the canvas--"would not fail to see the canyongates. " With her eyes again upon the picture, she seemed once more toforget the presence of the painter. 

Watching her face, --that betrayed her every passing thought and emotion asan untroubled pool mirrors the flowers that grow on its banks or thesong-bird that pauses to drink, --the artist--to change her mood--said, "You _love_ the mountains, don't you?"

She turned her face toward him, again, as she answered simply, "Yes, Ilove the mountains. "

"If you were a painter, "--he smiled, --"you would paint them, wouldn'tyou?"

"I don't know that I would, "--she answered thoughtfully, --"but I would tryto get the mountains into my picture, whatever it was. I wonder if youknow what I mean?"

"Yes, " he answered, "I think I know what you mean; and it is a beautifulthought. You wouldn't paint portraits, would you?"

"I don't think I _could_, " she answered. "It seems to me it would be sohard to get the mountains into a portrait of just anybody. An artist--agreat artist, I mean--must make his picture right, mustn't he? And if hispicture was a portrait of some one who wasn't very good, and he made itright; he wouldn't be liked very well, would he? No, I don't think I wouldpaint portraits--unless I could paint just the people who would want me tomake my picture right. "

Aaron King's face flushed at the words that were spoken so artlessly; andhe looked at her keenly. But the girl was wholly innocent of any purposeother than to express her thoughts. She did not dream of the force withwhich her simple words had gone home. 

"You love the mountains, too, don't you?" she asked suddenly. 

"Yes, " he answered, "I love the mountains. I am learning to love them moreand more. But I fear I don't know them as well as you do. "

"I was born up here, " she said, "and lived here until a few years ago. Ithink, sometimes, that the mountains almost talk to me. "

"I wonder if you would help me to know the mountains as you know them, " heasked eagerly. 

She drew a little back from him, but did not answer. 

"We are neighbors, you see, " he continued smiling. "I heard your violin, the other evening, when I was fishing up the creek, near where you live;and so I know it is you who live next door to us in the orange grove. Mr. Lagrange and I are camped just over there back of the orchard. May we notbe friends? Won't you help me to know your mountains?"

"I know about you, " she said. "Brian Oakley told us that you and Mr. Lagrange were camped down here. Mr. Lagrange said that you are a good man;Brian Oakley says that you are too--are you?"

The artist flushed. In his embarrassment, he did not note the significanceof her reference to the novelist. "At least, " he said gently, "I am not avery _bad_ man. "

A smile broke over her face--her mood changing as quickly as the sunlightbreaks through a cloud. "I know you are not"--she said--"a _bad_ manwouldn't have wanted to paint this place as you have painted it. "

She turned to go. 

"But wait!" he cried, "you haven't told me--will you teach me to know yourmountains as you know them?"

"I'm sure I cannot say, " she answered smiling, as she moved away. 

"But at least, we will meet again, " he urged. 

She laughed gaily, "Why not? The mountains are for you as well as for me;and though the hills _are_ so big, the trails are narrow, and the passesvery few. "

With another laugh, she slipped away--her brown dress, that, in the shiftylights under the thick foliage, so harmonized with the colors of bush andvine and tree and rock, being so quickly lost to the artist's eye that sheseemed almost to vanish into the scene before him. 

But presently, from beyond the willow wall, he heard her voiceagain--singing to the accompaniment of the mountain stream. Softly, themelody died away in the distance--losing itself, at last, in the deeperorgan-tones of the mountain waters. 

For some minutes, the artist stood listening--thinking he heard it still. 

Aaron King did not, that night, tell Conrad Lagrange of his adventure inthe spring glade. 

Chapter XVII

Confessions in the Spring Glade

All the next day, while he worked upon his picture in the glade, AaronKing listened for that voice in the organ-like music of the distantwaters. Many times, he turned to search the flickering light and shade ofthe undergrowth, behind him, for a glimpse of the girl's brown dress andwinsome face. 

The next day she came. 

The artist had been looking long at a splash of sunlight that fell uponthe gray granite boulder which was set in the green turf, and had turnedto his canvas for--it seemed to him--only an instant. When he looked againat the boulder, she was standing there--had, apparently, been standingthere for some time, waiting with smiling lips and laughing eyes for himto see her. 

A light creel hung by its webbed strap from her shoulder; in her hand, shecarried a slender fly rod of good workmanship. Dressed in soft brown, withshort skirts and high laced boots, and her wavy hair tucked under a wide, felt hat; with her blue eyes shining with fun, and her warmly tinted skinglowing with healthful exercise; she appeared--to the artist--more as somemythical spirit of the mountains, than as a maiden of flesh and blood. Themanner of her coming, too, heightened the impression. He had heard nosound of her approach--no step, no rustle of the underbrush. He had seenno movement among the bushes--no parting of the willows in the wall ofgreen. There had been no hint of her nearness. He could not even guess thedirection from which she had come. 

At first, he could scarce believe his eyes, and sat motionless in hissurprise. Then her merry laugh rang out--breaking the spell. 

Springing from his seat, he went forward. "Are you a spirit?" he cried. "You must be something unreal, you know--the way you appear and disappear. The last time, you came out of the music of the waters, and went again thesame way. To-day, you come out of the air, or the trees, or, perhaps, thatgray boulder that is giving me such trouble. "

Laughing, she answered, "My father and Brian Oakley taught me. If you willwatch the wild things in the woods, you can learn to do it too. I am nomore a spirit than the cougar, when it stalks a rabbit in the chaparral;or a mink, as it slips among the rocks along the creek; or a fawn, when itcrouches to hide in the underbrush. "

"You have been fishing?" he asked. 

She laughed mockingly, "You are _so_ observing! I think you might havetaken _that_ for granted, and asked what luck. "

"I believe I might almost take that for granted too, " he returned. 

"I took a few, " she said carelessly. Then, with a charming air ofauthority--"And now, you must go back to your work. I shall vanishinstantly, if you waste another moment's time because I am here. "

"But I want to talk, " he protested. "I have been working hard since noon. "

"Of course you have, " she retorted. "But presently the light will changeagain, and you won't be able to do any more to-day; so you must keep busywhile you can. "

"And you won't vanish--if I go on with my work?" he asked doubtfully. Shewas smiling at him with such a mischievous air, that he feared, if heturned away, she would disappear. 

She laughed aloud; "Not if you work, " she said. "But if you stop--I'mgone. "

As she spoke, she went toward his easel, and, resting her fly rodcarefully against the trunk of a near-by alder, slipped the creel from hershoulder, placing the basket on the ground with her hat. Then, while thepainter watched her, she stood silently looking at the picture. Presently, she faced him, and, with an impulsive stamp of her foot, said, "Why don'tyou work? How can you waste your time and this light, looking at me? Ishall go, if you don't come back to your picture, this minute. "

With a laugh, he obeyed. 

For a moment, she watched him; then turned away; and he heard her movingabout, down by the tiny stream, where it disappeared under the willows. 

Once, he paused and turned to look in her direction "What are you up to, now?" he said. 

"I shall be up to leaving you, "--she retorted, --"if you look around, again. "

He promptly turned once more to his picture. 

Soon, she came back, and seated herself beside her creel and rod, whereshe could see the picture under the artist's brush. "Does it bother, if Iwatch?" she asked softly. 

"No, indeed, " he answered. "It helps--that is, it helps when it is _you_who watch. " Which--to the painter's secret amazement--was a literal truth. The gray rock with the splash of sunshine that would not come right, ceased to trouble him, now. Stimulated by her presence, he worked with afreedom and a sureness that was a delight. 

When he could not refrain from looking in her direction, he saw that shewas bending, with busy hands, over some willow twigs in her lap. "What inthe world are you doing?" he asked curiously. 

"You are not supposed to know that I am doing anything, " she retorted. "You have been peeking again. "

"You were so still--I feared you had vanished, " he laughed. "If you'llkeep talking to me, I'll know you are there, and will be good. "

"Sure it won't bother?"

"Sure, " he answered. 

"Well, then, _you_ talk to me, and I'll answer. "

"I have a confession to make, " he said, carefully studying the gray tonesof the alder trunk beyond the gray boulder. 

"A confession?"

"Yes, I want to get it over--so it won't bother me. "

"Something about me?"

"Yes. "

"Why, that's what I am trying so hard to make you keep your eyes on yourwork for--because _I_ have to make a confession to _you_. "

"To me?"

"Yes--don't look around, please. "

"But what under the sun can you have to confess to me?"

"You started yours first, " she answered. "Go on. Maybe it will make iteasier for me. "

Studiously keeping his eyes upon his canvas, he told her how he hadwatched her from the cedar thicket. When he had finished, --and she wassilent, --he thought that she was angry, and turned about--expecting to seeher gathering up her things to go. 

She was struggling to suppress her laughter. At the look of surprise onhis face, she burst forth in such a gale of merriment that the littleglade was filled with the music of her glee; while, in spite of himself, the painter joined. 

"Oh!" she cried, "but that _is_ funny! I am glad, glad!"

"Now, what do you mean by that?" he demanded. 

"Why--why--that's exactly what I was trying to get courage enough toconfess to you!" she gasped. And then she told him how she had spied uponhim from the arbor in the rose garden; and how, in his absence, she hadvisited his studio. 

"But how in the world did you get in? The place was always locked, when Iwas away. "

"Oh, " she said quaintly, "there was a good genie who let me in through thekeyhole. I didn't meddle with anything, you know--I just looked at thebeautiful room where you work. And I didn't glance, even, at the pictureon the easel. The genie told me you wouldn't like that. I would not havedrawn the curtain anyway, even if I hadn't been told. At least, I don't_think_ I would--but perhaps I might--I can't always tell what I'm goingto do, you know. "

Suddenly, the artist remembered finding the studio door open with ConradLagrange's key in the lock, and how the novelist had berated himself withsuch exaggerated vehemence; and, in a flash, came the thought of JamesRutlidge's visit, that afternoon, and of his strange manner andinsinuating remarks. 

"I think I know the name of your good genie, " said the painter, facing thegirl, seriously. "But tell me, did no one disturb you while you were inthe studio?"

Her cheeks colored painfully, and all the laughter was gone from her voiceas she replied, "I didn't want you to know that part. "

"But I must know, " he insisted gravely. 

"Yes, " she said, "Mr. Rutlidge found me there; and I ran away through thegarden. I don't like him. He frightens me. Please, is it necessary for usto talk about it any more? I had to make my confession of course, but mustwe talk about _that_ part?"

"No, " he answered, "we need not talk about it. It was necessary for me toknow; but we will never mention that part, again. When we are back in theorange groves, you shall come to the rose garden and to the studio, asoften as you like; your good genie and I will see to it that you are notdisturbed--by any one. "

Her face brightened at his words. "And do you really like for me to makemusic for you--as Mr. Lagrange says you do?"

"I can't begin to tell you how much I like it, " he answered smiling. 

"And it doesn't bother you in your work?"

"It helps me, " he declared--thinking of that portrait of Mrs. Taine. 

"Oh, I am glad, glad!" she cried. "I wanted it to help. It was for that Iplayed. "

"You played to help me?" he asked wonderingly. 

She nodded. "I thought it might--if I could get enough of the mountainsinto my music, you know. "

"And will you dance for me, sometimes too?" he asked. 

She shook her head. "I cannot tell about that. You see, I only dance whenI must--when the music, somehow, doesn't seem quite enough. When I--whenI"--she searched for a word, then finished abruptly--"oh, I can't tell youabout it--it's just something you feel--there are no words for it. When Ifirst come to the mountains, --after living in Fairlands all winter, --Ialways dance--the mountains feel so big and strong. And sometimes I dancein the moonlight--when it feels so soft and light and clean; or in thetwilight--when it's so still, and the air is so--so full of the day thathas come home to rest and sleep; and sometimes when I am away up under thebig pines and the wind, from off the mountain tops, under the sky, singsthrough the dark branches. "

"But don't you ever dance to please your friends?"

"Oh, no--I don't dance to _please_ any one--only just when it's formyself--when nothing else will do--when I _must_. Of course, sometimes, Myra or Brian Oakley or Mrs. Oakley are with me--but they don't matter, you know. They are so much a part of me that I don't mind. "

"I wonder if you will ever dance for me?"

Again, she shook her head. "I don't think so. How could I? You see, youare not like anybody that I have ever known. "

"But I saw you the other evening, you remember. "

"Yes, but I didn't know you were there. If I had known, I wouldn't havedanced. "

All the while--as she talked--her fingers had been busy with the slender, willow branches. "And now"--she said, abruptly changing the subject, andsmiling as she spoke--"and now, you must turn back to your work. "

"But the light is not right, " he protested. 

"Never mind, you must pretend that it is, " she retorted. "Can't youpretend?"

To humor her, he obeyed, laughing. 

"You may look, now, " she said, a minute later. 

He turned to see her standing close beside him, holding out a charminglittle basket that she had woven of the green willows and decorated withmoss and watercress. In the basket, on the cool, damp moss, and lightlycovered with the cress, lay a half dozen fine rainbow trout. 

"How pretty!" he exclaimed. "So that is what you have been doing!"

"They are for you, " she said simply. 

"For me?" he cried. 

She nodded brightly; "For you and Mr. Lagrange. I know you like thembecause you said you were fishing when you heard my violin. And I thoughtthat you wouldn't want to leave your picture, to fish for yourself, so Itook them for you. "

The artist concealed his embarrassment with difficulty; and, whileexpressing his thanks and appreciation in rather formal words, studied herface keenly. But she had tendered her gift with a spontaneous naturalness, an unaffected kindliness, and an innocent disregard of conventionalities, that would have disarmed a man with much less native gentleness than AaronKing. 

Leaving the basket of trout in his hand, she turned, and swung the emptycreel over her shoulder. Then, putting on her hat, she picked up her rod. 

"Oh--are you going?" he said. 

"You have finished your work for to-day, " she answered

"But let me go with you, a little way. "

She shook her head. "No, I don't want you. "

"But you will come again?"

"Perhaps--if you won't stop work--but I can't promise--you see I neverknow what I am going to do up here in the mountains, " she answeredwhimsically. "I might go to the top of old 'Berdo' in the morning; or Imight be here, waiting for you, when you come to paint. "

He was putting his things in the box--thinking he would persuade her tolet him accompany her a little way; if she saw that he really would paintno more. When he bent over the box, she was speaking. "I hope you will, "he answered. 

There was no reply. 

He straightened up and looked around. 

She was gone. 

For some time, he stood searching the glade with his eyes, carefully;listening to catch a sound--a puzzled, baffled look upon his face. Takinghis things, at last, he started up the little path. But before he reachedthe old gate, a low laugh caused him to whirl quickly about. 

There she stood, beside the spring--a teasing smile on her face. Before hecould command himself, she danced a step or two, with an elfish air, andslipped away through the green willow wall. Another merry laugh came backto him and then--the silence of the little glade, and the sound of thedistant waters. 

With the basket of fish in his hand, Aaron King went slowly to camp;where, when Conrad Lagrange saw what the artist carried so carefully, explanations were in order. 

Chapter XVIII

Sibyl Andrés and the Butterflies

On the following day, the artist was putting away his things, at the closeof the afternoon's work, when the girl appeared. 

The long, slanting bars of sunshine and the deepening shadows marked thelateness of the hour. As he bent over his paint-box, the man was thinkingwith regret that she would not come--that, perhaps, she would never come. And at the thought that he might not see her again, an odd fear grippedhis heart. His thoughts were interrupted by a low, musical laugh; and hesprang to his feet, to search the glade with careful eyes. 

"Come out, " he cried, as though adjuring an invisible spirit. "I know youare here; come out. "

With another laugh, she stepped from behind the trunk of one of thelargest trees, within a few feet of where he stood. As she went towardhim, she carried in her outstretched hands a graceful basket, woven ofsycamore leaves and ferns, and filled with the ripest sweetestblackberries. She did not speak as she held out her offering; but the man, looking into her laughing eyes, fancied that there was a meaning and apurpose in the gift that did not appear upon the surface of her simpleaction. 

Expressing his pleasure, as he received the dainty basket, he could notrefrain from adding, "But why do you bring me things?"

She answered with that wayward, mocking humor that so often seized her;"Because I like to. I told you that I always do what I like--up here inthe mountains. "

"I hope you always will, " he returned, "if your likes are all as deliciousas this one. "

With the manner of a child playfully making a mystery yet anxious to havethe secret discussed, she said, "I have one more gift to bring you, yet. "

"I knew you meant something by your presents, " he cried. "It isn't justbecause you want me to have the things you bring. "

"Oh, yes it is, " she retorted, laughing mischievously at his triumphantand expectant tone. "If I didn't want you to have the things Ibring--why--I wouldn't bring them, would I?"

"But that isn't all, " he insisted. "Tell me--why do you say you have one_more_ gift to bring?"

She shook her head with a delightful air of mystery "Not until I comeagain. When I come again, I will tell you. "

"And you will come to-morrow?"

She laughed teasingly at his eagerness. "How can I tell?" she answered. "Ido not know, myself, what I will do to-morrow--when I am up here in themountains--when the canyon gates are shut and the world is left outside. "Even as she spoke, her mood changed and the last words were utteredwistfully, as a captive spirit--that, by nature wild and free, waspermitted, for a brief time only, to go beyond its prison walls--mighthave spoken. 

The artist--puzzled by her flash-like change of moods, and by her manneras she spoke of the world beyond the canyon gates--had no words to reply. As he stood there, --in that little glade where the light fell as in aquiet cathedral and the air trembled with the deep organ-tones of thedistant waters--holding in his hands the basket of leaves and ferns withits wild fruit, and looking at the beautiful girl who had brought heroffering with the naturalness of a child of the mountains and the air of awoodland spirit, --he again felt that the world he had always known wasvery far away. 

The girl, too, was silent--as though, by some subtle power, she knew histhoughts and did not wish to interrupt. 

So still were they, that a wild bird--darting through the screen of alderboughs--stopped to swing on a limb above their heads, with a burst ofwild-wood melody. In the arroyo beyond the willow wall, a quail called hisevening call, and was answered by his mate from the top of the bank underthe mistletoe oak. A pair of gray squirrels crept down the gray trunks ofthe trees and slipped around the granite boulder to drink at the spring;then scampered away again--half in frolic, half in fright--as they caughtsight of the man and the maid. As the squirrels disappeared, the girllaughed--a low laugh of fellowship with the creatures of thewilderness--in complete understanding of their humor. Then--as thoughfollowing the path of a sunbeam--two gorgeously brown and yellow wingedbutterflies came flitting through the draperies of virgin's-bower, andfloated in zigzag flight about the glade--now high among the alder boughs;now low over the tops of the roses and berry-bushes; down to the fragrantmint at the water's edge; and up again to the tops of the willows, as ifto leave the glade; but only to return again to the vines that covered thebank, and to the flowers that, here and there, starred the grassy sward. 

"Oh!"--cried the girl impulsively, as the beautiful winged creaturesdisappeared at last, --"if people could only be like that! It's so hard tobe yourself in the world. Everybody, there, seems trying to be somethingthey are not. No one dares to be just themselves. Everything, up here, isso right--so true--so just what it is--and down there, everything tries sohard to be just what it is not. The world even _sees_ so crooked that it_can't_ believe when a thing is just what it is. "

While watching the butterflies, she had turned away from the artist and, in following their flight with her eyes, had taken a few light steps thatbrought her into the open, grassy center of the glade. With her faceupturned to the opening in the foliage through which the butterflies haddisappeared, she had spoken as if thinking aloud, rather than asaddressing her companion. 

Before the artist could reply, the beautiful creatures came floating backas they had gone. With a low exclamation of delight, the girl watched themas they circled, now, above her head, in their aerial waltz among thesunbeams and leafy boughs. Then the man, watching, saw her--unheeding hispresence--stretch her arms upward. For a moment she stood, lightly poised, and then, with her wide, shining eyes fixed upon those gorgeously wingedspirits whirling in the fragrant air, with her lips parted in smilingdelight, she danced upon the smooth turf of the glade--every step andmovement in perfect harmony with the spirit of care-free abandonment thatmarked the movements of the butterflies that danced above her head. Unmindful of the watching man, as her dainty companionsthemselves, --forgetful of his presence, --she yielded to the impulse toexpress her emotions in free, rhythmic movement. 

Instinctively, Aaron King was silent--standing motionless, as if he fearedto startle her into flight. 

Suddenly, as the girl danced--her eyes always upon her wingedcompanions--the insects floated above the artist's head, and she becameconscious of his presence. Her cheeks flushed and, laughing low, --as shedanced, lightly as a spirit, --she impulsively stretched out her arms tohim, in merry invitation--as though challenging him to join her. 

The gesture was as spontaneous and as innocent, in its freedom, as hadbeen her offering of the gifts from mountain stream and bush. But theman--lured into forgetfulness of everything save the wild loveliness ofthe scene--started toward her. At his movement, a look of bewildered fearcame into her face; but--too startled to control her movements on theinstant, and as though impelled by some hidden power--she moved towardhim--blindly, unconsciously--her eyes wide with that look of questioningfright. He had almost reached her when, as though by an effort of herwill, she stopped and stood still--gazing into his face--trembling inevery limb. Then, with a low cry, she sank down in a frightened, cowering, pleading attitude, and buried her crimson face in her hands. 

As though some unseen hand checked him, the man halted, and the girl'scheeks were not more crimson than his own. 

A moment he stood, then a step brought him to her side. Putting out hishand, he touched her upon the shoulder, and was about to speak. But at histouch, with another cry, she sprang to her feet and, whirling with theflash-like quickness of a wild thing, vanished into the undergrowth thatwalled in the glade. 

With a startled exclamation, the man tried to follow calling to her, reassuring her, begging her to come back. But there was no answer to hiswords; nor did he catch a glimpse of her; though once or twice he thoughthe heard her in swift flight up the canyon. 

All the way to the place where he had first seen her, he followed; but atthe cedar thicket he stopped. For a long time, he stood there; while thetwilight failed and the night came. Slowly, --in the soft darkness withbowed head, as one humbled and ashamed, --he went back down the canyon tothe little glade, and to the camp. 

Chapter XIX

The Three Gifts and Their Meanings

The next day, Aaron King--too distracted to paint--idled all the afternoonin the glade. But the girl did not come. When it was dark, he returned tocamp; telling himself that she would never come again; that his rudeyielding to the lure of her wild beauty had rightly broken forever thecharm of their intimacy--and he cursed himself--as many a man hascursed--for that momentary lack of self-control. 

But the following afternoon, as the artist worked, --bent upon quicklyfinishing his picture of the place that seemed now to reproach him withits sweet atmosphere of sacred purity, --he heard, as he had heard thatfirst day, the low music of her voice blending with the music of themountain stream. Scarce daring to move, he sat as though absorbed in hiswork--listening with all his heart, for some sound of her approach, otherthan the melody of her song that grew more and more distinct. At last, heknew that she was standing just the other side of the willows, beyond thelittle spring. He felt her hidden eyes upon him, but dared not look thatway--feeling sure that if he betrayed himself in too eager haste she wouldvanish. Bending forward toward his canvas, he made show of giving closeattention to his work and waited. 

For some minutes, she remained concealed; singing low, as though to tryhim with temptation. Then, all at once, --as the painter, with poisedbrush, glanced from his canvas to the scene, --she stood in full viewbeside the spring; her graceful, brown-clad figure framed by the willow'sgreen. Her arms were filled with wild flowers that she had gathered fromthe mountainside--from nook and glade and glen. 

"If you will not seek me, there is no use to hide, " she called, stillholding her place on the other side of the spring, and regarding himseriously; and the man felt under her words, and saw in her wide, blueeyes a troubled question. 

"I sought you all the way to your home, " he said, gently, "but you wouldnot let me come near. "

"I was frightened, " she returned, not lowering her eyes but regarding himsteadily with that questioning appeal. 

"I am sorry, "--he said, --"won't you forgive me? I will never frighten youso again. I did not mean to do it. "

"Why, " she answered, "I have to forgive myself as well as you. You see, Ifrightened myself quite as much as you frightened me. I can't feel thatyou were really to blame--any more than I. I have tried, but I can't--so Icame back. Only, I--I must never dance for you again, must I?"

The man could not answer. 

As though fully reassured, and quite satisfied to take his answer forgranted, she sprang over the tiny stream at her feet, and came to himacross the glade, holding out her arms full of blossoms. "See, " she saidwith a smile, "I have brought you the last one of the three gifts. "Gracefully, she knelt and placed the flowers on the ground, beside his boxof colors. 

Deeply moved by her honesty and by her simple trust in him; and charmed bythe air of quiet, natural dignity with which she spoke of her gifts; theartist tried to thank her. 

"And now, " he added, "the meaning--tell me the meaning of your gifts. Youpromised--you remember--that you would read the pretty riddle, when youcame again. "

She laughed merrily. "And haven't you guessed the meaning?" she said inher teasing mood. 

"How could I?" he retorted. "I was not schooled in your mountains, youknow. Your world up here is still a strange world to me. "

Still smiling with the pleasure of her fancy, she replied, "But didn't youask me again and again to help you to know the mountains as I know them?"

"Yes, " he said, "but you would not promise. "

"I did better than promise"--she returned--"I brought you, from themountains themselves, their three greatest gifts. "

He shook his head, with the air of a backward schoolboy--"Won't you readthe lesson?"

"If you will work while I talk, I will, " she answered--amused by thehopelessness of his manner and tone. 

Obediently, he took up his brushes, and turned toward his picture. 

Removing her hat, she seated herself on the ground, where she had woventhe willow basket for the fish. 

After a moment's silence, she began--timidly, at first, then withincreasing confidence as she found words to express her charming fancy. "First, you must know, that in all the wild life of the mountains there isno creature so strong--in proportion to its size and weight, I mean--asthe trout that lives in the mountain streams. Its home is in the icytorrents that are fed by the snows of the highest peaks and canyons. Itlives, literally, in the innermost heart and life of the hills. It seeksits food at the foot of the falls, where the water boils in fierce fury;where the current swirls and leaps among the boulders; and where thestream rushes with all its might down the rocky channels. With itsmuscles, fine as tempered steel, it forces its way against the strength ofthe stream--conquering even the fifty-foot downward pour of a cataract. Its strength is a silent strength. It has no voice other than the voice ofits own beautiful self. And all its gleaming colors you may see, in themorning and in the evening, tinting the mighty heads and shoulders andsides of the hills themselves. And so, the first gift that I broughtyou--fresh from the mountain's heart--was the gift of the mountain'sstrength. 

"The second gift was gathered from bushes that were never planted by thehand of man. They grow as free and untamed as the rains that water them, and the earth that feeds them, and the sunshine that sweetens hem. In themis the flavor of mountain mists, and low hung clouds, and shining dew; theodor of moist leaf-mould, and unimpoverished soil; the pleasant tang ofthe sunshine; and the softer sweetness of the shady nooks where they grow. In the second gift, I brought you the purity, and the flavor of themountains. "

"And to-day"--she finished simply--"to-day I have brought you the beautyof the hills. "

"You have brought me more than the strength and purity and beauty of themountains, " exclaimed the painter. "You have brought me their mystery. "

She looked at him questioningly. 

"In your own beautiful self, " he continued sincerely "you have brought methe mystery of these hills. You are wonderful! I have never known any onelike you. "

She was wholly unconscious of the compliment--if indeed, he meant it assuch. "I suppose I must be different, " she returned with just a touch, ofsadness in her voice. "You see I have never been taught like other girls. I know nothing at all of the world where you live--except what Myra hastold me. " Then, as if to change the subject, she asked shyly, "Would youcare for my music to-day?"

He assented eagerly--thinking she meant to sing. But, rising, she crossedthe glade, and disappeared behind the willows--returning, a moment later, with her violin. 

In answer to his exclamation of pleased surprise, she said smiling, "Ibrought my violin because I thought, if you would let me play, the musicwould perhaps help us both to forget what--what happened when I danced. "

Standing by the gray boulder, with her face up turned to the mountains, she placed the instrument under her chin and drew the bow softly acrossthe strings. 

For an hour or more she played. Then, as Czar trotted sedately into theglade, she lowered her instrument and, with a smile, called merrily toConrad Lagrange who, attracted by the music, was standing at the gate onthe bank--from the artist's position invisible; "Come down, goodgenie, --come down! You have been watching there quite long enough. Come, instantly; or with my magic I'll turn you into a fantastic, dancing bug, such as those that straddle there upon the waters of the spring, or elseinto a fat pollywog that wiggles in the black ooze among the dead leavesand rotting bits of wood. "

With a quick movement, she tucked her violin under her chin and played afew measures of the worst sort of ragtime, in perfect imitation of apopular performer. The effect, following the music she had just beenmaking, was grotesque and horrible. 

"Mercy, mercy!" cried the man at the gate. "I beg! I beg! Do not, I pray, good nymph, torture me with thy dreadful power. I swear that I will obeythy every wish and whim. "

Pointing with her bow--as with a wand--to the boulder, she sternlycommanded, "Come, then, and sit here upon this rock; and give to me anaccount of all that thou hast done since I left thee in the rose garden orI will split thy ears and stretch thy soul upon a torture rack of hideousnoise. "

She lifted her violin again, threateningly. The novelist came down thepath, on a run, to seat himself upon the gray boulder. 

The artist shouted with laughter. But the novelist and the girl paid noheed to his unseemly merriment. 

"Speak, "--she commanded, waving her wand, --"what hast thou done?"

"Did I not obey thy will and, under such terms as I could procure, openfor thee the treasure room of thy desire?" growled the man on the rock. 

"And still, " she retorted, "when I made myself subject to those terms, andobediently looked not upon the hidden mystery--still the room of mydesires became a trap betraying me into rude hands from which I narrowlyescaped. And you--you fled the scene of your wrong-doing, without so muchas by-your-leave, and for these long weeks have wandered, irresponsible, among my hills. Did you not say that my home was under these glowingpeaks, and in the purple shadows of these canyons? Did you think that Iwould not find you here, and charm you again within reach of my power?"

"And what is thy will, good spirit?"--he asked, humbly--"tell me thy willand it shall be done--if thou wilt but make music _only_ upon theinstrument that is in thy hand. "

With a laugh, she ended the play, saying, "My will is that you and Mr. King come, to-morrow evening, for supper with Miss Willard and me. BrianOakley and Mrs. Oakley will be there. I want you too. "

The men looked at each other in doubt. 

"Really, Miss Andrés, " said the artist, "we--"

The girl interrupted with one of her flash-like changes. "I have invitedyou. You _must_ come. I shall expect you. " And before either of the mencould speak again, she sprang lightly across the little stream, anddisappeared through the willow wall. 

"Well, I'll be--" The novelist checked himself, solemnly--staring blanklyat the spot where she had disappeared. 

The artist laughed. 

"What do you think of it?" demanded Conrad Lagrange, turning to hisfriend. 

Aaron King, packing up his things, answered, "I think we'd better go. "

Which opinion was concurred in by Brian Oakley who dropped in on them thatevening. 

Chapter XX

Myra's Prayer and the Ranger's Warning

That same afternoon, while Sibyl Andrés was making music for Aaron King inthe spring glade, Brian Oakley, on his way down the canyon, stopped at theold place where Myra Willard and the girl were living. Riding into theyard that was fenced only by the wild growth, he was greeted cordially bythe woman with the disfigured face, who was seated on the porch. 

"Howdy, Myra, " he called in return, as he swung from the saddle; andleaving the chestnut to roam at will, he went to the porch, his spursclinking softly over the short, thick grass. 

"Where's Sibyl?" he asked, seating himself on the top step. 

"I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Oakley, " the woman answered, smiling. "Youreally didn't expect me to, did you?"

The Ranger laughed. "Did she take gun, basket, rod or violin? If I knowwhether she's gone shooting berrying, fishing or fiddling, it may give mea clue--or did she take all four?"

The woman watched him closely. "She took only her violin. She wentsometime after lunch--down the canyon, I think. Do you wish particularlyto see her, Mr. Oakley?"

It was evident to the woman that the officer was relieved. "Oh, no; shewouldn't be going far with her violin. If she went down the canyon, it'sall right anyway. But I stopped in to tell the girl that she must becareful, for a while. There's an escaped convict ranging somewhere in mydistrict. I received the word this morning, and have been up around LoneCabin and Burnt Pine and the head of Clear Creek to see if I could startanything. I didn't find any signs, but the information is reliable. TellSibyl that I say she must not go out without her gun--that if I catch herwandering around unarmed, I'll pack her off back to civilization, pronto. "

"I'll tell her, " said Myra Willard, "and I'll help her to remember. Itwould be better, I suppose, if she stayed at home; but that seems soimpossible. "

"She'll be all right if she has her gun, " asserted the Ranger, confidently. "I'd back the girl against anything I ever met up with--whenshe has her artillery. By the way, Myra, have your neighbors below calledyet?"

"No--at least, not while I have been at home. I have been berrying, two orthree times. They might have come while I was out. "

"Has Sibyl met them yet?" came the next question. 

"She has not mentioned it, if she has. "

"H-m-m, " mused Brian Oakley. 

The woman's love for the girl prompted her to quick suspicion of theRanger's manner. 

"What is it, Mr. Oakley?" she asked. "Has the child been indiscreet? Hasshe done anything wrong? Has she been with those men?"

"She has called upon one of them several times, " returned Brian, smiling. "Mr. King is painting that little glade by the old spring at the foot ofthe bank, you know, and I guess she stumbled onto him. The place is one ofher favorite spots. But bless your heart, Myra, there's no harm in it. Itwould be natural for her to get interested in any one making a picture ofa place she loves as she does that old spring glade. She has spent days ata time there--ever since she was big enough to go that far from home. "

"It's strange that she has not mentioned it to me, " said thewoman--troubled in spite of the Ranger's reassuring words. 

The man directed his attention suddenly to his horse; "Max! You letSibyl's roses alone. " The animal turned his head questioningly toward hismaster. "Back!" said the Ranger, "back!" At his word, the chestnutpromptly backed across the yard until the officer called, "That will do, "when he halted, and, with an impatient toss of his head, again lookedtoward the porch, inquiringly. "You are all right now, " said the man. Whereupon the horse began contentedly cropping the grass. 

"I met Mr. King, accidentally, once, at the depot in Fairlands, " continuedthe woman with the disfigured face. "He impressed me, then, as being agenuinely good man--a true gentleman. But, judging from his books, ConradLagrange is not a man I would wish Sibyl to meet. I have wondered at theartist's friendship with him. "

"I tell you, Myra, Lagrange is all right, " said Brian Oakley, stoutly. "He's odd and eccentric and rough spoken sometimes; but he's not at allwhat you would think him from the stuff he writes. He's a true man atheart, and you needn't worry about Sibyl getting anything but good from anacquaintance with him. As for King--well--Conrad Lagrange vouches for him. If you knew Lagrange, you'd understand what that means. He and the youngfellow's mother grew up together. He swears the lad is right; and, fromwhat I've seen of him, I believe it. It doesn't follow, though, that youdon't need to keep your eyes open. The girl is as innocent as achild--though she is a woman--and--well--accidents have happened, youknow. " As he spoke he glanced unconsciously at the scars that disfiguredthe naturally beautiful face of the woman. 

Myra Willard blushed as she answered sadly, "Yes, I know that accidentshave happened. I will talk with Sibyl; and will you not speak to her too?She loves you so, and is always guided by your wishes. A little word ortwo from you would be an added safeguard. "

"Sure I'll talk to her, " said the Ranger, heartily--rising and whistlingto the chestnut. "But look here, Myra, "--he said, pausing with his foot inthe stirrup, --"the girl must have her head, you know. We don't want to puther in the notion that every man in the world is a villain laying for achance to do her harm. There _are_ clean fellows--a few--and it will doSibyl good to meet that kind. " He swung himself lightly into the saddle. 

The woman smiled; "Sibyl could not think that all men are evil, afterknowing her father and you, Mr. Oakley. "

The Ranger laughed as he turned Max toward the opening in the cedarthicket. "Will was what God and Nelly made him, Myra; and I--if I'm fairlydecent it's because Mary took me in hand in time. Men are mostly what youwomen make 'em, anyway, I reckon. "

"Don't forget that you and Mrs. Oakley are coming for supper to-morrow, "she called after him. 

"No danger of our forgetting that, " he answered. "Adios!" And the chestnutloped easily out of the yard. 

Myra Willard kept her place on the porch until the sound of the horse'sgalloping feet died away down the canyon. But, as she listened to thevanishing sound of the Ranger's going, her eyes were looking far away--asthough his words had aroused in her heart memories of days long past. Whenthe last echo had lost itself in the thin mountain air, she went into thehouse. 

Standing before the small mirror that served--in the rude, almostcamp-like furnishings of the house--for both herself and Sibyl, shestudied the face reflected there--turning her head slowly, as if comparingthe beautiful unmarked side with the other that was so hideouslydisfigured. For some time she stood there, unflinchingly giving herself tothe torture of this contemplation of her ruined loveliness; drinking toits bitter dregs the sorrowful cup of her secret memories; until, asthough she could bear no more, she drew back--her eyes wide with pain andhorror, her marred features twisted grotesquely in an agony of mentalsuffering. With a pitiful moan she sank upon her knees in prayer. 

In the earnestness of her spirit--out of the deep devotion of her love--asshe prayed God for wisdom to guide the girl entrusted to her care, shespoke aloud. "Let me not rob her, dear Christ, of love; but help me tohelp her love aright. Help me, that in my fear for her I do not turn herheart against her mate when he shall come. Help me, that I do not so fillher pure mind with doubt and distrust of all men that she will look forevil, only. Help me, that I do not teach her to associate love wholly withthat which is base and untrue. Grant, O God, that her beautiful life maynot be marred by a love that is unworthy. "

As the woman with the disfigured face rose from her knees, she heard thevoice of Sibyl, who was coming up the old road toward the cedars--singingas she came. 

When Sibyl entered the house, a moment later, Myra Willard, stillagitated, was bathing her face. The girl, seeing, checked the song uponher lips; and going to the woman who in everything but the ties of bloodwas mother to her, sought to discover the reason for her troubled manner, and tried to soothe her with loving words. 

The woman held the girl close in her arms and looked into the lovely, winsome face that was so unmarred by vicious thoughts of the world'steaching. 

"Dear child, do you not sometimes hate the sight of my ugliness?" shesaid. "It seems to me, you must. "

With her arms about her companion's neck, Sibyl pressed her pure, younglips to those disfiguring scars, in an impulsive kiss. "Foolish Myra, " shecried, "you know I love you too well to see anything but your ownbeautiful self behind the scars. To me, your face is all like this"--andshe softly kissed, in turn, the woman's unmarred cheek. "Whatever made themarks, I know that they are not dishonorable. So I never think of them atall, but see only the beautiful side--which is really you, you know. "

"No, "--answered Myra Willard, gently, --"my scars are not dishonorable. Butthe world does not see with your pure eyes, dear child. The world seesonly the ugly, disfigured side of my face. It never looks at the otherside. And listen, dear heart, so the world often sees dishonor where thereis no dishonor It sees evil in many things where there is only good. "

"Yes, " returned the girl, "but you have never taught me to see with theeyes of the world. So, to me, what the world sees, does not matter. "

"Pray that it may never matter, child, " answered the woman with thedisfigured face, earnestly. 

Then, as they went out to the porch, she asked, "Did you meet Mr. Oakleyas you were coming home?"

Sibyl laughed and colored with a confusion that was new to her, as sheanswered, "Yes, I did--and he scolded me. "

"About your going unarmed?"

"No, --but he told me about that too. I don't see why, whenever a poorcriminal escapes, he always comes into _our_ mountains. I don't like to'pack a gun'--unless I'm hunting. But Brian Oakley didn't scold me forthat, though--he knows I always do as he says. He scolded because I hadn'ttold you about my going to see Mr. King, in the spring glade. " Shelaughed, conscious of the color that was in her cheeks. "I told him itdidn't matter whether I told you or not, because he always knows everysingle move I make, anyway. "

"Why _didn't_ you tell me, dear?" asked the woman. "You never keptanything from me, before--I'm sure. "

"Why dearest, " the girl answered frankly, "I don't know, myself, why Ididn't tell you"--which, Myra Willard knew, was the exact truth. 

Then Sibyl told her foster-mother everything about her acquaintance withthe artist and Conrad Lagrange--from the time she first watched thepainter, from the arbor in the rose garden, where she met the novelist;until that afternoon, when she had invited them to supper, the next day. Only of her dancing before the artist, the girl did not tell. 

Later in the evening, Sibyl--saying that she would sing Myra tosleep--took her violin to the porch, outside the window; and in the duskmade soft music until the woman's troubled heart was calmed. When the mooncame up from behind the Galenas, across the canyon, the girl tiptoed intothe house, to bend over the sleeping woman, in tender solicitude. Withthat mother tenderness belonging to all true women, she stooped andsoftly kissed the disfigured face upon the pillow. At the touch, MyraWillard stirred uneasily; and the girl--careful to make nosound--withdrew. 

On the porch, she again took up her violin as if to play; but, instead, sat motionless--her face turned down the canyon--her eyes looking faraway. Then, quickly, she put aside the instrument, and--as though withsudden yielding to some inner impulse--slipped out into the grassy yard. And there, in the moon's white light, --with only the mountains, the trees, and the flowers to see, --she danced, again, as she had danced before theartist in the glade--with her face turned down the canyon, and her armsoutstretched, longingly, toward the camp in the sycamores back of the oldorchard. 

Suddenly, from the room where Myra Willard slept, came that shuddering, terror-stricken cry. 

The girl, fleet-footed as a deer, ran into the house. Kneeling, she puther strong young arms about the cowering, trembling form on the bed. "There, there, dear, it's all right. "

The woman of the disfigured face caught Sibyl's hand, impulsively. "I--I--was dreaming again, " she whispered, "and--and this time--OSibyl--this time, I dreamed that it was _you_. "

Chapter XXI

The Last Climb

That first visit of Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange to the old home ofSibyl Andrés was the beginning of a delightful comradeship. 

Often, in the evening, the two men, with Czar, went to spend an hour infriendly intercourse with their neighbors up the canyon. Always, they werewelcomed by Myra Willard with a quiet dignity; while Sibyl was franklydelighted to have them come. Always, they were invited with genuinehospitality to "come again. " Frequently, Brian Oakley and perhaps Mrs. Oakley would be there when they arrived; or the Ranger would come ridinginto the yard before they left. At times, the canyon's mountain wallechoed the laughter of the little company as Sibyl and the novelist playedtheir fantastical game of words; or again, the older people would listento the blending voices of the artist and the girl as, in the quiet hush ofthe evening, they sang together to Myra Willard's accompaniment on theviolin; or, perhaps, Sibyl, with her face upturned to the mountain tops, would make for her chosen friends the music of the hills. 

Not infrequently, too, the girl would call at the camp in the sycamoregrove--sometimes riding with the Ranger, sometimes alone; or they wouldhear her merry hail from the gate the other side of the orchard as shepassed by. And sometimes, in the morning, she would appear--equipped withrod or gun or basket--to frankly challenge Aaron King to some long ramblein the hills. 

So the days for the young man at the beginning of his life work, and forthe young woman at the beginning of her womanhood, passed. Up and down thecanyon, along the boulder-strewn bed of the roaring Clear Creek, from theRanger Station to the falls; in the quiet glades under the alders hungwith virgin's-bower and wild grape; beneath the live-oaks on themountains' flanks or shoulders; in dimly lighted, cedar-sheltered gulches, among tall brakes and lilies; or high up on the canyon walls under thedark and fragrant pines--over all the paths and trails familiar to hergirlhood she led him--showing him every nook and glade and glen--teachinghim to know, as he had asked, the mountains that she herself so loved. 

The time came, at last, when the two men must return to Fairlands. WithMr. And Mrs. Oakley they were spending the evening at Sibyl's home whenConrad Lagrange announced that they would leave the mountains, two dayslater. 

"Then, "--said the girl, impulsively, --"Mr. King and I are going for onelast good-by climb to-morrow. Aren't we?" she concluded--turning to theartist. 

Aaron King laughed as he answered, "We certainly seem to be headed thatway. Where are we going?"

"We will start early and come back late"--she returned--"which really isall that any one ought to know about a climb that is just for the climb. And listen--no rod, no gun, no sketch-book. I'll fix a lunch. "

"Watch out for my convict, " warned the Ranger. "He must be getting mightyhungry, by now. "

Early in the morning, they set out. Crossing the canyon, they climbed theOak Knoll trail--down which the artist and Conrad Lagrange had been led bythe uncanny wisdom of Croesus, a few weeks before--to the pipe-line. Wherethe path from below leads into the pipe-line trail, under the live-oaks, on a shelf cut in the comparatively easy slope of the mountain's shoulder, they paused for a look over the narrow valley that lay a thousand feetbelow. Across the wide, gray, boulder-strewn wash of the mountaintorrent's way, with the gleaming thread of tumbling Clear Creek in itscenter, they could see the white dots that marked the camp back of the oldorchard; and, farther up the stream, could distinguish the little openingwith the cedar thicket and the giant sycamores that marked the spot whereSibyl was born. 

Aaron King, looking at the girl, recalled that day when he and ConradLagrange, in a spirit of venturesome fun, had left the choice of trails tothe burro. "Good, old Croesus!" he said smiling. 

She knew the story of how they had been guided to their camping place, andlaughed in return, as she answered, "He's a dear old burro, is Croesus, and worthy of a better name. "

"Plutus would be better, " suggested the artist. 

"Because a Greek God is better than a Lydian King?" she asked curiously. 

"Wasn't Plutus the giver of wealth?" he returned. 

"Yes. "

"Well, and wasn't he forced by Zeus to distribute his gifts without regardto the characters of the recipients?"

She laughed merrily. "Plutus or Croesus--I'm glad he chose the Oak Knolltrail. "

"And so am I, " answered the man, earnestly. 

Leisurely, they followed the trail that is hung--narrow thread-likepath--high upon the mountain wall, invisible from the floor of the canyonbelow. At a point where the trail turns to round the inward curve of oneof the small side canyons--where the pines grow dark and tall--somethoughtful hand had laid a small pipe from the large conduit tunnel, underthe trail, to a barrel fixed on the mountainside below the little path. Here they stopped again and, while they loitered, filled a small canteenwith the cold, clear water from the mountain's heart. Farther on, wherethe pipe-line again rounds the inward curve of the wall between twomountain spurs, they turned aside to follow the Government trail thatleads to the fire-break on the summit of the Galenas and then down intothe valley on the other side. At the gap where the Galena trail crossesthe fire-break, they again turned aside to make their leisure way alongthe broad, brush-cleared break that lies in many a fold and curve and kinklike a great ribbon on the thin top of the ridge. With every step, now, they were climbing. Midday found them standing by a huge rock at the edgeof a clump of pines on one of the higher points of the western end of therange. Here they would have their lunch. 

As they sat in the lee of the great rock, with the wind that sweeps themountain tops singing in the pines above their heads, they looked directlydown upon the wide Galena Valley and far across to the spurs and slopes ofthe San Jacintos beyond. Sibyl's keen eyes--mountain-trained fromchildhood--marked a railway train crawling down the grade from SanGorgonio Pass toward the distant ocean. She tried in vain to point it outto her companion. But the city eyes of the man could not find the tinyspeck in the vast landscape that lay within the range of their vision. Theartist looked at his watch. The train was the Golden State Limited thathad brought him from the far away East, a few months before. 

Aaron King remembered how, from the platform of the observation car, hehad looked up at the mountains from which he now looked down. Heremembered too, the woman into whose eyes he had, for the first time, looked that day. Turning his face to the west, he could distinguish underthe haze of the distance the dark squares of the orange groves ofFairlands. Before three days had passed he would be in his studio homeagain. And the woman of the observation car platform--From distantFairlands, the man turned his eyes to the winsome face of his girl comradeon the mountain top. 

"Please"--she said, meeting his serious gaze with a smile of frankfellowship--"please, what have I done?"

Smiling, he answered gravely, "I don't exactly know--but you have donesomething. "

"You look so serious. I'm sure it must be pretty bad. Can't you think whatit is?"

He laughed. "I was thinking about down there"--he pointed into the haze ofthe distant valley to the west. 

"Don't, " she returned, "let's think about up here"--she waved her handtoward the high crest of the San Bernardinos, and the mountain peaks aboutthem. 

"Will you let me paint your portrait--when we get back to the orangegroves?" he asked. 

"I'm sure I don't know, " she returned. "Why do you want to paint me? I'mnobody, you know--but just me. "

"That's the reason I want to paint you, " he answered. 

"What's the reason?"

"Because you are you. "

"But a portrait of me would not help you on your road to fame, " sheretorted. 

He flinched. "Perhaps, " he said, "that's partly why I want to do it. "

"Because it won't help you?"

"Because it won't help me on the road to fame. You _will_ pose for me, won't you?"

"I'm sure I cannot say"--she answered--"perhaps--please don't let's talkabout it. "

"Why not?" he asked curiously. 

"Because"--she answered seriously--"we have been such good friends up herein the mountains; such--such comrades. Up here in the hills, with thecanyon gates shut against the world that I don't know, you are like--likeBrian Oakley--and like my father used to be--and down there"--shehesitated. 

"Yes, " he said, "and down there I will be what?"

"I don't know, " she answered wistfully, "but sometimes I can see you goingon and on and on toward fame and the rewards it will bring you and youseem to get farther and farther and farther away from--from the mountainsand our friendship; until you are so far away that I can't see you anymore at all. I don't like to lose my mountain friends, you know. "

He smiled. "But no matter how famous I might become--no matter what famemight bring me--I could not forget you and your mountains. "

"I would not want you to remember me, " she answered "if you were famous. That is--I mean"--she added hesitatingly--"if you were famous just becauseyou _wanted_ to be. But I know you could never forget the mountains. Andthat would be the trouble; don't you see? If you _could_ forget, it wouldnot matter. Ask Mr. Lagrange, he knows. "

For some time Aaron King sat, without speaking, looking about at the worldthat was so far from that other world--the world he had always known. Thegirl, too, --seeming to understand the thoughts that he himself, perhaps, could not have expressed, --was silent. 

Then he said slowly, "I don't think that I care for fame as I did beforeyou taught me to know the mountains. It doesn't, somehow, now, seem tomatter so much. It's the _work_ that really matters--after all--isn't it?"

And Sibyl Andrés, smiling, answered, "Yes, it's the work that reallymatters. I'm sure that _must_ be so. "

In the afternoon, they went on, still following the fire-break, down towhere it is intersected by the pipe-line a mile from the reservoir on thehill above the power-house; then back to Oak Knoll, again on the pipe-linetrail all the way--a beautiful and never-to-be-forgotten walk. 

The sun was just touching the tops of the western mountains when theystarted down Oak Knoll. The canyon below, already, lay in the shadow. Whenthey reached the foot of the trail, it was twilight. Across the road, by asmall streamlet--a tributary to Clear Creek--a party of huntsmen weremaking ready to spend the night. The voices of the men came clearlythrough the gathering gloom. Under the trees, they could see thecamp-fire's ruddy gleam. They did not notice the man who was standing, half hidden, in the bushes beside the road, near the spot where the trailopens into it. Silently, the man watched them as they turned up the roadwhich they would follow a little way before crossing the canyon to Sibyl'shome. Fifty yards farther on, they met Brian Oakley. 

"Howdy, you two, " called the Ranger, cheerily--without stopping his horse. "Rather late to-night, ain't you?"

"We'll be there by dark, " called the artist And the Ranger passed on. 

At sound of the mountaineer's voice, the man in the bushes drew quicklyback. The officer's trained eyes caught the movement in the brush, and heleaned forward in the saddle. 

A moment later, the man reappeared in the road, farther down, around thebend. As the Ranger approached, he was hailed by a boisterous, "Hello, Brian! better stop and have a bite. "

"How do you do, Mr. Rutlidge?" came the officer's greeting, as he reinedin his horse. "When did you land in the hills?"'

"This afternoon, " answered the other. "We're just making camp. Come andmeet the fellows. You know some of them. "

"Thanks, not to-night, "--returned Brian Oakley, --"deer hunt, I suppose. "

"Yes--thought we would be in good time for the opening of the season. Bythe way, do you happen to know where Lagrange and that artist friend ofhis are camped?"

"In that bunch of sycamores back of the old orchard down there, " answeredthe Ranger, watching the man's face keenly. "I just passed Mr. King, upthe road a piece. "

"That so? I didn't see him go by, " returned the other. "I think I'll runover and say 'hello' to Lagrange in the morning. We are only going as faras Burnt Pine to-morrow, anyway. "

"Keep your eyes open for an escaped convict, " said the officer, casually. "There's one ranging somewhere in here--came in about a month ago. He'slikely to clean out your camp. So long. "

"Perhaps we'll take him in for you, " laughed the other. "Good night. " Heturned toward the camp-fire under the trees, as the officer rode away. 

"Now what in hell did that fellow want to lie to me like that for, " saidBrian Oakley to himself. "He must have seen King and Sibyl as they camedown the trail. Max, old boy, when a man lies deliberately, without anyapparent reason, you want to watch him. "

Chapter XXII

Shadows of Coming Events

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange were idling in their camp, after breakfastthe next morning, when Czar turned his head, quickly, in a listeningattitude. With a low growl that signified disapproval, he moved forward astep or two and stood stiffly erect, gazing toward the lower end of theorchard. 

"Some one coming, Czar?" asked the artist. 

The dog answered with another growl, while the hair on his neck bristledin anger. 

"Some one we don't like, heh!" commented the novelist. "Or"--he added asif musing upon the animal's instinct--"some one we ought not to like. "

A bark from Czar greeted James Rutlidge who at that moment appeared at thefoot of the slope leading up to their camp. 

The two men--remembering the occasion of their visitor's last call attheir home in Fairlands, when he had seen Sibyl in the studio--receivedthe man with courtesy, but with little warmth. Czar continued to manifesthis sentiments until rebuked by his master. The coolness of the reception, however, in no way disconcerted James Rutlidge; who, on his part, ratheroverdid his assumption of pleasure at meeting them again. 

Explaining that he had come with a party of friends on a hunting trip, hetold them how he had met Brian Oakley, and so had learned of their camphidden behind the old orchard. The rest of his party, he said, had gone onup the canyon. They would stop at Burnt Pine on Laurel Creek, where hecould easily join them before night. He could not think, he declared, ofpassing so near without greeting his friends. 

"You two certainly are expert when it comes to finding snug, out-of-the-way quarters, " he commented, searching the camp and theimmediate surroundings with a careful and, ostensibly, an appreciativeeye. "A thousand people might pass this old, deserted place without everdreaming that you were so ideally hidden back here. "

As he finished speaking, his roving eye came to rest upon a pair of glovesthat Sibyl--the last time she had called--had carelessly left lying upon astump close by a giant sycamore where, in camp fashion, the rods andcreels and guns were kept. The artist had intended to return the glovesthe day before, together with a book of trout-flies which the girl hadalso forgotten; but, in his eagerness for the day's outing, he had goneoff without them. 

The observing Conrad Lagrange did not fail to note that James Rutlidge hadseen the telltale gloves. Fixing his peculiar eyes upon the visitor, heasked abruptly, with polite but purposeful interest, after the health ofMr. And Mrs. Taine and Louise. 

The faint shadow of a suggestive smile that crossed the heavy features ofJames Rutlidge, as he turned his gaze from the gloves to meet the look ofthe novelist was maddening. 

"The old boy is steadily going down, " he said without feeling. "Thedoctors tell me that he can't last through the winter. It'll be a reliefto everybody when he goes. Mrs. Taine is well and beautiful, asalways--remarkable how she keeps up appearances, considering her husband'sserious condition. Louise is quite as usual. They will all be back inFairlands in another month. They sent regards to you both--in case Ishould run across you. "'

The two men made the usual conventional replies, adding that they werereturning to Fairlands the next day. 

"So soon?" exclaimed their visitor, with another meaning smile. "I don'tsee how you can think of leaving your really delightful retreat. Iunderstand you have such charming neighbors too. Perhaps though, they arealso returning to the orange groves and roses. "

Aaron King's face flushed hotly, and he was about to reply with vigor tothe sneering words, when Conrad Lagrange silenced him with a quick look. Ignoring the reference to their neighbors, the novelist replied suavelythat they felt they must return to civilization as some matters inconnection with the new edition of his last novel demanded his attention, and the artist wished to get back to his studio and to his work. 

"Really, " urged Rutlidge, mockingly, "you ought not to go down now. Thedeer season opens in two days. Why not join our party for a hunt? We wouldbe delighted to have you. "

They were coolly thanking him for the invitation, --that, from the tone inwhich it was given, was so evidently not meant, --when Czar, with a joyfulbark, dashed away through the grove. A moment, and a clear, girlish voicecalled from among the trees that bordered the cienaga, "Whoo-ee. " It wasthe signal that Sibyl always gave when she approached their camp. 

James Rutlidge broke into a low laugh while Sibyl's friends looked at eachother in angry consternation as the girl, following her hail andaccompanied by the delighted dog, appeared in full view; her fishing-rodin hand, her creel swung over her shoulder. 

The girl's embarrassment, when, too late, she saw and recognized theirvisitor, was pitiful. As she came slowly forward, too confused to retreat, Rutlidge started to laugh again, but Aaron King, with an emphasis thatchecked the man's mirth, said in a low tone, "Stop that! Be careful!"

As he spoke, the artist arose and with Conrad Lagrange went forward togreet Sibyl in--as nearly as they could--their customary manner. 

Formally, Rutlidge was presented to the girl; and, under the threateningeyes of the painter, greeted her with no hint of rudeness in his voice ormanner; saying courteously, with a smile, "I have had the pleasure of MissAndrés' acquaintance for--let me see--three years now, is it not?" heappealed to her directly. 

"It was three years ago that I first saw you, sir, " she returned coolly. 

"It was my first trip into the mountains, I remember, " said Rutlidge, easily. "I met you at Brian Oakley's home. "

Without replying, she turned to Aaron King appealingly. "I--I left mygloves and fly-book. I was going fishing and called to get them. "

The artist gave her the articles with a word of regret for having socarelessly forgotten to return them to her. With a simple "good-by" to hertwo friends but without even a glance toward their caller, she went backup the canyon, in the direction from which she had come. 

When the girl had disappeared among the trees, James Rutlidge said, withhis meaning smile, "Really, I owe you an apology for dropping in sounexpectedly. I--"

Conrad Lagrange interrupted him, curtly. "No apology is due, sir. "

"No?" returned Rutlidge, with a rising inflection and a drawling note inhis voice that was almost too much for the others. "I really must begoing, anyway, " he continued. "My party will be some distance ahead. Sureyou wouldn't care to join us?"

"Thanks! Sorry! but we cannot this time. Good of you to ask us, " came fromAaron King and the novelist. 

"Can't say that I blame you, " their caller returned. "The fishing used tobe fine in this neighborhood. You must have had some delightful sport. Don't blame you in the least for not joining our stag party. Delightfulyoung woman, that Miss Andrés. Charming companion--either in the mountainsor in civilization Good-by--see you in Fairlands, later. "

When he was out of hearing the two men relieved their feelings in languagethat perhaps it would be better not to put in print. 

"And the worst of it is, " remarked the novelist, "it's so damned dangerousto deny something that does not exist or make explanations in answer tocharges that are not put into words. "

"I could scarcely refrain from kicking the beast down the hill, " saidAaron King, savagely. 

"Which"--the other returned--"would have complicated matters exceedingly, and would have accomplished nothing at all. For the girl's sake, storeyour wrath against the day of judgment which, if I read the signs aright, is sure to come. "

 * * * * *

When Sibyl Andrés went down the canyon to the camp in the sycamores, thatmorning, the world, to her, was very bright. Her heart sang with joyousfreedom amid the scenes that she so loved. Care-free and happy, as when, in the days of her girlhood, she had gone to visit the spring glade, shestill was conscious of a deeper joy than in her girlhood she had everknown. 

When she returned again up the canyon, all the brightness of her day wasgone. Her heart was heavy with foreboding fear. She was oppressed with adread of some impending evil which she could not understand. At everysound in the mountain wild-wood, she started. Time and again, as ifexpecting pursuit, she looked over her shoulder--poised like a creature ofthe woods ready for instant panic-stricken flight. So, without pausing tocast for trout, or even to go down to the stream, she returned home; whereMyra Willard, seeing her come so early and empty handed, wondered. But tothe woman's question, the girl only answered that she had changed hermind--that, after recovering her gloves and fly-book at the camp of theirfriends, she had decided to come home. The woman with the disfigured face, knowing that Aaron King was leaving the hills the next day, thought thatshe understood the girl's mood, and wisely made no comment. 

The artist and Conrad Lagrange went to spend their last evening in thehills with their friends. Brian Oakley, too, dropped in. But neither ofthe three men mentioned the name of James Rutlidge in the presence of thewomen; while Sibyl was, apparently, again her own bright and happyself--carrying on a fanciful play of words with the novelist, singing withthe artist, and making music for them all with her violin. But before theevening was over, Conrad Lagrange found an opportunity to tell the Rangerof the incident of the morning, and of the construction that JamesRutlidge had evidently put upon Sibyl's call at the camp. BrianOakley, --thinking of the night before, and how the man must have seen theartist and the girl coming down the Oak Knoll trail in thetwilight, --swore softly under his breath. 

Chapter XXIII

Outside the Canyon Gates Again

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange determined to go back from the mountains, the way they had come. Said the novelist, "It is as unseemly to rushpell-mell from an audience with the gods as it is to enter their presenceirreverently. "

To which the artist answered, laughing, "Even criminals under sentencehave, at least, the privilege of going to their prisons reluctantly. "

So they went down from the mountains, reverently and reluctantly. 

Yee Kee, with the more elaborate equipment of the camp, was sent on aheadby wagon. The two men, with Croesus packed for a one night halt, and Czar, would follow. When all was ready, and they could neither of them inventany more excuses for lingering, Conrad Lagrange gave the word to the burroand they set out--down the little slope of grassy land; across the tinystream from the cienaga; around the lower end of the old orchard, by theancient weed-grown road--even Czar went slowly, with low-hung head, as ifregretful at leaving the mountains that he, too, in his dog way, loved. 

At the gate, Aaron King asked the novelist to go on, saying that he wouldsoon overtake him. It was possible, he said, that he might have leftsomething in the spring glade. He thought he had better make sure. ConradLagrange, assenting, went through the gate and down the road, with thefour-footed members of the party; and Czar must have thought that therewas something very funny about old Croesus that morning, from the way hismaster laughed; when they were safely around the first turn. 

There was, of course, no material thing in the spring glade that theartist wanted. _He_ knew that--quite as well as his laughing friend. Underthe mistletoe oak, at the top of the bank, he paused, hesitating--as onewill often pause when about to enter a sacred building. Softly, he pushedopen the old gate, as he might have pushed open the door of a church. Slowly, reverently, he went down the path; baring his head as he went. Hedid not search for anything that he might have left. He simply stood for afew minutes under the gray-trunked alders that were so marked by theloving hands of long ago men and maidens--beside the mint bordered springwith the scattered stones of that old foundation--where, through thescreen of boughs and vines and virgin's-bower the sunlight fell as throughthe traceries of a cathedral window, and the low, deep tones of themountain waters came like the music of a great organ. 

It is likely that Aaron King, himself, could not, at that time, have toldwhy, as he was leaving the hills, he had paused to visit once more thespot where Sibyl Andrés had brought to him her three gifts from themountains--where, in her pure innocence, she had danced before him thedance of the mating butterflies--and where, with the music of her violin, she had saved their friendship from the perils that threatened it--liftingtheir intimate comradeship into the pure atmosphere of the higher levels, even as she had shown him the trails that lead from the lower canyon tothe summits and peaks of the encircling mountain walls. But when herejoined his friend there was something in his face that prevented thenovelist from making any comment in a laughing vein. 

As the two men passed outward through the canyon gates and, lookingbackward as they went, saw those mighty doors close silently behind them, the artist was moved by emotions that were strange and new to the man who, two months before, had watched those gates open to receive him. This, too, is true; as that man, then, knew, but did not know, the mountains; so thisman, now, knew, yet still did not know, himself. 

Where the road crosses, for the last time, the tumbling stream from theheart of the hills, they halted; and for one night slept again at the footof the mountains. The next day they arrived at their little home in theorange grove. To Aaron King, it seemed that they had been away for years. 

When the traces of their days upon the road had been removed, and theywere garbed again in the conventional costume of the world; when theiroutfit had been put away, and a home found for patient Croesus; the artistwent to his studio. The afternoon passed and Yee Kee called dinner; butAaron King did not come. Then Conrad Lagrange went to find him. Softly, the older man pushed open the studio door to see the painter sittingbefore the portrait of Mrs. Taine, with the package of his mother'sletters in his hand. 

Without a sound, the novelist withdrew, leaving the door ajar. Going tothe corner of the house, he whistled low, and in answer, Czar comebounding to him from the porch. "Go find Aaron, Czar, " said the man, pointing toward the studio. "Go find Aaron. "

Obediently, with waving tail, the dog trotted off, and pushing open thedoor entered the room; followed a few moments later by his master. 

Conrad Lagrange smiled as he saw that the easel was without a canvas. Theportrait of Mrs. Taine was turned to the wall. 

Chapter XXIV

James Rutlidge Makes a Mistake

When Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange had said, "good-by, " to their friends, at Sibyl Andrés' home, that evening; and had returned to spend their lastnight at the camp in the sycamores; the girl's mood was again the mood ofone oppressed by a haunting, foreboding fear. 

Sibyl could not have expressed, or even to herself defined, her fear. Sheonly knew that in the presence of James Rutlidge she was frightened. Shehad tried many times to overcome her strange antipathy; for Rutlidge, until that day in the studio, had never been other than kind and courteousin his persistent efforts to win her friendship. Perhaps it was theimpression left by the memory of Myra Willard's manner at the time oftheir first meeting with him, three years before, in Brian Oakley's home;perhaps it was because the woman with the disfigured face had so oftenwarned her against permitting her slight acquaintance with Rutlidge todevelop; perhaps it was something else--some instinct, possible, only, toone of her pure, unspoiled nature--whatever it was, the mountain girl whowas so naturally unafraid, feared this man who, in his own world, was anacknowledged authority upon matters of the highest spiritual and moralsignificance. 

That night, she slept but little. With the morning, every nerve demandedaction, action. She felt as though if she could not spend herself inphysical exertion she would go mad. Taking her lunch, and telling hercompanion that she was going for a good, full day with the trout; she wasstarting off, when the woman called her back. 

"You have forgotten Mr. Oakley's warning, dear. You are not to go unarmed, you know. "

"Oh, bother that old convict, Brian Oakley is so worried about, " cried thegirl. "I don't like to carry a gun when I am fishing. It's only an extraload. " But, never-the-less, as she spoke, she went back to the porch;where Myra Willard handed her a belt of cartridges, with a serviceableColt revolver in the holster. There was no hint of awkwardness when thegirl buckled the belt about her waist and settled the holster in its placeat her hip. 

"You will be careful, won't you, dear, " said the woman, earnestly. 

Lifting her face for another good-by kiss, the girl answered, "Of course, dear mother heart. " Then, with a laugh--"I'll agree to shoot the first manI meet, and identify him afterwards--if it will make you easier in yourmind. You won't worry, will you?"

Myra Willard smiled. "Not a bit, child. I know how Brian Oakley loves you, and he says that he has no fear for you if you are armed. He takes greatchances himself, that man, but he would send us back to Fairlands, in aminute, if he thought you were in any danger in your rambles. "

Beside the roaring Clear Creek, Sibyl seated self upon a greatboulder--her rod and flies neglected--apparently unmindful of the purposethat had brought her to the stream. Her eyes were not upon the swirlingpool at her feet, but were lifted to a spot, a thousand feet up on OakKnoll, where she knew the pipe-line trail lay, and where Croesus had madethe momentous decision that had resulted in her comradeship with AaronKing. Following the canyon wall with her eyes--as though in her mind shewalked the thread-like path--from Oak Knoll to the fire-break a mile fromthe reservoir; her gaze then traced the crest of the Galenas, restingfinally upon that clump of pines high up on the point that was so clearlymarked against the sky. Once, she laid aside her rod, and slipped thecreel from her shoulder. But even as she set out, she hesitated and turnedback; resolutely taking up her fishing-tackle again, as though, angry withherself for her state of mind, she was determined to indulge no longer hermood of indecision. 

But the fishing did not go well. To properly cast a trout-fly, one'sthoughts must be upon the art. A preoccupied mind and wandering attentiontends to a tangled line, a snarled leader, and all sorts of aggravatingcomplications. Sibyl--usually so skillful at this most delicate ofsports--was as inaccurate and awkward, this day, as the merest tyro. Themany pools and falls and swirling eddies of Clear Creek held for her, now, memories more attractive, by far, than the wary trout they sheltered. Thefamiliar spots she had known since childhood were haunted by a somethingthat made them seem new and strange. 

At last, --thoroughly angry with her inability to control her mood, andhalf ashamed of the thoughts that forced themselves so insistently uponher; with her nerves and muscles craving the action that would bring therelief of physical weariness, --she determined to leave the more familiarground, for the higher and less frequented waters of Fern Creek. Climbingout of the canyon, by the steep, almost stair-like trail on the SanBernardino side, she walked hard and fast to reach Lone Cabin by noon. But, before she had finished her lunch, she decided not to fish there, after all; but to go on, over the still harder trail to Burnt Pine onLaurel Creek, and, returning to the lower canyon by the Laurel trail, towork down Clear Creek on the way to her home, in the late afternoon andtwilight. 

The trail up the almost precipitous wall of the gorge at Lone Cabin, andover the mountain spur to Laurel Creek, is one that calls for a clear headand a sure foot. It is not a path for the city bred to essay, save withthe ready arm of a guide. But the hill-trained muscles and nerves of SibylAndrés gloried in the task. The cool-headed, mountain girl enjoyed theclimb from which her city sisters would have drawn back in trembling fear. 

Once, at a point perhaps two-thirds of the height to the top, she halted. Her ear had caught a slight noise above her head, as a few pebbles rolleddown the almost perpendicular face of the wall and bounded from the trailwhere she stood, into the depths below. For a few minutes, the girl, onthe little, shelf-like path that was scarcely wider than the span of hertwo hands, was as motionless and as silent as the cliff itself; while, with her face turned upward, she searched with keen eyes the rim of thegorge; her free, right hand resting upon the butt of the revolver at herhip. Then she went on--not timidly, but neither carelessly; not in theleast frightened, but still, --knowing that the spot was far from the morefrequented paths, --with experienced care. 

As her head and shoulders came above the rim, she paused again, to searchwith careful eyes the vicinity of the trail that from this point leads fora little way down the knife-like ridge of the spur, and then, by easierstages, around the shoulder and the flank of the mountain, to Burnt PineCamp. When no living object met her eye, and she could hear no sound savethe lonely wind in the pines and the faint murmur of the stream in thegorge below, she took the few steps that yet remained of the climb, andseated herself for a moment's well-earned rest. Some small animal, shetold herself, --a squirrel or a wood-rat, perhaps, --frightened at herapproach, and scurrying hastily to cover, had dislodged the pebbles withthe slight noise that she had heard. 

From where she sat with her back against the trunk of a great pine, shecould see--far below, and beyond the immediate spurs and shoulders of therange, on the farther side of the gorge out of which she had justcome--the lower end of Clear Creek canyon, and, miles away, under theblue haze of the distance, the dark squares of the orange groves ofFairlands. 

Somewhere between those canyon gates and the little city in the orangegroves, the girl knew that Aaron King and his friend were making their wayback to the world of men. With her eyes fixed upon the distant scene, asif striving for a wholly impossible strength of vision to mark the tiny, moving spots that she knew were there, the girl upon the high rim of thewild and lonely mountain gorge was lost to her surroundings, in an effort, as vain, to see her comrade of the weeks just past, in the years that wereto come. Would the friendship born in the hills endure in the world beyondthe canyon gates? Could it endure away from those scenes that had given itbirth? Was it possible for a fellowship, established in the freeatmosphere of the mountains, to live in the lower altitude of Fairlands?Sibyl Andrés, --as she sat there, alone in the hills she loved, --in herheart of hearts, answered her own questions, "No. " But still she searchedthe years to come--even as her eyes so futilely searched the distantlandscape beyond the mighty gates that seemed, now, to shut her in fromthat world to which Aaron King was returning. 

The girl was aroused from her abstraction by a sound behind her and alittle to the left of the tree against which she was leaning. In a flash, she was on her feet. 

James Rutlidge stood a few steps away. He had been approaching her as shesat under the tree; but when she sprang to her feet and faced him, hehalted. Lifting his hat, he greeted her with easy assurance; a confident, triumphant smile upon his heavy features. 

White-faced and trembling, the mountain girl--who a few moments before, had been so unafraid--stood shrinking before this cultured representativeof the arts. Returning his salutation, she was starting hurriedly awaydown the trail, when he said, "Wait. Why be in such a hurry?"

As if against her will, she paused. "It is growing late, " she faltered; "Imust go. "

He laughed. "I will go with you presently. Don't be afraid. " Comingforward, with an air of making himself very much at home, he placed hisrifle against the tree where she had been sitting. Then, as if to calm herfears, he continued, "I am camped at Burnt Pine, with a party of friends. I was up here looking for deer sign when I noticed you below, at the cabinthere. I was just starting down to you, when I saw that you were going tocome up; so I waited. Beautiful spot--this--don't you think?--so out ofthe way, too. Just the place for a quiet little visit. "

As the man spoke, he was eyeing her in a way that only served to confuseand frighten her the more. Murmuring some inaudible reply, she againstarted to go. But again he said, peremptorily, "Wait. " And again, as ifagainst her will, she paused. "If you have no scruples about wanderingover the mountains alone with that artist fellow, I do not see why youshould hesitate to favor me. "

The man's words were, undoubtedly, prompted by what he firmly believed tobe the nature of the relation between the girl and Aaron King--a belieffor which he had, to his mind, sufficient evidence. But Sibyl had nounderstanding of his meaning. In the innocence of her pure mind, thepurport of his words was utterly lost. Her very fear of the man was not areasoning fear, but the instinctive shrinking of a nature that had neverfelt the unclean touch of the world in which James Rutlidge habituallymoved. It was this very unreasoning element in her emotions that made heralways so embarrassed in the man's presence. It was because she did notunderstand her fear of him, that the girl, usually so capable of takingher own part, was, in his presence, so helpless. 

James Rutlidge, by the intellectual, moral, and physical atmosphere inwhich he lived, was made wholly incapable of understanding the nature ofSibyl Andrés. Secure in the convictions of his own debased mind, as to herrelation to the artist; and misconstruing her very manner in his presence;he was not long in putting his proposal into words that she could not failto understand. 

When she _did_ grasp his meaning, her fears and her trembling nervousnessgave place to courageous indignation and righteous anger that foundexpression in scathing words of denunciation. 

The man, still, could not understand the truth of the situation. To him, there was nothing more in her refusal than her preference for the artist. That this young woman--to him, an unschooled girl of the hills--whom hehad so long marked as his own, should give herself to another, and soscornfully turn from him, was an affront that he could not brook. The veryvigor of her wrath, as she stood before him, --her eyes bright, her cheeksflushed, and her beautiful body quivering with the vehemence of herpassionate outburst, --only served to fan the flame of his desire; whileher stinging words provoked his bestial mind to an animal-like rage. Witha muttered oath and a threat, he started toward her. 

But the woman who faced him now, with full understanding, was verydifferent from the timid, frightened girl who had not at first understood. With a business-like movement that was the result of Brian Oakley'scareful training, her hand dropped to her hip and was raised again. 

James Rutlidge stopped, as though against an iron bar. In the blue eyesthat looked at him, now, over the dark barrel of the revolver, he read nouncertainty of purpose. The small hand that had drawn the weapon with suchready swiftness, was as steady as though at target practice. Instinctively, the man half turned, throwing up his arm as if to shieldhis face from a menacing blow. "For God's sake, " he gasped, "put thatdown. "

In truth, James Rutlidge was nearer death, at that instant, than he hadever been before. 

Drawing back a few fearful paces, his hands still uplifted, he said again, "Put it down, I tell you. Don't you see I'm not going to touch you? Youare crazy. You might kill me. "

Her words came cold and collected, expressing, together with her calmmanner, perfect self-possession "If you can give any good reason why Ishould not kill you, I will let you go. "

The man was carefully drawing backward toward the tree against which hehad placed his rifle. 

She watched him, with a disconcerting smile. "You may as well stop now, "she said, in those even, composed tones. "I shall fire, the moment you arewithin reach of your gun. "

He halted with a gesture of despair; his face livid with fear at herapparent indecision as to his fate. 

Presently, she spoke again. "Don't worry. I'm not going to killyou--unless you force me to--which I assure you will not be at alldifficult for you to do. Move down the trail until I tell you to stop. "She indicated the direction, along the ridge of the mountain spur. 

He obeyed. 

"That will do, " she said, when he was some twenty paces away. 

He stopped, turning to face her again. 

Picking up his Winchester, she skillfully and rapidly threw all of theshells out of the magazine. Then, covering him again with her own weapon, she went a few steps closer and threw the empty rifle at his feet. "Now, "she said, "put that gun over your left shoulder, and go on ahead of medown the trail. If you try to dodge or run, or if you change the positionof your rifle, I'll kill you. "

"What are you going to do?" he asked. 

"I'm going to take you down to your camp at Burnt Pine. "

James Rutlidge, pale with rage and shame, stood still. "You may as wellkill me, " he said. "I will never go into camp, this way. "

"Don't be uneasy, " she returned. "I am no more anxious for the world toknow of this, than you are. Do as I say. When we come within sight of yourcamp, or if we meet any one, I will put up my gun and we will go ontogether. That's why I am permitting you to carry your rifle. "

So they went down the mountainside--the man with his empty rifle over hisshoulder; the girl following, a few paces in the rear, with ready weapon. 

When they had come within sight of the camp, James Rutlidge said, "There'ssome one there. "

"I see, " returned Sibyl, slipping her gun in its holster and steppingforward beside her companion. And there was a note of glad relief in hervoice, for it was Brian Oakley who was bending over the camp-fire "Come, "she continued to her companion, "and act as though nothing had happened. "

The Ranger, on his way down from somewhere in the vicinity of SanGorgonio, had stopped at the hunters' camp for a belated dinner. Findingno one at home, he had started a fire, and had helped himself to coffeeand bacon. He was just concluding his appropriated meal, when Sibyl andJames Rutlidge arrived. 

In a few words, the girl explained to her friend, that she was on her wayover the trail from Lone Cabin, and had accidentally met Mr. Rutlidge whohad accompanied her as far as the camp. James Rutlidge had little to saybeyond assuring the Ranger of his welcome; and very soon, the officer andthe girl set out on their way down the Laurel trail to Clear Creek canyon. As they went, Sibyl's old friend asked not a few questions about hermeeting with James Rutlidge; but the girl, walking ahead in the narrowtrail, evaded him, and was glad that he could not see her face. 

Sibyl had spoken the literal truth when she said to Rutlidge, that she didnot want any one to know of the incident. She felt ashamed and humiliatedat the thought of telling even her father's old comrade and friend. Sheknew Brian Oakley too well to have any doubts as to what would happen ifhe knew how the man had approached her, and she shrank from the inevitableoutcome. She wished only to forget the whole affair, and, as quickly aspossible, turned the conversation into other and safer channels. 

The Ranger could not stop at the house with her, but must go on down thecanyon, to the Station. So the girl returned to Myra Willard, alone; and, to the woman's surprise, for the second time, with an empty creel. 

Sibyl explained her failure to bring home a catch of trout, with thesimple statement that she had not fished; and then--to her companion'samazement--burst into tears; begging to return at once to their littlehome in Fairlands. 

Myra Willard thought that she understood, better than the girl herself, why, for the first time in her life, Sibyl wished to leave the mountains. Perhaps the woman with the disfigured face was right. 

Chapter XXV

On the Pipe-Line Trail

James Rutlidge spent the day following his experience with Sibyl Andrés, in camp. His companions very quickly felt his sullen, ugly mood, and lefthim to his own thoughts. 

The manner in which Sibyl received his advances had in no way changed theman's mind as to the nature of her relation to Aaron King. To one of JamesRutlidge's type, --schooled in the intellectual moral and esthetic tenetsof his class, --it was impossible to think of the companionship of theartist and the girl in any other light. If he had even considered thepossibility of a clean, pure comradeship existing between them--under allthe circumstances of their friendship as he had seen them in the studio, on the trail at dusk, and in the artist's camp--he would have answeredhimself that Aaron King was not such a fool as to fail to take advantageof his opportunities. The humiliation of his pride, and his rage at beingso ignominiously checked by the girl whom he had so long endeavored towin, served only to increase his desire for her. Sibyl's resolute spirit, and vigorous beauty, when aroused by him, together with her unexpectedopposition to his advances, were as fuel to the flame of his passion. 

His day of sullen brooding over the matter did not improve his temper;and the next morning his friends were relieved to see him setting outalone, with rifle and field-glass and lunch. Ostensibly starting in thedirection of the upper Laurel Creek country he doubled back, as soon as hewas out of sight of camp, and took the trail leading down to Clear Creekcanyon. 

It could not be said that the man had any definite purpose in mind. He wassimply yielding in a purposeless way to his mood, which, for the timebeing, could find no other expression. The remote chance that someopportunity looking toward his desire might present itself, led him toseek the scenes where such an opportunity would be most likely to occur. 

Crossing the canyon above the Company Headwork he came into the pipe-linetrail at a point a little back from the main wagon road and, an hourlater, reached the place on Oak Knoll where the Government trail leadsdown into the canyon below, and where Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange hadcommitted themselves to the judgment of Croesus. Here he left the trail, and climbed to a point on a spur of the mountain, from which he could seethe path for some distance on either side and below, and from which hisview of the narrow valley was unobstructed. Comfortably seated, with hisback against a rock, he adjusted his field-glass and trained it upon thelittle spot of open green--marked by the giant sycamores, the dark line ofcedars, and the half hidden house--where he knew that Sibyl Andrés andMyra Willard were living. 

No sooner had he focused the powerful glass upon the scene that sointerested him, than he uttered a low exclamation. The two women, surrounded by their luggage and camp equipment, were sitting on the porchwith Brian Oakley; waiting, evidently, for the wagon that was crossing thecreek toward the house. It was clear to the man on the mountainside, thatSibyl Andrés and the woman with the disfigured face were returning toFairlands. 

For some time, James Rutlidge sat watching, with absorbing interest, theunconscious people in the canyon below. Once, he turned for a brief glanceat the grove of sycamores behind the old orchard, farther down the creek. The camp of Conrad Lagrange and Aaron King was no longer there. Quickly hefixed his gaze again upon Sibyl and her friends. Presently, --as one willwhen looking long through a field-glass or telescope, --he lowered hishands, to rest his eyes by looking, unaided, at the immediate objects inthe landscape before him. At that moment, the figure of a man appeared onthe near-by trail below. It was a pitiful figure--ill-kempt ragged, half-starved, haggard-faced. 

Creeping feebly along the lonely little path--without seeing the man onthe mountainside above--crouching as he walked with a hunted, fearfulair--the poor creature moved toward the point of the spur around which thetrail led beneath the spot where Rutlidge sat. 

As the man on the trail drew nearer, the watcher on the rocks aboveinvoluntarily glanced toward the distant Forest Ranger; then back tothe--as he rightly guessed--escaped convict. 

There are, no doubt, many moments in the life of a man like James Rutlidgewhen, however bad or dominated by evil influences he may be, he feelsstrongly the impulse of pity and the kindly desire to help. Undoubtedly, James Rutlidge inherited from his father those tendencies that made himeasily ruled by his baser passions. His character was as truly thelegitimate product of the age, of the social environment, and of thethought that accepts such characters. What he might have been if betterborn, or if schooled in an atmosphere of moral and intellectual integrity, is an idle speculation. He was what his inheritance and his life had madehim. He was not without impulses for good. The pitiful, hunted creature, creeping so wearily along the trail, awoke in this man of the acceptedculture of his day a feeling of compassion, and aroused in him a desire tooffer assistance. For the legal aspect of the case, James Rutlidge had allthe indifference of his kind, who imbibe contempt for law with theirmother's milk. For the moment he hesitated. Then, as the figure belowpassed from his sight, under the point of the spur, he slipped quietlydown the mountainside, and, a few minutes later, met the convict face toface. 

At the leveled rifle and the sharp command, "Hands up, " the poor fellowhalted with a gesture of tragic despair. An instant they stood; then thehunted one turned impulsively toward the canyon that, here, lies almost asheer thousand feet below. 

James Rutlidge spoke sharply. "Don't do that. I'm not an officer. I wantto help you. "

The convict turned his hunted, fearful, starving face in doubtfulbewilderment toward the speaker. 

The man with the gun continued, "I got the drop on you to preventaccidents--until I could explain--that's all. " He lowered the rifle. 

The other went a staggering step forward. "You mean that?" he said in aharsh, incredulous whisper. "You--you're not playing with me?"

"Why should I want to play with you?" returned the other, kindly. "Come, let's get off the trail. I have something to eat, up there. " He led theway back to the place where he had left his lunch. 

Dropping down upon the ground, the starving man seized the offered foodwith an animal-like cry; feeding noisily, with the manner of a famishedbeast. The other watched with mingled pity and disgust. 

Presently, in stammering, halting phrases, but in words that showed nolack of education, the wretched creature attempted to apologize for hisunseemly eagerness, and endeavored to thank his benefactor. "I suppose, sir, there is no use trying to deny my identity, " he said, when JamesRutlidge had again assured him of his kindly interest. 

"Not at all, " agreed the other, "and, so far as I am concerned, there isno reason why you should. "

"Just what do you mean by that, sir?" questioned the convict. 

"I mean that I am not an officer and have no reason in the world forturning you over to them. I saw you coming along the trail down thereand, of course, could not help noticing your condition and guessing whoyou were. To me, you are simply a poor devil who has gotten into a tighthole, and I want to help you out a bit, that's all. "

The convict turned his eyes despairingly toward the canyon below, as heanswered, "I thank you, sir, but it would have been better if you had not. Your help has only put the end off for a few hours. They've got me shutin. I can keep away from them, up here in the mountains, but I can't getout. I won't go back to that hell they call prison though--I won't. " Therewas no mistaking his desperate purpose. 

James Rutlidge thought of that quick movement toward the edge of the trailand the rocky depth below. "You don't seem such a bad sort, at heart, " hesaid invitingly. 

"I'm not, " returned the other, "I've been a fool--miserably weak fool--butI've had my lesson--only--I have had it too late. "

While the man was speaking, James Rutlidge was thinking quickly. As he hadbeen moved, at first, by a spirit of compassion to give temporaryassistance to the poor hunted creature, he was now prompted to offer morelasting help--providing, of course, that he could do so without too greata risk to his own convenience. The convict's hopeless condition, hisdespairing purpose, and his evident wish to live free from the past, allcombined to arouse in the other a desire to aid him. But while that trulybenevolent inclination was, in his consciousness, unmarred with sinistermotive of any sort; still, deeper than the impulse for good in JamesRutlidge's nature lay those dominant instincts and passions that were hisby inheritance and training. The brutal desire, the mood and purpose thathad brought him to that spot where with the aid of his glass he couldwatch Sibyl Andrés, were not denied by his impulse to kindly service. Under all his thinking, as he considered how he could help the convict toa better life, there was the shadowy suggestion of a possible situationwhere a man like the one before him--wholly in his power as this man wouldbe--might be of use to him in furthering his own purpose--the purpose thathad brought about their meeting. 

Studying the object of his pity, he said slowly, "I suppose the most of usare as deserving of punishment as the majority of those who actually getit. One way or another, we are all trying to escape the penalty for ourwrong-doing. What if I should help you out--make it possible for you tolive like other men who are safe from the law? What would you do if I wereto help you to your freedom?"

The hunted man became incoherent in his pleading for a chance to prove thesincerity of his wish to live an orderly, respectable, and honest life. 

"You have a safe hiding place here in the mountains?" asked Rutlidge. 

"Yes; a little hut, hidden in a deep gorge, over on the Cold Water. Icould live there a year if I had supplies. "

James Rutlidge considered. "I've got it!" he said at last. "Listen! Theremust be some peak, at the Cold Water end of this range, from which you cansee Fairlands as well as the Galena Valley. "

"Yes, " the other answered eagerly. 

"And, " continued Rutlidge, "there is a good 'auto' road up the GalenaValley. One could get, I should think, to a point within--say nine hoursof your camp. Do you know anything about the heliograph?"

"Yes, " said the man, his face brightening. "That is, I understand thegeneral principle--that it's a method of signaling by mirror flashes. "

"Good! This is my plan. I will meet you to-morrow on the Laurel Creektrail, where it turns off from the creek toward San Gorgonio. You know thespot?"

"Yes. "

"We will go around the head of Clear Creek, on the divide between thiscanyon and the Cold Water, to some peak in the Galenas from which we cansee Fairlands; and where, with the field-glass, we can pick out some pointat the upper end of Galena Valley, that we can both find later. "

"I understand. "

"When I get back to Fairlands, I will make a night trip in the 'auto' tothat point, with supplies. You will meet me there. The day before I makethe trip, I'll signal you by mirror flashes that I am coming; and you willanswer from the peak. We'll agree on the time of day and the signalsto-morrow. When you have kept close, long enough for your beard and hairto grow out well, everybody will have given you up for dead or gone. ThenI will take you down and give you a job in an orange grove. There's alittle house there where you can live. You won't need to show yourselfdown-town and, in time, you will be forgotten. I'll bring you enough foodto-morrow to last you until I can return to town and can get back on thefirst night trip. "

The man who left James Rutlidge a few minutes later, after trying brokenlyto express his gratitude, was a creature very different from the poor, frightened hunted, starving, despairing, wretch that Rutlidge had haltedan hour before. What that man was to become, would depend almost whollyupon his benefactor. 

When the man was gone, James Rutlidge again took up his field-glass. Theold home of Sibyl Andrés was deserted. While he had been talking with theconvict, the girl and Myra Willard had started on their way back toFairlands. 

With a peculiar smile upon his heavy features, the man slipped the glassinto its case, and, with a long, slow look over the scene, set out on hisway to rejoin his friends. 

Chapter XXVI

I Want You Just as You Are

The evening of that day after their return from the mountains, when ConradLagrange had found Aaron King so absorbed in his mother's letters, theartist continued in his silent, preoccupied, mood. The next morning, itwas the same. Refusing every attempt of his friend to engage him inconversation, he answered only with absent-minded mono-syllables; untilthe novelist, declaring that the painter was fit company for neither beastnor man, left him alone; and went off somewhere with Czar. 

The artist spent the greater part of the forenoon in his studio, doingnothing of importance. That is, to a casual observer he would have_seemed_ to be doing nothing of importance. He did, however, place hispicture of the spring glade beside the portrait of Mrs. Taine, and then, for an hour or more, sat considering the two paintings. Then he turned the"Quaker Maid" again to the wall and fixed a fresh canvas in place on theeasel. That was all. 

Immediately after their midday lunch, he returned to thestudio--hurriedly, as if to work. He arranged his palette, paints, andbrushes ready to his hand, indeed--but he, then, did nothing with them. Listlessly, without interest, he turned through his portfolios ofsketches. Often, he looked away through the big, north window to thedistant mountain tops. Often, he seemed to be listening. He was sittingbefore the easel, staring at the blank canvas, when, clear and sweet, fromthe depths of the orange grove, came the pure tones of Sibyl Andrés'violin. 

So soft and low was the music, at first, that the artist almost doubtedthat it was real, thinking--as he had thought that day when Sibyl camesinging to the glade--that it was his fancy tricking him. When he andConrad Lagrange left the mountains three days before, the girl and hercompanion had not expected to return to Fairlands for at least two weeks. But there was no mistaking that music of the hills. As the tones grewlouder and more insistent, with a ringing note of gladness, he knew thatthe mountain girl was announcing her arrival and, in the language sheloved best, was greeting her friends. 

But so strangely selfish is the heart of man, that Aaron King gave thenovelist no share in their neighbor's musical greeting. He received themessage as if it were to himself alone. As he listened, his eyesbrightened; he stood erect, his face turned upward toward the mountainpeaks in the distance; his lips curved in a slow smile. He fancied that hecould see the girl's winsome face lighted with merriment as she played, knowing his surprise. Once, he started impulsively toward the door, butpaused, hesitating, and turned back. When the music ceased, he went to theopen window that looked out into the rose garden, and watched expectantly. 

Presently, he heard her low-voiced song as she came through the orangegrove beyond the Ragged Robin hedge. Then he glimpsed her white dress atthe little gate in the corner. Then she stood in full view. 

The artist had, so far, seen Sibyl only in her mountain costume of softbrown, --made for rough contact with rocks and underbrush, --with felt hatto match, and high, laced boots, fit for climbing. She was dressed, now, as Conrad Lagrange had seen her that first time in the garden, when he washiding from Louise Taine. The man at the window drew a little back, with alow exclamation of pleased surprise and wonder. Was that lovely creaturethere among the roses his girl comrade of the hills? The Sibyl Andrés hehad known--in the short skirt and high boots of her mountain garb--was awinsome, fanciful, sometimes serious, sometimes wayward, maiden. ThisSibyl Andrés, gowned in clinging white, was a slender, gracefully tall, and beautifully developed woman. 

Slowly, she came toward the studio end of the garden; pausing here andthere to bend over the flowers as though in loving, tender greeting;singing, the while, her low-voiced melody; unafraid of the sunshine thatenveloped her in a golden flood, undisturbed by the careless fingers ofthe wind that caressed her hair. A girl of the clean out-of-doors, shebelonged among the roses, even as she had been at home among the pines andoaks of the mountains. The artist, fascinated by the lovely scene, stoodas though fearing to move, lest the vision vanish. 

Then, looking up, she saw him, and stretched out her hands in a gestureof greeting, with a laugh of pleasure. 

"Don't move, don't move!" he called impulsively. "Hold the pose--pleasehold it! I want you just as you are!"

The girl, amused at his tragic earnestness, and at the manner of hiswelcome, understood that the zeal of the artist had brushed aside thepolite formalities of the man; and, as unaffectedly natural as she dideverything, gave herself to his mood. 

Dragging his easel with the blank canvas upon it across the studio, hecried out, again, "Don't move, please don't move!" and began working. Hewas as one beside himself, so wholly absorbed was he in translating intothe terms of color and line, the loveliness purity and truth that wasexpressed by the personality of the girl as she stood among the flowers. "If I can get it! If I can only get it!" he exclaimed again and again, with a kind of savage earnestness, as he worked. 

All his years of careful training, all his studiously acquired skill, allhis mastery of the mechanics of his craft, came to him, now, withoutconscious effort--obedient to his purpose. Here was no thoughtfulstraining to remember the laws of composition, and perspective, andharmony. Here was no skillful evading of the truth he saw. So freely, sosurely, he worked, he scarcely knew he painted. Forgetting self, as he wasunconscious of his technic, he worked as the birds sing, as the bees toil, as the deer runs. Under his hand, his picture grew and blossomed as theroses, themselves, among which the beautiful girl stood. 

Day after day, at that same hour, Sibyl Andrés came singing through theorange grove, to stand in the golden sunlight among the roses, with handsoutstretched in greeting. Every day, Aaron King waited her coming--sittingbefore his easel, palette and brush in hand. Each day, he worked as he hadworked that first day--with no thought for anything save for his picture. 

In the mornings, he walked with Conrad Lagrange or, sometimes, worked withSibyl in the garden. Often, in the evening, the two men would visit thelittle house next door. Occasionally, the girl and the woman with thedisfigured face would come to sit for a while on the front porch withtheir friends. Thus the neighborly friendship that began in the hills wascontinued in the orange groves. The comradeship between the two youngpeople grew stronger, hour by hour, as the painter worked at his easel toexpress with canvas and color and brush the spirit of the girl whosecharacter and life was so unmarred by the world. 

A11 through those days, when he was so absorbed in his work that he oftenfailed to reply when she spoke to him, the girl manifested a helpfulunderstanding of his mood that caused the painter to marvel. She seemed toknow, instinctively, when he was baffled or perplexed by the annoyingdevils of "can't-get-at-it, " that so delight to torment artist folk; justas she knew and rejoiced when the imps were routed and the soul of the manexulted with the sureness and freedom of his hand. He asked her, once, when they had finished for the day, how it was that she knew so well howthe work was progressing, when she could not see the picture. 

She laughed merrily. "But I can see _you_; and I"--she hesitated with thattrick, that he was learning to know so well, of searching for a word--"Ijust _feel_ what you are feeling. I suppose it's because my music is thatway. Sometimes, it simply won't come right, at all, and I feel as though Inever _could_ do it. Then, again, it seems to do itself; and I listen andwonder--just as if I had nothing to do with it. "

So that day came when the artist, drawing slowly back from his easel, stood so long gazing at his picture without touching it that the girlcalled to him, "What's the matter? Won't it come right?"

Slowly he laid aside his palette and brushes. Standing at the open window, he looked at her--smiling but silent--as she held the pose. 

For an instant, she did not understand. "Am I not right?" she askedanxiously. Then, before he could answer--"Oh, have you finished? Is it alldone?"

Still smiling, he answered almost sadly, "I have done all that I can do. Come. "

A moment later, she stood in the studio door. 

Seeing her hesitate, he said again, "Come. "

"I--I am afraid to look, " she faltered. 

He laughed. "Really I don't think it's quite so bad as that. "

"Oh, but I don't mean that I'm afraid it's bad--it isn't. "

The painter watched her, --a queer expression on his face, --as he returnedcuriously, "And how, pray tell, do you know it isn't bad--when you havenever seen it? It's quite the thing, I'll admit, for critics to praise orcondemn without much knowledge of the work; but I didn't expect you to beso modern. "

"You are making fun of me, " she laughed. "But I don't care. I know yourwork is good, because I know how and why you did it. You painted it justas you painted the spring glade, didn't you?"

"Yes, " he said soberly, "I did. But why are you afraid?"

"Why, that's the reason. I--I'm afraid to see myself as you see me. "

The man's voice was gentle with feeling as he answered seriously, "MissAndrés, you, of all the people I have ever known, have the least cause tofear to look at your portrait for _that_ reason. Come. "

Slowly, she went forward to stand by his side before the picture. 

For some time, she looked at the beautiful work into which Aaron King hadput the best of himself and of his genius. At last, turning full upon him, her eyes blue and shining, she said in a low tone, "O Mr. King, it istoo--too--beautiful! It is so beautiful it--it--hurts. She seems to, to"--she searched for the word--"to belong to the roses, doesn't she? Itmakes you feel just as the rose garden makes you feel. "

He laughed with pleasure, "What a child of nature you are! You haveforgotten that it is a portrait of yourself, haven't you?"

She laughed with him. "I _had_ forgotten. It's so lovely!" Then she addedwistfully, "Am I--am I really like that?--just a little?"

"No, " he answered. "But that is just a little, a very little, like you. "

She looked at him half doubtfully--sincerely unmindful of the compliment, in her consideration of its truth. Shaking her head, with a serious smile, she returned slowly, "I wish that I could be sure you are not mistaken. "

"You will permit me to exhibit the picture, will you?" he asked. 

"Why, yes! of course! You made it for people to see, didn't you? I don'tbelieve any one could look at it seriously without having good thoughts, could they?"

"I'm sure they could not, " he answered. "But, you see, it's a portrait ofyou; and I thought you might not care for the--ah--" he finished with asmile--"shall I say fame?"

"Oh! I did not think that you would tell any one that _I_ had anything todo with it. Is it necessary that my name should be mentioned?"

"Not exactly necessary"--he admitted--"but few women, these days, wouldmiss the opportunity. "

She shook her head, with a positive air. "No, no; you must exhibit it as apicture; not as a portrait of me. The portrait part is of no importance. It is what you have made your picture say, that will do good. "

"And what have I made it say?" he asked, curiously pleased. 

"Why it says that--that a woman should be beautiful as the roses arebeautiful--without thinking too much about it, you know--just as a manshould be strong without thinking too much about his strength, I mean. "

"Yes, " he agreed, "it says that. But I want you to know that, whatevertitle it is exhibited under, it will always be, to me, a portrait--thetruest I have ever painted. "

She flushed with genuine pleasure as she said brightly, "I like you forthat. And now let's try it on Conrad Lagrange and Myra Willard. You gethim, and I'll run and bring her. Mind you don't let Mr. Lagrange in untilI get back! I want to watch him when he first sees it. "

When the artist found Conrad Lagrange and told him that the picture wasfinished, the novelist, without comment, turned his attention to Czar. 

The painter, with an amused smile, asked, "Won't you come for a look atit, old man?"

The other returned gruffly, "Thanks; but I don't think I care to risk it. "

The artist laughed. "But Miss Andrés wants you to come. She sent me tofetch you. "

Conrad Lagrange turned his peculiar, baffling eyes upon the young man. "Does _she_ like it?"

"She seems to. "

"If she _seems_ to, she does, " retorted the other, rising. "And that'sdifferent. "

When the novelist, with his three friends, stood before the easel, he wassilent for so long that the girl said anxiously, "I--I thought you wouldlike it, Mr. Lagrange. "

They saw the strange man's eyes fill with tears as he answered, in thegentle tones that always marked his words to her, "Like it? My dear child, how could I help liking it? It is you--you!" To the artist, he added, "Itis great work, my boy, great! I--I wish your mother could have seen it. Itis like her--as I knew her. You have done well. " He turned, with gentlecourtesy, to Myra Willard; "And you? What is your verdict, Miss Willard?"

With her arm around the beautiful original of the portrait, the woman withthe disfigured face answered, "I think, sir, that I, better than any onein all the world, know how good, how true, it is. "

Conrad Lagrange spoke again to the artist, inquiringly; "You will exhibitit?"

"Miss Andrés says that I may--but not as a portrait. "

The novelist could not conceal his pleasure at the answer. Presently, hesaid, "If it is not to be shown as a portrait, may I suggest a title?"

"I was hoping you would!" exclaimed the painter. 

"And so was I, " cried Sibyl, with delight. "What is it, Mr. Lagrange?"

"Let it be exhibited as 'The Spirit of Nature--A Portrait', " answeredConrad Lagrange. 

As the novelist finished speaking, Yee Kee appeared in the doorway. "Theycome--big automobile. Whole lot people. Misse Taine, Miste' Lutlidge, sickman, whole lot--I come tell you. "

The artist spoke quickly, --"Stop them in the house, Kee; I'll be rightin, "--and the Chinaman vanished. 

At Yee Kee's announcement, Myra Willard's face went white, and she gave alow cry. 

"Never mind, dear, " said the girl, soothingly. "We can slip away throughthe garden--come. "

When Sibyl and the woman with the disfigured face were gone, ConradLagrange and Aaron King looked at each other, questioningly. 

Then the novelist said harshly, --pointing to the picture on theeasel, --"You're not going to let that flock of buzzards feed on this, areyou? I'll murder some one, sure as hell, if you do. "

"I don't think I could stand it, myself, " said the artist, laughinggrimly, as he drew the velvet curtain to hide the portrait. 

Chapter XXVII

The Answer

When Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange entered the house to meet theircallers from Fairlands Heights, the artist felt, oddly, that he wasmeeting a company of strangers. 

The carefully hidden, yet--to him--subtly revealed, warmth of Mrs. Taine'sgreeting embarrassed him with a momentary sense of shame. The frothinggush of Louise's inane ejaculations, and the coughing, choking, cursing ofMr. Taine, --whose feeble grip upon the flesh that had so betrayed him was, by now, so far loosed that he could scarcely walk alone, --set the painterstruggling for words that would mean nothing--the only words that, underthe circumstances, could serve. Aaron King was somewhat out of practise inthe use of meaningless words, and the art of talking without sayinganything is an art that requires constant exercise if one would not commitserious technical blunders. James Rutlidge's greeting was insolentlyfamiliar; as a man of certain mind greets--in public--a boon companion ofhis private and unmentionable adventures. Toward the great critic, thepainter exercised a cool self-restraint that was at least commendable. 

While Aaron King, with James Rutlidge and Mr. Taine, with carefullyassumed interest, was listening to Louise's effort to make a jumble of"ohs" and "ahs" and artistic sighs sound like a description of a sunset inthe mountains, Mrs. Taine said quietly to Conrad Lagrange, "You certainlyhave taken excellent care of your protege, this summer. He lookssplendidly fit. "

The novelist, watching the woman whose eyes, as she spoke, were upon theartist, answered, "You are pleased to flatter me, Mrs. Taine. "

She turned to him, with a knowing smile. "Perhaps I _am_ giving you morecredit than is due. I understand Mr. King has not been in your carealtogether. Shame on you, Mr. Lagrange! for a man of your age andexperience to permit your charge to roam all over the country, alone andunprotected, with a picturesque mountain girl!--and that, after yourwarning to poor me!"

Conrad Lagrange smiled grimly. "I confess I thought of you in thatconnection several times. "

She eyed him doubtfully. "Oh, well, " she said easily, "I suppose artistsmust amuse themselves, occasionally--the same as the rest of us. "

"I don't think that, '_amuse_' is exactly the word, Mrs. Taine, " the otherreturned coldly. 

"No? Surely you don't meant to tell me that it is anything serious?"

"I don't mean to tell you anything about it, " he retorted rather sharply. 

She laughed. "You don't need to. Jim has already told me quite enough. Mr. King, himself, will tell me more. "

"Not unless he's a bigger fool than I think, " growled the novelist. 

Again, she laughed into his face, mockingly. "You men are all more or lessfoolish when there's a woman in the case, aren't you?"

To which, the other answered tartly, "If we were not, there would be nowoman in the case. "

As Conrad Lagrange spoke, Louise, exhausted by her efforts to achieve thatsunset in the mountains with her limited supply of adjectives, flounderedhopelessly into the expressive silence of clasped hands and heaving breastand ecstatically upturned eyes. The artist, seizing the opportunity withthe cunning of desperation, turned to Mrs. Taine, with some inane remarkabout the summers in California. 

Whatever it was that he said, Mrs. Taine agreed with him, heartily, adding, "And you, I suppose, have been making good use of your time? Orhave you been simply storing up material and energy for this winter?"

This brought Louise out of the depths of that sunset, with a flop. She wasso sure that Mr. King had some inexpressibly wonderful work to show them. Couldn't they go at once to the equally inexpressibly beautiful studio, tosee the inexpressibly lovely pictures that she was so inexpressibly surehe had been painting in the inexpressibly grand and beautiful andwonderfully lovely mountains?

The painter assured them that he had no work for them to see; and Louisefloundered again into the depths of inexpressible disappointment anddespair. 

Nevertheless, a few minutes later, Aaron King found himself in hisstudio, alone with Mrs. Taine. He could not have told exactly how shemanaged it, or why. Perhaps, in sheer pity, she had rescued him from thefloods of Louise's appreciation. Perhaps--she had some other reasons. There had been something said about her right to see her own picture, andthen--there they were--with the others safely barred from intruding uponthe premises sacred to art. 

When there was no longer need to fear the eyes of the world, Mrs. Tainewas at no pains to hide the warmth of her feeling. With little reserve, she confessed herself in every look and tone and movement. 

"Are you really glad to see me, I wonder, " she said invitingly. "All thissummer, while I have been forced to endure the company of all sorts ofstupid people, I have been thinking of you and your work. And, you see, Ihave come to you, the first possible moment after my return home. "

The man--being a man--could not remain wholly insensible to the alluringphysical beauty of the splendid creature who stood so temptingly beforehim; but, to the honor of his kind, he could and did remain master ofhimself. 

The woman, true to her life training, --as James Rutlidge had been true tohis schooling when he approached Sibyl Andrés in the mountains, --construedthe artist's manner, not as a splendid self-control but as a carefulpolicy. To her, and to her kind, the great issues of life are governed, not at all by principle, but by policy. It is not at all what one is, orwhat one may accomplish that matters; it is wholly what one may skillfully_appear_ to be, and what one may skillfully provoke the world to say, that is of vital importance. Turning from the painter to the easel, as ifto find in his portrait of her the fuller expression of that which shebelieved he dared not yet put into words, she was about to draw aside thecurtain; when Aaron King checked her quickly, with a smile that robbed hiswords of any rudeness. 

"Please don't touch that, Mrs. Taine. I am not yet ready to show it. "

As she turned from the easel to face him, he took her portrait from whereit rested, face to the wall; and placed it upon another easel, saying, "Here is your picture. "

With the painting before her, she talked eagerly of her plans for theartist's future; how the picture was to be exhibited, and how, because itwas her portrait, it would be praised and talked about by her friends whowere leaders in the art circles. Frankly, she spoke of "pull" and"influence" and "scheme"; of "working" this and that "paper" for"write-ups"; of "handling" this or that "critic" and "writer"; of"reaching the committees"; of introducing the painter into the properinside cliques, and clans; and of clever "advertising stunts" that wouldmake him the most popular portrait painter of his day; insuring thushis--as she called it--fame. 

The man who had painted the picture of the spring glade, and who had sofaithfully portrayed the truth and beauty of Sibyl Andrés as she stoodamong the roses, listened to this woman's plans for making his portrait ofherself famous, with a feeling of embarrassment and shame. 

"Do you really think that the work merits such prominence as you say willbe given it?" he asked doubtfully. 

She laughed knowingly, "Just wait until Jim Rutlidge's 'write-up' appears, and all the others follow his lead, and you'll see! The picture is cleverenough--you know it as well as I. It is beautiful. It has everything thatwe women want in a portrait. I really don't know much about what youpainters call art; but I know that when Jim and our friends get throughwith it, your picture will have every mark of a great masterpiece, andthat you will be on the topmost wave of success. "

"And then what?" he asked. 

Again, she interpreted his words in the light of her own thoughts, andwith little attempt to veil the fire that burned in her eyes, answered, "And then--I hope that you will not forget me. "

For a moment he returned her look; then a feeling of disgust and shame forher swept over him, and he again turned away, to stand gazing moodily outof the window that looked into the rose garden. 

"You seem to be disturbed and worried, " she said, in a tone that implied acomplete understanding of his mood, and a tacit acceptance of the thingsthat he would say if it were not for the world. 

He laughed shortly--"I fear you will think me ungrateful for yourkindness. Believe me, I am not. "

"I know you are not, " she returned. "But don't think that you had betterconfess, just the same?"

He answered wonderingly, "Confess?"

"Yes. " She shook her finger at him, in playful severity. "Oh, I know whatyou have been up to all summer--running wild with your mountain girl!Really, you ought to be more discreet. "

Aaron King's face burned as he stammered something about not knowing whatshe meant. 

She laughed gaily. "There, there, never mind--I forgive you--now that youare safely back in civilization again. I know you artists, and how youmust have your periods of ah--relaxation--with rather more liberties thanthe common herd. Just so you are careful that the world doesn't know _too_much. "

At this frank revelation of her mind, the man stood amazed. For theconstruction she put upon his relation with the girl whose pure and gentlecomradeship had led him to greater heights in his art than he had everbefore attained, he could have driven this woman from the studio he feltthat she profaned. But what could he say? He remembered Conrad Lagrange'scounsel when James Rutlidge had seen the girl at their camp. What could hesay that would not injure Sibyl Andrés? To cover his embarrassment, heforced a laugh and answered lightly, "Really, I am not good atconfessions. "

"Nor I at playing the part of confessor, " she laughed with him. "But, justthe same, you might tell me what you think of yourself. Aren't you just alittle ashamed?"

The artist had moved to a position in front of her portrait; and, as helooked upon the painted lie, his answer came. "Rather let me tell you whatI think of _you_, Mrs. Taine. And let me tell you in the language I knowbest. Let me put my answer to your charges here, " he touched her portrait. 

Almost, his reply was worthy of Conrad Lagrange, himself. 

"I don't quite understand, " she said, a trifle put out by the turn hisanswer had taken. 

"I mean, " he explained eagerly, "that I want to repaint your portrait. Youremember, I wrote, when I returned Mr. Taine's generous check, that I wasnot altogether satisfied with it. Give me another chance. "

"You mean for me to come here again, to pose for you?--as I did before?"

"Yes, " he answered, "just as you did before. I want to make a portraitworthy of you, as this is not. Let me tell you, on the canvas, what Icannot--" he hesitated then said deliberately--"what I _dare_ not put intowords. "

The woman received his words as a veiled declaration of a passion he darednot, yet, openly express. She thought his request a clever ruse to renewtheir meetings in the privacy of his studio, and was, accordinglydelighted. 

"Oh, that will be wonderful!--heavenly!" she cried, springing to her feet. "Can we begin at once? May I come to-morrow?"

"Yes, " he answered, "come to-morrow. "

"And may I wear the Quaker gown?"

"Yes, indeed! I want you just as you were before--the same dress, the samepose. It is to be the same picture, you understand, only a better one--onemore worthy of us, both. And now, " he continued hurriedly "don't youthink that we should return to the house?"

"I suppose so, " she answered regretfully--lingering. 

The artist was already opening the door. 

As they passed out, she placed her hand on his arm, and looked up into hisface admiringly. "What a clever, clever man you are, to think of it! Andwhat a story it will make for the papers--when my picture is shown--howyou were not satisfied with the portrait and refused to let it go--andhow, after keeping it in your studio for months, you repainted it, tosatisfy your artistic conscience!"

Aaron King smiled. 

The announcement in the house that the artist was to repaint Mrs. Taine'spicture, provoked characteristic comment. Louise effervesced a frothystream of bubbling exclamations. James Rutlidge gave a hearty, "By Jove, old man, you have nerve! If you can really improve on that canvas, you area wonder. " And Mr. Taine, under the watchful eye of his beautiful wife, responded with a husky whisper, "Quite right--my boy--quite right!Certainly--by all means--if you feel that way about it--" his consent andapproval ending in a paroxysm of coughing that left him weak andbreathless, and nearly eliminated him from the question, altogether. 

When the Fairlands Heights party had departed, Conrad Lagrange looked theartist up and down. 

"Well, "--he growled harshly, in his most brutal tones, --"what is it? Isthe dog returning to his vomit?--or is the prodigal turning his back onhis hogs and his husks?"

Aaron King smiled as he answered, "I think, rather, it's the case of theblind beggar who sat by the roadside, helpless, until a certain GreatPhysician passed that way. "

And Conrad Lagrange understood. 

Chapter XXVIII

You're Ruined, My Boy

It was no light task to which Aaron King had set his hand. He did notdoubt what it would cost him. Nor did Conrad Lagrange, as they talkedtogether that evening, fail to point out clearly what it would mean to theartist, at the very beginning of his career, to fly thus rudely in theface of the providence that had chosen to serve him. The world's historyof art and letters affords too many examples of men who, because theyrefused to pay court to the ruling cliques and circles of their littleday, had seen the doors of recognition slammed in their faces; and who, even as they wrought their great works, had been forced to hear, as theytoiled, the discordant yelpings of the self-appointed watchdogs of thehalls of fame. Nor did the artist question the final outcome, --if only hiswork should be found worthy to endure, --for the world's historyestablishes, also, the truth--that he who labors for a higher wage than anapproving paragraph in the daily paper, may, in spite of the condemnationof the pretending rulers, live in the life of his race, long after thenames to which he refused to bow are lost in the dust of their self-raisedthrones. 

The painter was driven to his course by that self-respect, without which, no man can sanely endure his own company; together with that reverence--Isay it deliberately--that reverence for his art, without which, no worthywork is possible. He had come to understand that one may not prostitutehis genius to the immoral purposes of a diseased age, without reaping aprostitute's reward. The hideous ruin that Mr. Taine had, in himself, wrought by the criminal dissipation of his manhood's strength, and by thedebasing of his physical appetites and passions, was to Aaron King, now, atoken of the intellectual, spiritual, and moral ruin that alone can resultfrom a debased and depraved dissipation of an artist's creative power. Hesaw clearly, now, that the influence his work must wield upon the lives ofthose who came within its reach, must be identical with the influence ofSibyl Andrés, who had so unconsciously opened his eyes to the true missionand glory of the arts, and thus had made his decision possible. In thathour when Mrs. Taine had revealed herself to him so clearly, following asit did so closely his days of work and the final completion of hisportrait of the girl among the roses, he saw and felt the woman, not asone who could help him to the poor rewards of a temporary popularity, butas the spirit of an age that threatens the very life of art by seeking todestroy the vital truth and purpose of its existence. He felt that inpainting the portrait of Mrs. Taine--as he had painted it--he had betrayeda trust; as truly as had his father who, for purely personalaggrandizement, had stolen the material wealth intrusted to him by hisfellows. The young man understood, now, that, instead of fulfilling thepurpose of his mother's sacrifice, and realizing for her her dying wish, as he had promised; the course he had entered upon would have thwarted theone and denied the other. 

The young man had answered the novelist truly, that it was a case of theblind beggar by the wayside. He might have carried the figure farther; forthat same blind beggar, when his eyes had been opened, was persecuted bythe very ones who had fed him in his infirmity. It is easier, sometimes, to receive blindly, than to give with eyes that see too clearly. 

When Mrs. Taine went to the artist, in the studio, the next day, she foundhim in the act of re-tying the package of his mother's letters. For nearlyan hour, he had been reading them. For nearly an hour before that, he hadbeen seated, motionless, before the picture that Conrad Lagrange had saidwas a portrait of the Spirit of Nature. 

When Mrs. Taine had slipped off her wrap, and stood before him gowned inthe dress that so revealed the fleshly charms it pretended to hide, sheindicated the letters in the artist's hands, with an insinuating laugh;while there was a glint of more than passing curiosity in her eyes. "Dearme, " she said, "I hope I am not intruding upon the claims of some absentaffinity. "

Aaron King gravely held out his hand with the package of letters, sayingquietly, "They are from my mother. "

And the woman had sufficient grace to blush, for once, with unfeignedshame. 

When he had received her apologies, and, putting aside the letters, hadsucceeded in making her forget the incident, he said, "And now, if you areready, shall we begin?"

For some time the painter stood before the picture on his easel, withouttouching palette or brush, studying the face of the woman who posed forhim. By a slight movement of her eyes, without turning her head, she couldlook him fairly in the face. Presently as he continued to gaze at her sointently, she laughed; and, with a little shrug of her shoulders and apretense as of being cold, said, "When you look at me that way, I feel asthough you had surprised me at my bath. "

The artist turned his attention instantly to his color-box. While settinghis palette, with his eyes upon his task, he said deliberately, "'VenusSurprised at the Bath. ' Do you know that you would make a lovely Venus?"

With a low laugh, she returned, daringly. "Would you care to paint me asthe Goddess of Love?"

He, still, did not look at her; but answered, while, with deliberate care, he selected a few brushes from the Chinese jar near the easel, "Venus isalways a very popular subject, you know. "

She did not speak for a moment or two; and the painter felt her watchinghim. As he turned to his canvas--still careful not to look in herdirection--she said, suggestively, "I suppose you could change the face sothat no one would know it was I who posed. "

The man remembered her carefully acquired reputation for modesty, but heldto his purpose, saying, as if considering the question seriously, "Oh, asfor that part; it could be managed with perfect safety. " Then, suddenly, he turned his eyes upon her face, with a gaze so sharp and piercing thatthe blood slowly colored neck and cheek. 

But the painter did not wait for the blush. He had seen what he wanted andwas at work--with the almost savage intensity that had marked his mannerwhile he had worked upon the portrait of Sibyl Andrés. 

And so, day after day, as he painted, again, the portrait of the woman whoConrad Lagrange fancifully called "The Age, " the artist permitted her tobetray her real self--the self that was so commonly hidden from the world, under the mask of a pretended culture, and the cloak of a fraudulentrefinement. He led her to talk of the world in which she lived--of thescandals and intrigues among those of her class who hold such enviablepositions in life. He drew from her the philosophies and beliefs andreligions of her kind. He encouraged her to talk of art--to give herunderstanding of the world of artists as she knew it, and to express herreal opinions and tastes in pictures and books. He persuaded her to throwboldly aside the glittering, tinsel garb in which she walked before theworld, and so to stand before him in all the hideous vulgarity, theintellectual poverty and the moral depravity of her naked self. 

At times, when, under his intense gaze, she drew the cloak of herpretenses hurriedly about her, he sat before his picture without touchingthe canvas, waiting; or, perhaps, he paced the floor; until, withskillful words, her fears were banished and she was again herself. Then, with quick eye and sure, ready hand, he wrought into the portrait upon theeasel--so far as the power was given him--all that he saw in the face ofthe woman who--posing for him, secure in the belief that he was painting alie--revealed her true nature, warped and distorted as it was by an agethat, demanding realism in art, knows not what it demands. Always, whenthe sitting was finished, he drew the curtain to hide the picture;forbidding her to look at it until he said that it was finished. 

Much of the time, when he was not in the studio at work, the painter spentwith Mrs. Taine and her friends, in the big touring car, and at the houseon Fairlands Heights. But the artist did not, now, enter into the life ofFairlands' Pride for gain or for pleasure--he went for study--as aphysician goes into the dissecting room. He justified himself by the oldand familiar argument that it was for his art's sake. 

Sibyl Andrés, he seldom saw, except occasionally, in the early morning, inthe rose garden. The girl knew what he was doing--that is, she knew thathe was painting a portrait of Mrs. Taine--and so, with Myra Willard, avoided the place. But Conrad Lagrange now, made the neighboring house inthe orange grove his place of refuge from Louise Taine, who alwaysaccompanied Mrs. Taine, --lest the world should talk, --but who never wentas far as the studio. 

But often, as he worked, the artist heard the music of the mountain girl'sviolin; and he knew that she, in her own beautiful way, was trying to helphim--as she would have said--to put the mountains into his work. Manytimes, he was conscious of the feeling that some one was watching him. Once, pausing at the garden end of the studio as he paced to and fro, hecaught a glimpse of her as she slipped through the gate in the RaggedRobin hedge. And once, in the morning, after one of those afternoons whenhe had gone away with Mrs. Taine at the conclusion of the sitting, hefound a note pinned to the velvet curtain that hid the canvas on hisworking easel. It was a quaint little missive; written in one of thegirl's fanciful moods, with a reference to "Blue Beard, " and the assurancethat she had been strong and had not looked at the forbidden picture. 

As the work progressed, Mrs. Taine remarked, often, how the artist waschanged. When painting that first picture, he had been so sure of himself. Working with careless ease, he had been suave and pleasant in his manner, with ready smile or laugh. Why, she questioned, was he, now, so grave andserious? Why did he pause so often, to sit staring at his canvas, or topace the floor? Why did he seem to be so uncertain--to be questioning, searching, hesitating? The woman thought that she knew. Rejoicing in herfancied victory--all but won--she looked forward to the triumphant momentwhen this splendid man should be swept from his feet by the force of thepassion she thought she saw him struggling to conceal. Meanwhile shetempted him by all the wiles she knew--inviting him with eyes and lips andgraceful pose and meaning gesture. 

And Aaron King, with clear, untroubled eye seeing all; with cool brainunderstanding all; with steady, skillful hand, ruled supremely by hispurpose, painted that which he saw and understood into his portrait ofher. 

So they came to the last sitting. On the following evening, Mrs. Taine wasgiving a dinner at the house on Fairlands Heights, at which the artist wasto meet some people who would be--as she said--useful to him. Easternpeople they were; from the accredited center of art and literature;members of the inner circle of the elect. They happened to be spending theseason on the Coast, and she had taken advantage of the opportunity toadvance the painter's interests. It was very fortunate that her portraitwas to be finished in time for them to see it. 

The artist was sorry, he said, but, while it would not be necessary forher to come to the studio again, the picture was not yet finished, and hecould not permit its being exhibited until he was ready to sign thecanvas. 

"But I may see it?" she asked, as he laid aside his palette and brushes, and announced that he was through. 

With a quick hand, he drew the curtain. "Not yet; please--not until I amready. "

"Oh!" she cried with a charming air of submitting to one whose wish islaw, "How mean of you! I know it is splendid! Are you satisfied? Is itbetter than the other? Is it like me?"

"I am sure that it is much better than the other, " he replied. "It is aslike you as I can make it. "

"And is it as beautiful as the other?"

"It is beautiful--as you are beautiful, " he answered. 

"I shall tell them all about it, to-morrow night--even if I haven't seenit. And so will Jim Rutlidge. "

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange spent that evening at the little house nextdoor. The next morning, the artist shut himself up in his studio. At lunchtime, he would not come out. Late in the afternoon, the novelist went, again, to knock at the door. 

The artist called in a voice that rang with triumph, "Come in, old man, come in and help me celebrate. "

Entering, Conrad Lagrange found him; sitting, pale and worn, before hispicture--his palette and brushes still in his hand. 

And such a picture!

A moment, the novelist who knew--as few men know--the world that wasrevealed with such fidelity in that face upon the canvas, looked; then, with weird and wonderful oaths of delight, he caught the tired artist andwhirled him around the studio, in a triumphant dance. 

"You've done it! man--you've done it! It's all there; every rotten, stinking shred of it! Wow! but it's good--so damned good that it's almostinhuman. I knew you had it in you. I knew it was in you, all the time--ifonly you could come alive. God, man! if _that_ could only be exhibitedalongside the other! Look here!"

He dragged the easel that held Sibyl Andrés' portrait to a place besidethe one upon which the canvas just finished rested, and drew back thecurtain. The effect was startling. 

"'The Spirit of Nature' and 'The Spirit of the Age', " said ConradLagrange, in a low tone. 

"But you're ruined, my boy, " he added gleefully. "You're ruined. Thesecanvases will never be exhibited Her own, she'll smash when she sees it;and you'll be artistically damned by the very gods she has invoked tobless you with fame and wealth. Lord, but I envy you! You have your chancenow--a real chance to be worthy your mother's sacrifice. 

"Come on, let's get ready for the feast. "

Chapter XXIX

The Hand Writing on the Wall

It was November. Nearly a year had passed since that day when the youngman on the Golden State Limited--with the inheritance he had received fromhis mother's dying lips, and with his solemn promise to her still fresh inhis mind--looked into the eyes of the woman on the platform of theobservation car. That same day, too, he first saw the woman with thedisfigured face, and, for the first time, met the famous Conrad Lagrange. 

Aaron King was thinking of these things as he set out, that evening, withhis friend, for the home of Mrs. Taine. He remarked to the novelist thatthe time seemed, to him, many years. 

"To me, Aaron, " answered the strange man, "it has been the happiestand--if you would not misunderstand me--the most satisfying year of mylife. And this"--he added, his deep voice betraying his emotion--"this hasbeen the happiest day of the year. It is your independence day. I shallalways celebrate it as such--I--I have no independence day of my own tocelebrate, you know. "

Aaron King did not misunderstand. 

As the two men approached the big house on Fairlands Heights, they sawthat modern palace, from concrete foundation to red-tiled roof, ablazewith many lights. Situated upon the very topmost of the socially gradedlevels of Fairlands, it outshone them all; and, quite likely, theglittering display was mistaken by many dwellers in the valley below for anew constellation of the heavenly bodies. Quite likely, too, some lonelydweller, high up among the distant mountain peaks, looked down upon thesparkling bauble that lay for the moment, as it were, on the wide lap ofthe night, and smiled in quiet amusement that the earth children shouldattach such value to so fragile a toy. 

As they passed the massive, stone pillars of the entrance to the grounds, Conrad Lagrange said, "Really, Aaron, don't you feel a little ashamed ofyourself?--coming here to-night, after the outrageous return you have madefor the generous hospitality of these people? You know that if Mrs. Tainehad seen what you have done to her portrait, you could force the pearlygates easier than you could break in here. "

The artist laughed. "To tell the truth, I don't feel exactly at home. Butwhat the deuce can I do? After my intimacy with them, all these months, Ican't assume that they are going to make my picture a reason for refusingto recognize me, can I? As I see it, they, not I, must take theinitiative. I can't say: 'Well, I've told the truth about you, so throw meout'. "

The novelist grinned. "Thus it is when 'Art' becomes entangled with thefamily of 'Materialism. ' It's hard to break away from the flesh-pots--evenwhen you know you are on the road to the Promised Land. But don'tworry--'The Age' will take the initiative fast enough when she sees yourportrait of her. Wow! In the meantime, let's play their game to-night, andtake what spoils the gods may send. There will be material here forpictures and stories a plenty. " As they went up the wide steps and underthe portal into the glare of the lights, and caught the sound of thevoices within, he added under his breath, "Lord, man, but 'tis a prettyshow!--if only things were called by their right names. That oldBabylonian, Belshazzar, had nothing on us moderns after all, did he? Watchout for the writing upon the wall. "

When Aaron King and his companion entered the spacious rooms where thepride of Fairlands Heights and the eastern lions were assembled, a buzz ofcomment went round the glittering company. Aside from the fact that Mrs. Taine, with practised skill, had prepared the way for her protege, bysubtly stimulating the curiosity of her guests--the appearance of the twomen, alone, would have attracted their attention The artist, with hisstrong, splendidly proportioned, athletic body, and his handsome, clean-cut intellectual face--calmly sure of himself--with the air of onewho knows that his veins are rich with the wealth of many generations oftrue culture and refinement; and the novelist--easily the most famous ofhis day--tall, emaciated, grotesquely stooped--with his homely face seamedand lined, world-worn and old, and his sharp eyes peering from under hiscraggy brows with that analyzing, cynical, half-pathetic half-humorousexpression--certainly presented a contrast too striking to escape notice. 

For an instant, as comrades side by side upon a battle-field might do, they glanced over the scene. To the painter's eye, the assembled guestsappeared as a glittering, shimmering, scintillating, cloud-like mass that, never still, stirred within itself, in slow, graceful restlessmotions--forming always, without purpose new combinations and groupingsthat were broken up, even as they were shaped, to be reformed; with theblack spots and splashes of the men's conventional dress ever changingamid the brighter colors and textures of the women's gowns; the warm fleshtints of bare white arms and shoulders, gleaming here and there; and theflash and sparkle of jewels, threading the sheen of silks and the filmysoftness of laces. Into the artist's mind--fresh from the tragicearnestness of his day's work, and still under the enduring spell of hisweeks in the mountains--flashed a sentence from a good old book; "For whatis your life? It is even a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, andthen vanisheth away. "

Then they were greeting, with conventional nothings their beautifulhostess; who, with a charming air of triumphant--but not tootriumphant--proprietorship received them and passed them on, with a lowspoken word to Aaron King; "I will take charge of you later. "

Conrad Lagrange, before they drifted apart, found opportunity to growl inhis companion's ear; "A near-great musician--an actress of divorce courtfame--an art critic, boon companion of our friend Rutlidge--two free-lanceyellow journalists--a poet--with leading culture-club women of variousbrands, and a mob of mere fashion and wealth. The pickings should begood. Look at 'Materialism', over there. "

In a wheeled chair, attended by a servant in livery, a little apart fromthe center of the scene, --as though the pageant of life was about to moveon without him, --but still, with desperate grip, holding his place in thepicture, sat the genius of it all--the millionaire. The creature's wasted, skeleton-like limbs, were clothed grotesquely in conventional eveningdress. His haggard, bestial face--repulsive with every mark of his wicked, licentious years--grinned with an insane determination to take the placethat was his by right of his money bags; while his glazed and sunken eyesshone with fitful gleams, as he rallied the last of his vital forces, witha devilish defiance of the end that was so inevitably near. 

As Aaron King, in the splendid strength of his inheritance, went to payhis respects to the master of the house, that poor product of our age wasseized by a paroxysm of coughing, that shook him--gasping andchoking--almost into unconsciousness. The ready attendant held out a glassof whisky, and he clutched the goblet with skinny hands that, in theirtrembling eagerness, rattled the crystal against his teeth. In themomentary respite afforded by the powerful stimulant, he lifted hisyellow, claw-like hand to wipe the clammy beads of sweat that gatheredupon his wrinkled, ape-like brow; and the painter saw, on one bony, talon-like finger, the gleaming flash of a magnificent diamond. 

Mr. Taine greeted the artist with his husky whisper "Hello, old chap--gladto see you!" Peering into the laughing, chattering, glittering, throng headded, "Some beauties here to-night, heh? Gad! my boy, but I've seen theday I'd be out there among them! Ha, ha! Mrs. Taine, Louise, and Jim triedto shelve me--but I fooled 'em. Damn me, but I'm game for a good time yet!A little off my feed, and under the weather; but game, you understand, game as hell!" Then to the attendant--"Where's that whisky?" And, again, his yellow, claw-like hand--with that beautiful diamond, a gleaming pointof pure, white light--lifted the glass to his grinning lips. 

When Mrs. Taine appeared to claim the artist, her husband--huddled in hischair, an unclean heap of all but decaying flesh--watched them go, withhidden, impotent rage. 

A few moments later, as Mrs. Taine and her charge were leaving one groupof celebrities in search of another they encountered Conrad Lagrange. "What's this I see?" gibed the novelist, mockingly. "Is it 'Art being ledby Beauty to the Judges and Executioners'? or, is it 'Beauty presenting anArtist to the Gods of Modern Art'?"

"You had better be helping a good cause instead of making fun, Mr. Lagrange, " the woman retorted. "You weren't always so famous yourself thatyou could afford to be indifferent, you know. "

Aaron King laughed as his friend replied, "Never fear, madam, neverfear--I shall be on hand to assist at the obsequies. "

In the shifting of the groups and figures, when dinner was announced, theyoung man found himself, again, within reach of Conrad Lagrange; and thenovelist whispered, with a grin, "Now for the flesh-pots in earnest. Youwill be really out of place in the next act, Aaron. Only we artists whohave sold our souls have a right to the price of our shame. _You_ shoulddine upon a crust, you know. A genius without his crust, huh! A devilwithout his tail, or an ass without his long ears!"

Most conspicuous in the brilliant throng assembled in that banquet hall, was the horrid figure of Mr. Taine who sat in his wheeled chair at thehead of the table; his liveried attendant by his side. Frequently--asthough compelled--eyes were turned toward that master of the feast, whowas, himself, so far past feasting; and toward his beautiful youngwife--the only woman in the room, whose shoulders and arms were not bare. 

At first, the talk moved somewhat heavily. Neighbor chattered nothings toneighbor in low tones. It was as though the foreboding presence of somegrim, unbidden guest overshadowed the spirits of the company But graduallythe scene became more animated The glitter of silver and crystal on theboard; the sparkle of jewels and the wealth of shimmering colors thatcostumed the diners; with the strains of music that came from somewherebehind a floral screen that filled the air with fragrance; concealed, asit were, the hideous image of immorality which was the presiding genius ofthe feast. As the glare of a too bright light blinds the eyes to the ditchacross one's path, so the brilliancy of their surroundings blinded theeyes of his guests to the meaning of that horrid figure in the seat ofhighest honor. But rich foods and rare wines soon loose the tongues thatchatter the thoughts of those who do not think. As the glasses were filledand refilled again, the scene took color from the sparkling goblets. Voices were raised to a higher pitch. Shrill or boisterous laughter rangout, as jest and story went the rounds. It was Mrs. Taine, now, ratherthan her husband, who dominated the scene. With cheeks flushed and eyesbright she set the pace, nor permitted any laggards. 

Conrad Lagrange watched, cool and cynical--his worn face twisted into amocking smile; his keen, baffling eyes, from under their scowling brows, seeing all, understanding all. Aaron King, weary with the work of the pastdays, endured--wishing it was over. 

The evening was well under way when Mrs. Taine held up her hand. In thesilence, she said, "Listen! I have a real treat for you, to-night, friends. Listen!" As she spoke the last word, her eyes met the eyes of theartist, in mocking, challenging humor. He was wondering what she meant, when, --from behind that screen of flowers, --soft and low, poignantly sweetand thrilling in its purity of tone, came the music of the violin that hehad learned to know so well. 

Instantly, the painter understood. Mrs. Taine had employed Sibyl Andrés toplay for her guests that evening; thinking to tease the artist bypresenting his mountain comrade in the guise of a hired servant. Why thegirl had not told him, he did not know. Perhaps she had thought to enjoyhis surprise. The effect of the girl's presence--or rather of her music, for she, herself, could not be seen--upon the artist was quite other thanMrs. Taine intended. 

Under the spell of the spirit that spoke in the violin, Aaron King wascarried far from his glittering surroundings. Again, he stood where thebright waters of Clear Creek tumbled among the granite boulders, and wherehe had first moved to answer the call of that music of the hills. Again, he followed the old wagon road to the cedar thicket; and, in the little, grassy opening with its wild roses, its encircling wilderness growth, andits old log house under the sheltering sycamores, saw a beautiful girldancing with the unconscious grace of a woodland sprite, her arms upheldin greeting to the mountains. Once again, he was painting in the sacredquiet of the spring glade where she had come to him with her three gifts;where, in maidenly innocence, she had danced the dance of the butterflies;and, later, with her music, had lifted their friendship to heights ofpurity as far above the comprehension of the company that listened to hernow, as the mountain peaks among the stars that night were high above thehouse on Fairlands Heights. 

The music ceased. It was followed by the loud clapping of hands--withexclamations in high-pitched voices. "Who is it?" "Where did you findhim?" "What's his name?"--for they judged, from Mrs. Taine's introductorywords, that she expected them to show their appreciation. 

Mrs. Taine laughed, and, with her eyes mockingly upon the artist's faceanswered lightly, "Oh, she is a discovery of mine. She teaches music, andplays in one of the Fairlands churches. "

"You are a wonder, " said one of the illustrious critics, admiringly. Andlifting his glass, he cried, "Here's to our beautiful and talentedhostess--the patron saint of all the arts--the friend of all trueartists. "

In the quiet that followed the enthusiastic endorsement of thedistinguished gentleman's words, another voice said, "If it's a girl, can't we see her?" "Yes, yes, " came from several. "Please, Mrs. Taine, bring her out. " "Have her play again. " "Will she?"

Mrs. Taine laughed. "Certainly, she will. That's what she's here for--toamuse you. " And, again, as she spoke, her eyes met the eyes of Aaron King. 

At her signal, a servant left the room. A moment later, the mountain girl, dressed in simple white, with no jewel or ornament other than a rose inher soft, brown hair, stood before that company. Unconscious of the eyesthat fed upon her loveliness; there was the faintest shadow of a smileupon her face as she met, in one swift glance, the artist's look; then, raising her violin, she made music for the revelers, at the will of Mrs. Taine. As she stood there in the modest naturalness of her winsomebeauty--innocent and pure as the flowers that formed the screen behindher; hired to amuse the worthy friends and guests of that hideouslyrepulsive devotee of lust and licentiousness who, from his wheeled chair, was glaring at her with eyes that burned insanely--she seemed, as indeedshe was, a spirit from another world. 

James Rutlidge, his heavy features flushed with drink, was gazing at thegirl with a look that betrayed his sensual passion. The face of ConradLagrange was dark and grim with scowling appreciation of the situation. Mrs. Taine was looking at the artist. And Aaron King, watching his girlcomrade of the hills as she seemed to listen for the music which she inturn drew from the instrument, felt, --by the very force of the contrastbetween her and her surroundings he had never felt before, the power andcharm of her personality--felt--and knew that Sibyl Andrés had come intohis life to stay. 

In the flood of emotions that swept over him, and in the mental andspiritual exultation caused by her music and by her presence amid suchscenes; it was given the painter to understand that she had, in truth, brought to him the strength, the purity, and the beauty of the hills; thatshe had, in truth, shown him the paths that lead to the mountain heights;that it was her unconscious influence and teaching that had made itimpossible for him to prostitute his genius to win favor in the eyes ofthe world. He knew, now, that in those days when he had painted herportrait, as she stood with outstretched hands in the golden light amongthe roses, he had mixed his colors with the best love that a man may offera woman. And he knew that the repainting of that false portrait of Mrs. Taine, with all that it would cost him, was his first offering to thatlove. 

The girl musician finished playing and slipped away. When they would haverecalled her, Mrs. Taine--too well schooled to betray a hint of theemotions aroused by what she had just seen as she watched AaronKing--shook her head. 

At that instant, Mr. Taine rose to his feet, supporting himself by holdingwith shaking hands to the table. A hush, sudden as the hush of death, fellupon the company. The millionaire's attendant put out his hand to steadyhis master, and another servant stepped quickly forward. But the man whoclung so tenaciously to his last bit of life, with a drunken strength inhis dying limbs, shook them off, saying in a hoarse whisper, "Never mind!Never mind--you fools--can't you see I'm game!"

In the quiet of the room, that a moment before rang with excited voicesand shrill laughter, the man's husky, straining, whispered boast soundedlike the mocking of some invisible, fiendish presence at the feast. 

Lifting a glass of whisky with that yellow, claw-like hand upon which thegreat diamond gleamed--a spot of flawless purity; with his repulsivefeatures twisted into a grewsome ugliness by his straining effort to forcehis diseased vocal chords to make his words heard; the wretched creaturesaid: "Here's to our girl musician. The prettiest--lassie that I--haveseen for many a day--and I think I know a pretty girl--when I see one too. Who comes bright and fresh--from her mountains, to amuse us--and to add, to the beauty--and grace and wit and genius--that so distinguishes thiscompany--the flavor and the freedom of her wild-wood home. Her music--isgood, you'll all agree--" he paused to cough and to look inquiringlyaround, while every one nodded approval and smiled encouragingly. "Hermusic is good--but I--maintain that she, herself, is better. To me--herbeauty is more pleasing to the eye--than--her fiddling can possibly--be tothe ear!" Again he was forced to pause, while his guests, with hand andvoice, applauded the clever words. Lifting the glass of whisky toward hislips that, by his effort to speak, were drawn back in a repulsive grin, heleered at the celebrities sitting nearest. "I suppose to-morrow--if wedesire the company of these distinguished artists--we will have tofollow--them to the mountains. I don't blame you, gentlemen--if I wasnot--ah--temporarily incapacitated--I would certainly--go for a littletrip to the inspiring hills--myself. Even if I don't know--as much about_music_ and _art_ as some of you. " Again his words were interrupted bythat racking cough, the sound of which was lost in the applause thatgreeted his witticism. Lifting the glass once more, he continued, "Sohere's to our girl musician--who is her own--lovely self so much moreattractive than any music--she can ever make. " He drained the glass, andsank back into his chair, exhausted by his effort. 

Aaron King was on the point of springing to his feet, when Conrad Lagrangecaught his eye with a warning look. Instantly, he remembered what theresult would be if he should yield to his impulse. Wild with indignation, rage, and burning shame, he knew that to betray himself would be to invitea thousand sneering questions and insinuations to besmirch the name ofthe girl he loved. 

In the continued applause and laughter that followed the drinking of themillionaire's toast, the artist caught the admiring words, "Bully oldsport. " "Isn't he game?" "He has certainly traveled some pace in his day. ""The girl is a beauty. " "Let's have her in again. " This last expressionwas so insistently echoed that Mrs. Taine--who, through it all, had beencovertly watching Aaron King's face, and whose eyes were blazing now withsomething more than the effect of the wine she had been drinking--wasforced to yield. A servant left the room, and, a moment later, reappeared, followed by Sibyl. 

The girl was greeted, now, by hearty applause which she, accepting as anexpression of the company's appreciation of her music, received withsmiling pleasure. The artist, his heart and soul aflame with his awakeninglove, fought for self-control. Conrad Lagrange, catching his eye, again, silently bade him wait. 

Sibyl lifted her violin and the noisy company was stilled. Slowly, underthe spell of the music that, to him, was a message from the mountainheights, Aaron King grew calm. His tense muscles relaxed. His twitchingnerves became steady. He felt himself as it were, lifted out of and abovethe scene that a moment before had so stirred him to indignant anger. Hisbrain worked with that clearness and precision which he had known whilerepainting Mrs. Taine's portrait. Wrath gave way to pity; indignation tocontempt. In confidence, he smiled to think how little the girl he lovedneeded his poor defense against the animalism that dominated the companyshe was hired to amuse. With every eye in the room fixed upon her as sheplayed, she was as far removed from those who had applauded the suggestivewords of the dying sensualist as her music was beyond their truecomprehension. 

Then it was that the genius of the artist awoke. As the flash of asearch-light in the darkness of night brings out with startling clearnessthe details of the scene upon which it is turned, the painter saw beforehim his picture. With trained eye and carefully acquired skill, he studiedthe scene; impressing upon his memory every detail--the rich appointmentsof the room; the glittering lights; the gleaming silver and crystal; thesparkling jewels and shimmering laces; the bare shoulders; thewine-flushed faces and feverish eyes; and, in the seat of honor, thedisease-wasted form and repulsive, sin-marked countenance of Mr. Tainewho--almost unconscious with his exertion--was still feeding the lastflickering flame of his lustful life with the vision of the girl whosebeauty his toast had profaned: and in the midst of thatcompany--expressing as it did the spirit of an age that is ruled bymaterial wealth and dominated by the passions of the flesh--the center ofevery eye, yet, still, in her purity and innocence, removed and apart fromthem all; standing in her simple dress of white against the background offlowers--the mountain girl with her violin--offering to them the highest, holiest, gift of the gods--her music. Upon the girl's lovely, winsomeface, was a look, now, of troubled doubt. Her wide, blue eyes, as sheplayed, were pleading, questioning, half fearful--as though she sensed, instinctively the presence of the spirit she could not understand; andfelt, in spite of the pretense of the applause that had greeted her, therejection of her offering. 

Not only did the artist, in that moment of conception see his picture andfeel the forces that were expressed by every character in the composition, but the title, even, came to him as clearly as if Conrad Lagrange haduttered it aloud, "The Feast of Materialism. "

Sibyl Andrés finished her music, and quickly withdrew as if to escape thenoisy applause. Amid the sound of the clapping hands and boisterousvoices, Mr. Taine, summoning the last of his wasted strength, againstruggled to his feet. With those claw-like hands he held to the table forsupport; while--shaking in every limb, his features twisted into a horrid, leering grin--he looked from face to face of the hushed and silentcompany; with glazed eyes in which the light that flickered so feebly wasstill the light of an impotent lust. 

Twice, the man essayed to speak, but could not. The room grew still asdeath. Then, suddenly--as they looked--he lifted that yellow, skinny hand, to his wrinkled, ape-like brow, and--partially loosing, thus, hissupporting grip upon the table--fell back, in a ghastly heap of diseasedflesh and fine raiment; in the midst of which blazed the greatdiamond--as though the cold, pure beauty of the inanimate stone triumphedin a life more vital than that of its wearer. 

His servants carried the unconscious master of the house from the room. Mrs. Taine, excusing herself, followed. 

In the confusion that ensued, the musicians, hidden behind the floralscreen, struck up a lively air. Some of the guests made quiet preparationsfor leaving. A group of those men--famous in the world of art andletters--under the influence of the wine they had taken so freely, laughedloudly at some coarse jest. Others, thinking, perhaps, --if they could besaid to think at all, --that their host's attack was not serious, renewedconversations and bravely attempted to restore a semblance of animation tothe interrupted revelries. 

Aaron King worked his way to the side of Conrad Lagrange, "For God's sake, old man, let's get out of here. "

"I'll find Rutlidge or Louise or some one, " returned the other, anddisappeared. 

As the artist waited, through the open door of an adjoining room, hecaught sight of Sibyl Andrés; who, with her violin-case in her hand, wasabout to leave. Obeying his impulse, he went to her. 

"What in the world are you doing here?" he said almost roughly--extendinghis hand to take the instrument she carried. 

She seemed a little bewildered by his manner, but smiled as she retainedher violin. "I am here to earn my bread and butter, sir. What are youdoing here?"

"I beg your pardon, " he said. "I did not mean to be rude. "

She laughed, then, with a troubled air--"But is it not right for me to behere? It is all right for me to play for these people, isn't it? Myradidn't want me to come, but we needed the money, and Mrs. Taine was sogenerous. I didn't tell you and Mr. Lagrange because I wanted the fun ofsurprising you. " As he stood looking at her so gravely, she put out herhand impulsively to his arm. "What is it, oh, what is it? How have I donewrong?"

"You have done no wrong, my dear girl, " he answered "It is only that--"

He was interrupted by the cold, clear voice of Mrs. Taine, who had enteredthe room, unnoticed by them. "I see you are going, Miss Andrés. Good-night. I will mail you a check to-morrow. Your music was verysatisfactory. An automobile is waiting to take you home. Good night. "

Before Aaron King could speak, the girl was gone. 

"Mr. Lagrange and I were just about to go, " said the artist, as the womanfaced him. "I hope Mr. Taine has not suffered severely from the excitementof the evening?"

The woman's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were bright with feverishexcitement. Going close to him, she said in a low, hurried tone, "No, no, you must not go. Mr. Taine is all right in his room. Every one else ishaving a good time. You must not go. Come, I have had no opportunity, atall, to have you to myself for a single moment. Come, I--"

As she had interrupted Aaron King's reply to Sibyl Andrés, the cool, sarcastic tones of Conrad Lagrange's deep voice interrupted her. "Mrs. Taine, they are hunting for you all over the house. Your husband iscalling for you. I'm sure that Mr. King will excuse you, under thecircumstances. "

Chapter XXX

In the Same Hour

In a splendid chamber, surrounded by every comfort and luxury that dollarscould buy, and attended by liveried servants, Mr. Taine was dying. 

The physician who met Mrs. Taine at the door, answered her look of inquirywith; "Your husband is very near the end, madam. " Beside the bed, satLouise, wringing her hands and moaning. James Rutlidge stood near. Withoutspeaking, Mrs. Taine went forward. 

The doctor, bending over his patient, with his fingers upon theskeleton-like wrist, said, "Mr. Taine, Mr. Taine, your wife is here. "

In response, the eyes, deep sunken under the wrinkled brow, opened; theloosely hanging, sensual lips quivered. 

The physician spoke again; "Your wife is here, Mr. Taine. "

A sudden gleam of light flared up in the glazed eyes. The doctor couldhave sworn that the lips were twisted into a shadow of a ghastly, mockingsmile. As if summoning, by a supreme effort of his will, from someunguessed depths of his being, the last remnant of his remaining strength, the man looked about the room and, in a hoarse whisper, said, "Send theothers away--everybody--but her. "

"O papa, papa!" exclaimed poor Louise, protestingly. 

"Never mind, daughter, " came the whispered answer from the bed. "Try to begame, girl--game as your father. Take her away, Jim. "

As the physician passed Mrs. Taine, who had thus far stood like a statue, seemingly incapable of thought or feeling or movement, he said in a lowtone, "I will be just outside the door, madam; easily within call. "

When only the woman was left in the room with her husband, the dying manspoke again; "Come here. Stand where I can see you. "

Mechanically, she obeyed; moving to a position near the foot of the bed. 

After a moment's silence, during which he seemed to be rallying the verylast of his vital forces for the effort, he said, "Well--the game isplayed--out. You think--you're the winner. You're--wrong--damn you--you'rewrong. I wasn't--so drunk to-night that--I couldn't see. " His face twistedin a hideous, malicious grin. "You--love--that artist fellow. Your--interest in his art is--all rot. It's _him_ you want--and you--youhave been thinking--you'd get him--with my money--the same as I got you. But you won't. You've--lost him already. I'm glad--you love him--damnglad--because--I know that after--what he's seen of me--even if he didn'tlove--that mountain--girl, he wouldn't wipe--his feet on you. You'vetortured me--you've mocked--and sneered and laughed--at me--in mysuffering--you fiend--and I've--tried my damnedest--to pay you back. WhatI couldn't do--the man you love--will--do for me. You'll suffer--now inearnest. You thought you'd be a--sure winner--as soon--as I was outof--the game. But you've lost--you've lost--you've lost! I saw your lovefor him--in your--face to-night--as I have seen--it every time--you twowere together. I saw his love--for the girl--too--and I--saw--thatyou--saw it. I--I--wouldn't--wouldn't die--until I'd told you--that Iknew. " He paused to gather his strength for the last evil effort of hisevil life. 

The woman--who had stood, frozen with horror, her eyes fixed upon the faceof the dying man, as though under a dreadful spell--cowered before him, livid with fear. Cringing, helpless--as though before some infernalmonster--she hid her face; while her husband, struggling for breath tomake her hear, called her every foul name he could master--derided herwith fiendish glee--mocked her, taunted her, cursed her--with words toovile to print. With an oath and a profane wish for her future upon hislips, the end came. The sensual mouth opened--the diseased wasted limbsshuddered--the insane light in the lust-worn eyes went out. 

With a scream, Mrs. Taine sank unconscious upon the floor beside the bed. 

From the lower part of the house came the faint sounds of the fewremaining revelers. 

 * * * * *

When Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange left the house on Fairlands Heightsthat night, they walked quickly, as though eager to escape from thebrilliantly lighted vicinity. Neither spoke until they were some distanceaway. Then the novelist, checking his quick stride, pointed toward theshadowy bulk of the mountains that heaved their mighty crests and peaks insolemn grandeur high into the midnight sky. 

"Well, boy, " he said, "the mountains are still there. It's good to seethem again, isn't it?"

Reaching home, the older man bade his friend good night. But the artist, declaring that he was not yet ready to turn in, went, with pipe and Czarfor company, to sit for a while on the porch. 

Looking away over the dark mass of the orange groves to the distant peaks, he lived over again, in his thoughts, those weeks of comradeship withSibyl Andrés in the hills. Every incident of their friendship herecalled--every hour they had spent together amid the scenes sheloved--reviewing every conversation--questioning searching, wondering, hoping, fearing. 

Later, he went out into the rose garden--her garden--where the air wasfragrant with the perfume of the flowers she tended with such loving care. In the soft, still darkness of the night, the place seemed haunted by herpresence. Quietly, he moved here and there among the roses--to the littlegate in the Ragged Robin hedge, through which she came and went; to thevine-covered arbor where she had watched him at his work; and to the spotwhere she had stood, day after day, with hands outstretched in greeting, while he worked to make the colors and lines upon his canvas tell thesecret of her loveliness. He remembered how he had felt her presence inthose days when he had laughingly insisted to Conrad Lagrange that theplace was haunted. He remembered how, even when she was unknown to him, her music had always moved him--how her message from the hills had seemedto call to the best that was in him. 

So it was, that, as he recalled these things, --as he lived again the daysof his companionship with her and realized how she had come into his life, how she had appealed always to the best of him, and satisfied always hisbest needs, --he came to know the answer to his questions--to his doubtsand fears and hopes. There, in the rose garden, with its dark walls ofhedge and vine and grove, in the still night under the stars, with hisface to the distant mountains, he knew that the mountain girl would notdeny him--that, when she was ready, she would come to him. 

In the hour when Mr. Taine, with the last strength of his evil life, profanely cursed the woman that his gold had bought to serve hislicentious will--and cursing--died; Aaron King--inspired by the characterand purity of the woman he loved, and by whom he knew he was loved, anddreaming of their comradeship that was to be--dedicated himself anew tothe ministry of his art and so entered into that more abundant life whichbelongs by divine right to all who will claim it. 

But it was not given Aaron King to know that before Sibyl Andrés couldcome to him he must be tested by a trial that would tax his manhood's beststrength to the uttermost. In that night of his awakened love, as hedreamed of the days of its realization, the man did not know that the daysof his testing were so near at hand. 

Chapter XXXI

As the World Sees

It was three days after the incidents just related when an automobile fromFairlands Heights stopped at the home of Aaron King and the novelist. 

Mrs. Taine, dressed in black and heavily veiled, went, alone, to thehouse, where Yee Kee appeared in answer to her ring. 

There was no one at home, the Chinaman said. He did not know where theartist was. He had gone off somewhere with Mr. Lagrange and the dog. Perhaps they would return in a few minutes; perhaps not until dinner time. 

Mrs. Taine was exceedingly anxious to see Mr. King. She was going away, and must see him, if possible, before she left. She would come in, and, ifYee Kee would get her pen and paper, would write a little note, explaining--in case she should miss him. The Chinaman silently placed thewriting material before her, and disappeared. 

Before sitting down to her letter, the woman paced the floor restlessly, in nervous agitation. Her face, when she had thrown back the veil, appeared old and worn, with dark circles under the eyes, and a drawn lookto the weary, downward droop of the lips. As she moved about the room, nervously fingering the books and trifles upon the table or the mantle, she seemed beside herself with anxiety. She went to the window to standlooking out as if hoping for the return of the artist. She went to theopen door of his bedroom, her hands clenched, her limbs trembling, herface betraying the agony of her mind. 

With Louise, she was leaving that evening, at four o'clock, for theEast--with the body of her husband. She could not go without seeing againthe man whom, as Mr. Taine had rightly said, she loved--loved with theonly love of which--because of her environment and life--she was capable. She still believed in her power over him whose passion she had besiegedwith all the lure of her physical beauty, but that which she had seen inhis face as he had watched the girl musician the night of the dinner, filled her with fear. Presently, in her desperation, when the artist didnot return, she seated herself at the table to put upon paper, as best shecould, the things she had come to say. 

Her letter finished, she looked at her watch. Calling the Chinaman, sheasked for a key to the studio, explaining that she wished to see herpicture. She still hoped for the artist's return and that her letter wouldnot be necessary. She hoped, too, that in her portrait, which she had notyet seen, she might find some evidence of the painter's passion for her. She had not forgotten his saying that he would put upon the canvas what hethought of her, nor could she fail to recall his manner and herinterpretation of it as he had worked upon the picture. 

In the studio, she stood before the easel, scarce daring to draw thecurtain. But, calling up in her mind the emotions and thoughts of thehours she had spent in that room alone with the artist, she was made boldby her reestablished belief in his passion and by her convictions thatwere founded upon her own desires. Under the stimulating influence of herthoughts, a flush of color stole into her cheeks, her eyes grew brightwith the light of triumphant anticipation. With an eager hand she boldlydrew aside the curtain. 

The picture upon the easel was the artist's portrait of Sibyl Andrés. 

With an exclamation that was not unlike fear, Mrs. Taine drew back fromthe canvas. Looking at the beautiful painting, --in which the artist hadpictured, with unconscious love and an almost religious fidelity, thespirit of the girl who was so like the flowers among which she stood, --thewoman was moved by many conflicting emotions. Surprise, disappointmentadmiration, envy, jealousy, sadness, regret, and anger swept over her. Blinded by bitter tears, with a choking sob, in an agony of remorse andshame, she turned away her face from the gaze of those pure eyes. Then, asthe flame of her passion withered her shame, hot rage dried her tears, andshe sprang forward with an animal-like fierceness, to destroy the picture. But, even as she put forth her hand, she hesitated and drew back, afraid. As she stood thus in doubt--halting between her impulse and her fear--asound at the door behind her drew her attention. She turned to face thebeautiful original of the portrait Instantly the woman of the world hadherself perfectly in hand. 

Sibyl Andrés drew back with an embarrassed, "I beg your pardon. Ithought--" and would have fled. 

But Mrs. Taine, with perfect cordiality, said quickly, "O how do you do, Miss Andrés; come in. "

She seemed so sincere in the welcome that was implied in her voice andmanner; while her face, together with her somber garb of mourning, was soexpressive of sadness and grief that the girl's gentle heart was touched. Going forward, with that natural, dignity that belongs to those whoseminds and hearts are unsullied by habitual pretense of feeling and shamemotions, Sibyl spoke a few well chosen words of sympathy. 

Mrs. Taine received the girl's expression of condolence with a manner thatwas perfect in its semblance of carefully controlled sorrow and grief, yetmanaged, skillfully, to suggest the wide social distance that separatedthe widow of Mr. Taine from the unknown, mountain girl. Then, as ifcourageously determined not to dwell upon her bereavement, she said, "Iwas just looking, again, at Mr. King's picture--for which you posed. It isbeautiful, isn't it? He told me that you were an exceptionally clevermodel--quite the best he has ever had. "

The girl--disarmed by her own genuine feeling of sympathy for thespeaker--was troubled at something that seemed to lie beneath the kindlywords of the experienced woman. "To me, it is beautiful, " she returneddoubtfully. "But, of course, I don't know. Mr. Lagrange thinks, though, that it is really a splendid portrait. "

Mrs. Taine smiled with a confident air, as one might smile at a child. "Mr. Lagrange, my dear, is a famous novelist--but he really knows verylittle of pictures. "

"Perhaps you are right, " returned Sibyl, simply. "But the picture is notto be shown as a portrait of me, at all. "

Again, that knowing smile. "So I understand, of course. Under thecircumstances, you would scarcely expect it, would you?"

Sibyl, not in the least understanding what the woman meant, answereddoubtfully, "No. I--I did not wish it shown as my portrait. "

Mrs. Taine, studying the girl's face, became very earnest in her kindlyinterest; as if, moved out of the goodness of her heart, she stooped fromher high place to advise and counsel one of her own sex, who was so whollyignorant of the world. "I fear, my dear, that you know very little ofartists and their methods. "

To which the girl replied, "I never knew an artist before I met Mr. King, this summer, in the mountains. "

Still watching her face closely, Mrs. Taine said, with gentle solicitude, "May I tell you something for your own good, Miss Andrés?"

"Certainly, if you please, Mrs. Taine. "

"An artist, " said the older woman, carefully, with an air of positiveknowledge, "must find the subjects for his pictures in life. As he goesabout, he is constantly on the look-out for new faces or figures thatare of interest to him--or, that may be used by him to make picturesof interest. The subjects--or, I should say, the people who pose forhim--are nothing at all to the artist--aside from his picture, yousee--no more than his paints and brushes and canvas. Often, they areprofessional models, whom he hires as one hires any sort of service, you know. Sometimes--" she paused as if hesitating, then continuedgently--"sometimes they are people like yourself, who happen to appealto his artistic fancy, and whom he can persuade to pose for him. "

The girl's face was white. She stared at the woman with pleading, frightened dismay. She made a pitiful attempt to speak, but could not. 

The older woman, watching her, continued, "Forgive me, dear child. I donot wish to hurt you. But Mr. King is _so_ careless. I told him he shouldbe careful that you did not misunderstand his interest in you. But helaughed at me. He said that it was your _innocence_ that he wanted topaint, and cautioned me not to warn you until his picture was finished. "She turned to look at the picture on the easel with the air of a critic. "He really _has_ caught it very well. Aaron--Mr. King is so good at thatsort of thing. He never permits his models to know exactly what he isafter, you see, but leads them, cleverly, to exhibit, unconsciously, theparticular thing that he wishes to get into his picture. "

When the tortured girl had been given time to grasp the full import of herwords, the woman said again, --turning toward Sibyl, as she spoke, with asmiling air that was intended to show the intimacy between herself and theartist, --"Have you seen his portrait of me?"

"No, " faltered Sibyl. "Mr. King told me not to look at it. It has alwaysbeen covered when I have been in the studio. "

Again, Mrs. Taine smiled, as though there was some reason, known only toherself and the painter, why he did not wish the girl to see the portrait. "And do you come to the studio often--alone as you came to-day?" sheasked, still kindly, as though from her experience she was seeking tocounsel the girl. "I mean--have you been coming since the picture forwhich you posed was finished?"

The girl's white cheeks grew red with embarrassment and shame as sheanswered, falteringly, "Yes. "

"You poor child! Really, I must scold Aaron for this. After my warninghim, too, that people were talking about his intimacy with you in themountains It is quite too bad of him! He will ruin himself, if he is notmore careful. " She seemed sincerely troubled over the situation. 

"I--I do not understand, Mrs. Taine, " faltered Sibyl. "Do you mean thatmy--that Mr. King's friendship for me has harmed him? That I--that it iswrong for me to come here?"

"Surely, Miss Andrés, you must understand what I mean. "

"No, I--I do not know. Tell me, please. "

Mrs. Taine hesitated as though reluctant. Then, as if forced by her senseof duty, she spoke. "The truth is, my dear, that your being with Mr. Kingin the mountains--going to his camp as familiarly as you did, and spendingso much time alone with him in the hills--and then your coming here sooften, has led people to say unpleasant things. "

"But what do people say?" persisted Sibyl. 

The answer came with cruel deliberateness; "That you are not only Mr. King's model, but that you are his mistress as well. "

Sibyl Andrés shrank back from the woman as though she had received a blowin the face. Her cheeks and brow and neck were crimson. With a little cry, she buried her face in her hands. 

The kind voice of the older woman continued, "You see, dear, whether it istrue or not, the effect is exactly the same. If in the eyes of the worldyour relations to Mr. King are--are wrong, it is as bad as though it wereactually true. I felt that I must tell you, child, not alone for your owngood but for the sake of Mr. King and his work--for the sake of hisposition in the world. Frankly, if you continue to compromise him and hisgood name by coming like this to his studio, it will ruin him. The worldmay not care particularly whether Mr. King keeps a mistress or not, butpeople will not countenance his open association with her, even under thepretext that she is a model. "

As she finished, Mrs. Taine looked at her watch. "Dear me, I really mustbe going. I have already spent more time than I intended. Good-by, MissAndrés. I know you will forgive me if I have hurt you. "

The girl looked at her with the pain and terror filled eyes of somegentle wild creature that can not understand the cruelty of the trap thatholds it fast. "Yes--yes, I--I suppose you know best. You must know morethan I. I--thank you, Mrs. Taine. I--"

When Mrs. Taine was gone, Sibyl Andrés sat for a little while before herportrait; wondering, dumbly, at the happiness of that face upon thecanvas. There were no tears. She could not cry. Her eyes burned hot anddry. Her lips were parched. Rising, she drew the curtain carefully to hidethe picture, and started toward the door. She paused. Going to the easelthat held the other picture, she laid her hand upon the curtain. Again, she paused. Aaron King had said that she must not look at thatpicture--Conrad Lagrange had said that she must not--why? She did not knowwhy. 

Perhaps--if the mountain girl had drawn aside the curtain and had lookedupon the face of Mrs. Taine as Aaron King had painted it--perhaps the restof my story would not have happened. 

But, true to the wish of her friends, even in her misery, Sibyl Andrésheld her hand. At the door of the studio, she turned again, to look longand lingeringly about the room. Then she went out, closing and locking thedoor, and leaving the key on a hidden nail, as her custom was. 

Going slowly, lingeringly, through the rose garden to the little gate inthe hedge, she disappeared in the orange grove. 

Aaron King and Conrad Lagrange, returning from a long walk, overtook MyraWillard, who was returning from town, just as the woman of the disfiguredface arrived at the gate of the little house in the orange grove. For amoment, the three stood chatting--as neighbors will, --then the two menwent on to their own home. Czar, racing ahead, announced their coming toYee Kee and the Chinaman met them as they entered the living-room. Tellingthem of Mrs. Taine's visit, he gave Aaron King the letter that she hadleft for him. 

As the artist, conscious of the scrutinizing gaze of his friend, read theclosely written pages, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment and shame. When he had finished, he faced the novelist's eyes steadily and, withoutspeaking, deliberately and methodically tore Mrs. Taine's letter into tinyfragments. Dropping the scraps of paper into the waste basket, he dustedhis hands together with a significant gesture and looked at his watch. "Her train left at four o'clock. It is now four-thirty. "

"For which, " returned Conrad Lagrange, solemnly, "let us give thanks. "

As the novelist spoke, Czar, on the porch outside, gave a low "woof" thatsignalized the approach of a friend. 

Looking through the open door, they saw Myra Willard coming hurriedly upthe walk. They could see that the woman was greatly agitated, and wentquicklv forward to meet her. 

Women of Myra Willard's strength of character--particularly those who havepassed through the furnace of some terrible experience as she soevidently had--are not given to loud, uncontrolled expression of emotion. That she was alarmed and troubled was evident. Her face was white, hereyes were frightened and she trembled so that Aaron King helped her to aseat; but she told them clearly, with no unnecessary, hystericalexclamations, what had happened. Upon entering the house, after partingfrom the two men at the gate, a few minutes before, she had found a letterfrom Sibyl. The girl was gone. 

As she spoke, she handed the letter to Conrad Lagrange who read it andgave it to the artist. It was a pitiful little note--rather vague--sayingonly that she must go away at once; assuring Myra that she had not meantto do wrong; asking her to tell Mr. King and the novelist good-by; andbegging the artist's forgiveness that she had not understood. 

Aaron King looked from the letter in his hand to the faces of his twofriends, in consternation. "Do you understand this, Miss Willard?" heasked, when he could speak. 

The woman shook her head. "Only that something has happened to make thechild think that her friendship with you has injured you; and that she hasgone away for your sake. She--she thought so much of you, Mr. King. "

"And I--I love her, Miss Willard. I should have told you soon. I tell younow to reassure you. I love her. "

Aaron King made his declaration to his two friends with a simple dignity, but with a feeling that thrilled them with the force of his earnestnessand the purity and strength of his passion. 

Conrad Lagrange--world-worn, scarred by his years of contact with theunclean, the vicious, and debasing passions of mankind--grasped the youngman's hand, while his eyes shone with an emotion his habitual reservecould not conceal. "I'm glad for you, Aaron"--he said, addingreverently--"as your mother would be glad. "

"I have known that you would tell me this, sometime Mr. King, " said MyraWillard. "I knew it, I think, before you, yourself, realized; and I, too, am glad--glad for my girl, because I know what such a love will mean toher. But why--why has she gone like this? Where has she gone? Oh, my girl, my girl!" For a moment, the distracted woman was on the point of breakingdown; but with an effort of her will, she controlled herself. 

"It's clear enough what has sent her away, " growled Conrad Lagrange, witha warning glance to the artist. "Some one has filled her mind with thenotion that her friendship with Aaron has been causing talk. I thinkthere's no doubt as to where she's gone. "

"You mean the mountains?" asked Myra Willard, quickly. 

"Yes. I'd stake my life that she has gone straight to Brian Oakley. Think!Where else _would_ she go?"

"She has sometimes borrowed a saddle-horse from your neighbor up the road, hasn't she, Miss Willard?" asked Aaron King. 

"Yes. I'll run over there at once. "

Conrad Lagrange spoke quickly; "Don't let them think anything unusual hashappened. We'll go over to your house and wait for you there. "

Fifteen minutes later, Myra Willard returned. Sibyl had borrowed thehorse; asking them if she might keep it until the next day. She did notsay where she was going. She had left about four o'clock. 

"That will put her at Brian's by nine, " said the novelist. 

"And I will arrive there about the same time, " added Aaron King, eagerly. "It's now five-thirty. She has an hour's start; but I'll ride an hourharder. "

"With an automobile you could overtake her, " said Myra Willard. 

"I know, " returned the artist, "but if I take a horse, we can ride backtogether. "

He started through the grove, toward the other house, on a run. 

Chapter XXXII

The Mysterious Disappearance

By the time Aaron King had found a saddle-horse and was ready to start onhis ride, it was six o'clock. 

Granting that Conrad Lagrange was right in his supposition that the girlhad left with the intention of going to Brian Oakley's, the artist couldscarcely, now, hope to arrive at the Ranger Station until some time afterSibyl had reached the home of her friends--unless she should stopsomewhere on the way, which he did not think likely. Once, as he realizedhow the minutes were slipping away, he was on the point of reconsideringhis reply to Myra Willard's suggestion that he take an automobile. Then, telling himself that he would surely find Sibyl at the Station andthinking of the return trip with her, he determined to carry out his firstplan. 

But when he was finally on the road, he did not ride with less hastebecause he no longer expected to overtake Sibyl. In spite of hisreassuring himself, again and again, that the girl he loved was safe, hismind was too disturbed by the situation to permit of his riding leisurely. Beyond the outskirts of the city, with his horse warmed to its work, theartist pushed his mount harder and harder until the animal reached thelimit of a pace that its rider felt it could endure for the distance theyhad to go. Over the way that he and Conrad Lagrange had walked with Czarand Croesus so leisurely, he went, now, with such hot haste that thepeople in the homes in the orange groves, sitting down to their eveningmeal, paused to listen to the sharp, ringing beat of the galloping hoofs. Two or three travelers, as he passed, watched him out of sight, withwondering gaze. Those he met, turned their heads to look after him. 

Aaron King's thoughts, as he rode, kept pace with his horse's flying feet. The points along the way, where he and the famous novelist had stopped torest, and to enjoy the beauty of the scene, recalled vividly to his mindall that those weeks in the mountains had brought to him. Backward fromthat day when he had for the first time set his face toward the hills, hismind traveled--almost from day to day--until he stood, again, in thatimpoverished home of his boyhood to which he had been summoned from hisstudies abroad. As he urged his laboring horse forward, in the eagernessand anxiety of his love for Sibyl Andrés, he lived again that hour whenhis dying mother told her faltering story of his father's dishonor; whenhe knew, for the first time, her life of devotion to him, and learned ofher sacrifice--even unto poverty--that he might, unhampered, be fitted forhis life work; and when, receiving his inheritance, he had made his solemnpromise that the purpose and passion of his mother's years of sacrificeshould, in him and in his work, be fulfilled. One by one, he retraced thesteps that had led to his understanding that only a true and noble artcould ever make good that promise. Not by winning the poor notice of thelittle passing day, alone; not by gaining the applause of the thoughtlesscrowd; not by winning the rewards bestowed by the self-appointed judgesand patrons of the arts; but by a true, honest, and fearless giving ofhimself in his work, regardless alike of praise or blame--by saying thething that was given him to say, because it was given him to say--would hekeep that which his mother had committed to him. As mile after mile of thedistance that lay between him and the girl he loved was put behind him inhis race to her side, it was given him to understand--as neverbefore--how, first the friendship of the world-wearied man who had, himself, profaned his art; and then, the comradeship of that one whoselife was so unspotted by the world; had helped him to a true and vitalconception of his ministry of color and line and brush and canvas. 

It was twilight when the artist reached the spot where the road crossesthe tumbling stream--the spot where he and Conrad Lagrange had slept atthe foot of the mountains. Where the road curves toward the creek, theman, without checking his pace, turned his head to look back upon thevalley that, far below, was fast being lost in the gathering dusk. In itsweird and gloomy mystery, --with its hidden life revealed only by thesparkling, twinkling lights of the towns and cities, --it was suggestive, now, to his artist mind, of the life that had so nearly caught him in itsglittering sensual snare. A moment later, he lifted his eyes to themountain peaks ahead that, still in the light of the western sun, glowedas though brushed with living fire. Against the sky, he could distinguishthat peak in the Galena range, with the clump of pines, where he had satwith Sibyl Andrés that day when she had tried to make him see the trainthat had brought him to Fairlands. 

He wondered now, as he rode, why he had not realized his love for thegirl, before they left the hills. It seemed to him, now, that his love wasborn that evening when he had first heard her violin, as he was fishing;when he had watched her from the cedar thicket, as she made her music ofthe mountains and as she danced in the grassy yard. Why, he asked himself, had he not been conscious of his love in those days when she came to himin the spring glade, and in the days that followed? Why had he not known, when he painted her portrait in the rose garden? Why had the awakening notcome until that night when he saw her in the company of revelers at thebig house on Fairlands Heights--the night that Mr. Taine died?

It was dark before he reached the canyon gates. In the blackness of thegorge, with only the light of a narrow strip of stars overhead, he wasforced to ride more slowly. But his confidence that he would find her atthe Ranger Station had increased as he approached the scenes of hergirlhood home. To go to her friends, seemed so inevitably the thing thatshe would do. A few miles farther, now, and he would see her. He wouldtell her why he had come. He would claim the love that he knew was his. And so, with a better heart, he permitted his tired horse to slacken thepace. He even smiled to think of her surprise when she should see him. 

It was a little past nine o'clock when the artist saw, through the trees, the lights in the windows at the Station, and dismounted to open the gate. Hiding up to the house, he gave the old familiar hail, "Whoo-e-e. " Thedoor opened, and with the flood of light that streamed out came the tallform of Brian Oakley. 

"Hello! Seems to me I ought to know that voice. "

The artist laughed nervously. "It's me, all right, Brian--what there isleft of me. "

"Aaron King, by all that's holy!" cried the Ranger, coming quickly downthe steps and toward the shadowy horseman. "What's the matter? Anythingwrong with Sibyl or Myra Willard? What brings you up here, this time ofnight?"

Aaron King heard the questions with sinking heart. But so certain had hecome to feel that the girl would be at the Station, that he saidmechanically, as he dropped wearily from his horse to grasp his friend'shand, "I followed Sibyl. How long has she been here?"

Brian Oakley spoke quickly; "Sibyl is not here, Aaron. "

The artist caught the Ranger's arm. "Do you mean, Brian, that she has notbeen here to-day?"

"She has not been here, " returned the officer, coolly. 

"Good God!" exclaimed the other, stunned and bewildered by the positivewords. Blindly, he turned toward his horse. 

Brian Oakley, stepping forward, put his hand on the artist's shoulder. "Come, old man, pull yourself together and let a little light in on thismatter, " he said calmly. "Tell me what has happened. Why did you expect tofind Sibyl here?"

When Aaron King had finished his story, the other said, still withoutexcitement, "Come into the house. You're about all in. I heard DoctorGordan's 'auto' going up the canyon to Morton's about an hour ago. Theirbaby's sick. If Sibyl was on the road, he would have passed her. I'llthrow the saddle on Max, and we'll run over there and see what he knows. But first, you've got to have a bite to eat. "

The young man protested but the Ranger said firmly, "You can eat while Isaddle; come. I wish Mary was home, " he added, as he set out some coldmeat and bread. "She is in Los Angeles with her sister. I'll call you whenI'm ready. " He spoke the last word from the door as he went out. 

The artist tried to eat; but with little success. He was again mounted andready to go when the Ranger rode up from the barn on the chestnut. 

When they reached the point where the road to Morton's ranch leaves themain canyon road, Brian Oakley said, "It's barely possible that she wenton up to Carleton's. But I think we better go to Morton's and see theDoctor first. We don't want to miss him. Did you meet any one as you cameup? I mean after you got within two or three miles of the mouth of thecanyon?"

"No, " replied the other. "Why?"

"A man on a horse passed the Station about seven o'clock, going down. Where did the Doctor pass you?"

"He didn't pass me. "

"What?" said the Ranger, sharply. 

"No one passed me after I left Fairlands. "

"Hu-m-m. If Doc left town before you, he must have had a puncture orsomething, or he would have passed the Station before he did. "

It was ten o'clock when the two men arrived at the Morton ranch. 

"We don't want to start any excitement, " said the officer, as they drewrein at the corral gate. "You stay here and I'll drop in--casual like. "

It seemed to Aaron King, waiting in the darkness, that his companion wasgone for hours. In reality, it was only a few minutes until the Rangerreturned. He was walking quickly, and, springing into the saddle hestarted the chestnut off at a sharp lope. 

"The baby is better, " he said. "Doctor was here this afternoon--startedhome about two o'clock. That 'auto' must have gone on up the canyon. Morton knew nothing of the man on horseback who went down. We'll cutacross to Carleton's. "

Presently, the Ranger swung the chestnut aside from the wagon road, tofollow a narrow trail through the chaparral. To the artist, the littlepath in the darkness was invisible, but he gave his horse the rein andfollowed the shadowy form ahead. Three-quarters of an hour later, theycame out into the main road, again; near the Carleton ranch corral, a mileand a half below the old camp in the sycamores behind the orchard of thedeserted place. 

It was now eleven o'clock and the ranch-house was dark. Withoutdismounting, Brian Oakley called, "Hello, Henry!" There was no answer. Moving his horse close to the window of the room where he knew the rancherslept, the Ranger tapped on the sash. "Henry, turn out; I want to see you;it's Oakley. "

A moment later the sash was raised and Carleton asked, "What is it, Brian?What's up?"

"Is Sibyl stopping with you folks, to-night?"

"Sibyl! Haven't seen her since they went down from their summer camp. What's the matter?"

Briefly, the Ranger explained the situation. The rancher interrupted onlyto greet the artist with a "howdy, Mr. King, " as the officer's words madeknown the identity of his companion. 

When Brian Oakley had concluded, the rancher said, "I heard that 'auto'going up, and then heard it going back down, again, about an hour ago. Youmissed it by turning off to Morton's. If you'd come on straight up hereyou'd a met it. "

"Did you see the man on horseback, going down, just before dusk?" askedthe officer. 

"Yes, but not near enough to know him. You don't suppose Sibyl would go upto her old home do you, Brian?"

"She might, under the circumstances. Aaron and I will ride up there, onthe chance. "

"You'll stop in on your way back?" called the rancher, as the two horsemenmoved away. 

"Sure, " answered the Ranger. 

An hour later, they were back. They had found the old home under the giantsycamores, on the edge of the little clearing, dark and untenanted. 

Lights were shining, now, from the windows of the Carleton ranch-house. Down at the corral, the twinkling gleam of a lantern bobbed here andthere. As the Ranger and his companion drew near, the lantern came rapidlyup the hill. At the porch, they were met by Henry Carleton, his two sons, and a ranch hand. As the four stood in the light of the window, and of thelantern on the porch, listening to Brian Oakley's report, each held thebridle-reins of a saddle-horse. 

"I figured that the chance of her being up there was so mighty slim thatwe'd better be ready to ride when you got back, " said the mountainranchman. "What's your program, Brian?" Thus simply he put himself and hishousehold in command of the Ranger. 

The officer turned to the eldest son, "Jack, you've got the fastest horsein the outfit. I want you to go down to the Power-House and find out ifany one there saw Sibyl anywhere on the road. You see, " he explained tothe group, "we don't know for sure, yet, that she came into the mountains. While I haven't a doubt but she did, we've got to know. "

Jack Carleton was in the saddle as the Ranger finished The officer turnedto him again. "Find out what you can about that automobile and the man onhorseback. We'll be at the Station when you get back. " There was a sharpclatter of iron-shod hoofs, and the rider disappeared in the darkness ofthe night. 

The other members of the little party rode more leisurely down the canyonroad to the Ranger Station. When they arrived at the house, Brian Oakleysaid, "Make yourselves easy, boys. I'm going to write a little note. " Hewent into the house where, as they sat on the porch, they saw him throughthe window, his desk. 

The Ranger had finished his letter and with the sealed official envelopein his hand, appeared in the doorway when his messenger to the Power-Housereturned. Without dismounting, the rider reined his horse up to the porch. "Good time, Jack, " said the officer, quietly. 

The young man answered, "One of the company men saw Sibyl. He was comingup with a load of supplies and she passed him a mile below the Power-Housejust before dark. When he was opening the gate, the automobile went by. Itwas too dark to see how many were in the machine. They heard the 'auto' godown the canyon, again, later. No one noticed the man on horseback. ThreeCompany men will be up here at daybreak. "

"Good boy, " said Brian Oakley, again. And then, for a little, no soundsave the soft clinking of bit or bridle-chain in the darkness broke thehush that fell over the little group. With faces turned toward theirleader, they waited his word. The Ranger stood still, the long officialenvelope in his hand. When he spoke, there was a ring in his voice thatleft in the minds of his companions no doubt as to his view of theseriousness of the situation. "Milt, " he said sharply. 

The youngest of the Carleton sons stepped forward. "Yes, sir. "

"You will ride to Fairlands. It's half past one, now. You should be backbetween eight and nine in the morning. Give this letter to the Sheriff andbring me his answer. Stop at Miss Willard's and tell her what you know. You'll get something to eat there, while you're talking. If I'm not atyour house when you get back, feed your horse and wait. "

"Yes, sir, " came the answer, and an instant later the boy rider vanishedinto the night. 

While the sound of the messenger's going still came to them, the Rangerspoke again. "Henry, you'll ride to Morton's. Tell him to be at yourplace, with his crowd, by daylight. Then go home and be ready withbreakfast for the riders when they come in. We'll have to make your placethe center. It'll be hard on your wife and the girls, but Mrs. Morton willlikely go over to lend them a hand. I wish to God Mary was here. "

"Never mind about my folks, Brian, " returned the rancher as he mounted. "You know they'll be on the job. "

"You bet I know, Henry, " came the answer as the mountaineer rode away. Then--"Bill, you'll take every one between here and the head of thecanyon. If there's a man shows up at Carleton's later than an hour aftersunup, we'll run him out of the country. Tom, you take the trail over intothe Santa Ana, circle around to the mouth of the canyon, and back upClear Creek. Turn out everybody. Jack, you'll take the Galena Valleyneighborhood. Send in your men but don't come back yourself until you'vefound that man who went down the canyon on horseback. "

When the last rider was gone in the darkness, the Ranger said to theartist, "Come, Aaron, you must get some rest. There's not a thing morethat can be done, until daylight. "

Aaron King protested. But, strong as he was, the unusual exertion of hishours in the saddle, together with his racking anxiety, had told uponmuscles and nerves. His face, pale and drawn, gave the lie to his wordsthat he was not tired. 

"You must rest, man, " said Brian Oakley, shortly. "There may be days ofthis ahead of us. You've got to snatch every minute, when it's possible, to conserve your strength. You've already had more than the rest of us. Jerk off your boots and lie down until I call you, even if you can'tsleep. Do as I say--I'm boss here. "

As the artist obeyed, the Ranger continued, "I wrote the Sheriff all Iknew--and some things that I suspect. It's that automobile that sticks inmy mind--that and some other things. The machine must have left Fairlandsbefore you did, unless it came over through the Galena Valley, from sometown on the railroad, up San Gorgonio Pass way--which isn't likely. If it_did_ come from Fairlands, it must have waited somewhere along the road, to enter the canyon after dark. Do you think that any one else besidesMyra Willard and Lagrange and you know that Sibyl started up here?"

"I don't think so. The neighbor where she borrowed the horse didn't knowwhere she was going. "

"Who saw her last?"

"I think Mrs. Taine did. "

The artist had already told the Ranger about the possible meeting of Mrs. Taine and Sibyl in his studio. 

"Hu-m-m, " said the other. 

"Mrs. Taine left for the East at four o'clock, you know, " said the artist. 

"Jim Rutlidge didn't go, you said. " The Ranger spoke casually. Then, as ifdismissing the matter, he continued, "You get some rest now, Aaron. I'lltake care of your horse and saddle a fresh one for you. As soon as it'slight, we'll ride. I'm going to find out where that automobile went--andwhat for. "

Chapter XXXIII

Beginning the Search

Aaron King lay with closed eyes, but not asleep. He was thinking, thinking, thinking In a weary circle, his tired brain went round andround, finding no place to stop. The man on horseback, the automobile, some accident that might have befallen the girl in her distraught state ofmind--he could find no place in the weary treadmill of conjecture to rest. While it was still too dark to see, Brian Oakley called him. And the callwas a relief. 

As the artist pulled on his boots, the Ranger said, "It'll be light enoughto see, by the time we get above Carleton's. We know the automobile wentthat far anyway. "

At the Carleton ranch, as they passed, they saw, by the lights, that themountaineer's family were already making ready for the gathering of theriders. A little beyond, they met two men from the Company Head-Work, ontheir way to the meeting place. Soon, in the gray, early morning light, the tracks of the automobile were clearly seen. Eagerly, they followed tothe foot of the Oak Knoll trail, where the machine had stopped and, turning around, had started back down the canyon. With experienced care, Brian Oakley searched every inch of the ground in the vicinity. 

Shaking his head, at last, as though forced to give up hope of findingany positive signs pointing to the solution of the puzzle, the officerremounted, slowly. "I can't make it out, " he said. "The road is so dry andcut up with tracks, and the trail is so gravelly, that there are no clearsigns at all. Come, we better get back to Carleton's, and start the boysout. When Milt returns from Fairlands he may know something. "

With the rising of the sun, the mountain folk, summoned in the night bythe Ranger's messengers, assembled at the ranch; every man armed andmounted with the best his possessions afforded. Tied to the trees in theyard, and along the fence in front, or standing with bridle-reins overtheir heads, the horses waited. Lying on the porch, or squatting on theirheels, in unconscious picturesque attitudes, the mountain riders who hadarrived first and had finished their breakfast were ready for the Ranger'sword. In the ranch kitchen, the table was filled with the later ones; andthese, as fast as they finished their meal, made way for the new arrivals. There was no loud talk; no boisterous laughter; no uneasy restlessness. Calm-eyed, soft-voiced, deliberate in movement, these hardy mountaineershad answered Brian Oakley's call; and they placed themselves, now, underhis command, with no idle comment, no wasteful excitement but with apurpose and spirit that would, if need be, hold them in their saddlesuntil their horses dropped under them, and would, then, send them on, afoot, as long as their iron nerves and muscles could be made to respondto their wills. 

There was scarce a man in that company, who did not know and love SibylAndrés, and who had not known and loved her parents. Many of them hadridden with the Ranger at the time of Will Andrés' death. When the officerand his companion appeared, they gathered round their leader with simplewords of greeting, and stood silently ready for his word. 

Briefly, Brian Oakley divided them into parties, and assigned theterritory to be covered by each. Three shots in quick succession, atintervals of two minutes, would signal that the search was finished. Twomen, he held to go with him up Oak Knoll trail, after his messenger to theSheriff had returned. At sunset, they were all to reassemble at the ranchfor further orders. When the officer finished speaking, the little groupof men turned to the horses, and, without the loss of a moment, were outof sight in the mountain wilderness. 

A half hour before he was due, young Carleton appeared with the Sheriff'sanswer to the Ranger's letter. "Well done, boy, " said Brian Oakley, heartily. "Take care of your horse, now, and then get some rest yourself, and be ready for whatever comes next. "

He turned to those he had held to go with him; "All right, boys, let'sride. Sheriff will take care of the Fairlands end. Come, Aaron. "

All the way up the Oak Knoll trail the Ranger rode in the lead, bendinglow from his saddle, his gaze fixed on the little path. Twice hedismounted and walked ahead, leaving the chestnut to follow or to wait, athis word. When they came out on the pipe-line trail, he halted the party, and, on foot, went carefully over the ground either way from the pointwhere they stood. 

"Boys, " he said at last, "I have a hunch that there was a horse on thistrail last night. It's been so blamed dry, and for so long, though, that Ican't be sure. I held you two men because I know you are good trailers. Follow the pipe-line up the canyon, and see what you can find. It isn'tnecessary to say stay with it if you strike anything that even looks likeit might be a lead. Aaron and I will take the other way, and up the Galenatrail to the fire-break. "

While Brian Oakley had been searching for signs in the little path, andthe artist, with the others, was waiting, Aaron King's mind went back tothat day when he and Conrad Lagrange had sat there under the oaks and, ina spirit of irresponsible fun, had committed themselves to the leadershipof Croesus. To the young man, now, that day, with its care-free leisure, seemed long ago. Remembering the novelist's fanciful oration to the burro, he thought grimly how unconscious they had been, in their merriment, ofthe great issues that did actually rest upon the seemingly trivialincident. He recalled, too, with startling vividness, the times that hehad climbed to that spot with Sibyl, or, reaching it from either way onthe pipe-line, had gone with her down the zigzag path to the road in thecanyon below. Had she, last night, alone, or with some unwelcomecompanions, paused a moment under those oaks? Had she remembered the hoursthat she had spent there with him?

As he followed the Ranger over the ground that he had walked with her, that day of their last climb together, it seemed to him that every stepof the way was haunted by her sweet personality. The objects along thetrail--a point of rock, a pine, the barrel where they had filled theircanteen, a broken section of the concrete pipe left by the workmen, thevery rocks and cliffs, the flowers--dry and withered now--that grew alongthe little path--a thousand things that met his eyes--recalled her to hismind until he felt her presence so vividly that he almost expected to findher waiting, with smiling, winsome face, just around the next turn. Theofficer, who, moving ahead, scanned with careful eyes every foot of theway, seemed to the artist, now, to be playing some fantastic game. Hecould not, for the moment, believe that the girl he loved was--God! wherewas she? Why did Brian Oakley move so slowly, on foot, while his horse, leisurely cropping the grass, followed? He should be in the saddle! Theyshould be riding, riding riding--as he had ridden last night. Last night!Was it only last night?

Where the Government trail crosses the fire-break on the crest of theGalenas, Brian Oakley paused. "I don't think there's been anything overthis way, " he said. "We'll follow the fire-break to that point up there, for a look around. "

At noon, they stood by the big rock, under the clump of pines, where AaronKing and Sibyl Andrés had eaten their lunch. 

"We'll be here some time, " said the Ranger. "Make yourself comfortable. Iwant to see if there's anything stirring down yonder. "

With his back to the rock, he searched the Galena Valley side of therange, through his powerful glass; commenting, now and then, when someobject came in the field of his vision, to his companion who sat besidehim. 

They had risen to go and the officer was returning his glass to its caseon his saddle, when Aaron King--pointing toward Fairlands, lying dim andhazy in the distant valley--said, "Look there!"

The other turned his head to see a flash of light that winked through thedull, smoky veil, with startling clearness. He smiled and turned again tohis saddle. "You'll often see that, " he said. "It's the sun striking somebright object that happens to be at just the right angle to hit you withthe reflection. A bit of new tin on a roof, a window, an automobileshield, anything bright enough, will do the trick. Come, we'll go back tothe trail and follow the break the other way. "

In the dusk of the evening, at the close of the long, hard day, as BrianOakley and Aaron King were starting down the Oak Knoll trail on theirreturn to the ranch, the Ranger uttered an exclamation. His quick eyes hadcaught the twinkling gleam of a light at Sibyl's old home, far below, across the canyon. The next instant, the chestnut, followed by hisfour-footed companion, was going down the steep trail at a pace that sentthe gravel flying and forced the artist, unaccustomed to such riding, tocling desperately to the saddle. Up the canyon road, the Ranger sent thechestnut at a run, nor did he draw rein as they crossed the roughboulder-strewn wash. Plunging through the tumbling water of the creek, the horses scrambled up the farther bank, and dashed along the old, weed-grown road, into the little clearing They were met by Czar with abark of welcome. A moment later, they were greeted by Conrad Lagrange andMyra Willard. 

"But why don't you stay down at the ranch, Myra?" asked the Ranger, whenhe had told them that his day's work was without results. 

"Listen, Mr. Oakley, " returned the woman with the disfigured face. "I knowSibyl too well not to understand the possibilities of her temperament. Natures, fine and sensitive as hers, though brave and cool and strongunder ordinary circumstances, under peculiar mental stress such as Ibelieve caused her to leave us, are easily thrown out of balance. We knownothing. The child may be wandering, alone--dazed and helpless under theshock of a cruel and malicious attempt to wreck her happiness. Only someterrible stress of emotion could have caused her to leave me as she did. If she _is_ alone, out here in the hills, there is a chance that--even inher distracted state of mind--she will find her way to her old home. " Thewoman paused, and then, in the silence, added hesitatingly, "I--I may saythat I know from experience the possibilities of which I speak. "

The three men bowed their heads. Brian Oakley said softly, "Myra, you'vegot more heart and more sense than all of us put together. " To ConradLagrange, he added, "You will stay here with Miss Willard?"

"Yes, " answered the novelist, "I would be little good in the hills, atsuch work as you are doing, Brian. I will do what I can, here. "

When the Ranger and the artist were riding down the canyon to the ranch, the officer said, "There's a big chance that Myra is right, Aaron. Afterall, she knows Sibyl better than any of us, and I can see that she's got afairly clear idea of what sent the child off like this. As it stands now, the girl may be just wandering around. If she _is_, the boys will pick herup before many hours. She may have met with some accident. If _that's_ it, we'll know before long. She may have been--I tell you, Aaron, it's thatautomobile acting the way it did that I can't get around. "

The searchers were all at the ranch when the two men arrived. No one had aword of encouragement to report. A messenger from the Sheriff brought nolight on the mystery of the automobile. The two men who had followed thepipe-line trail had found nothing. A few times, they thought they hadsigns that a horse had been over the trail the night before, but there wasno certainty; and after the pipe-line reached the floor of the canyonthere was absolutely nothing. Jack Carleton was back from the GalenaValley neighborhood, and, with him, was the horseman who had gone down thecanyon the evening before. The man was known to all. He had been hunting, and was on his way home when Henry Carleton and the Ranger had seen him. He had come, now, to help in the search. 

Picking a half dozen men from the party, Brian Oakley sent them to spendthe night riding the higher trails and fire-breaks, watching forcamp-fire lights. The others, he ordered to rest, in readiness to take upthe search at daylight, should the night riders come in without results. 

Aaron King, exhausted, physically and mentally, sank into a stupor thatcould scarcely be called sleep. 

At daybreak, the riders who had been all night on the higher trails andfire-breaks, searching the darkness for the possible gleam of acamp-fire's light, came in. 

All that day--Wednesday--the mountain horsemen rode, widening the area oftheir search under the direction of the Ranger. From sundown until longafter dark, they came straggling wearily back; their horses nearlyexhausted, the riders beginning to fear that Sibyl would never be foundalive. There was no further word from the Sheriff at Fairlands. 

Then suddenly, out of the blackness of the night, a rider from the otherside of the Galenas arrived with the word that the girl's horse had beenfound. The animal was grazing in the neighborhood of Pine Glen. The saddleand the horse's sides were stained with dirt, as if the animal had fallen. The bridle-reins had been broken. The horse might have rolled on thesaddle; he might have stepped on the bridle-reins; he might have fallenand left his rider lying senseless. In any case, they reasoned, the animalwould scarcely have found his way over the Galena range after he had beenleft to wander at will. 

Brian Oakley decided to send the main company of riders over into the PineGlen country, to continue the search there. He knew that the men who foundthe horse would follow the animal's track back as far as possible. Heknew, also, that if the animal had been wandering several hours, as waslikely, it would be impossible to back-track far. Late as it was, AaronKing rode up the canyon to tell Myra Willard and Conrad Lagrange theresult of the day's work. 

The artist's voice trembled as he told the general opinion of themountaineers; but Myra Willard said, "Mr. King, they are wrong. My babywill come back. There's harm come to her no doubt; but she is not deador--I would know it. "

In spite of the fact that Aaron King's reason told him the woman of thedisfigured face had no ground for her belief, he was somehow helped, byher words, to hope. 

Chapter XXXIV

The Tracks on Granite Peak

The searching party was already on the way over to Pine Glen, when BrianOakley stopped at Sibyl's old home for Aaron King. The Ranger, himself, had waited to receive the morning message from the Sheriff. 

When the two men, following the Government trail that leads to theneighborhood where the girl's horse had been found, reached the fire-breakon the summit of the Galenas, the officer said, "Aaron, you'll be oflittle use over there in that Pine Glen country, where you have neverbeen. " He had pulled up his horse and was looking at his companion, steadily. 

"Is there nothing that I can do, Brian?" returned the young man, hopelessly. "God, man! I _must_ do something! I _must_, I tell you!"

"Steady, old boy, steady, " returned the mountaineer's calm voice. "Thefirst thing you must do, you know, is to keep a firm grip on yourself. Ifyou lose your nerve I'll have you on my hands too. "

Under his companion's eye, the artist controlled himself. "You're right, Brian, " he said calmly. "What do you want me to do? You know best, ofcourse. "

The officer, still watching him, said slowly, "I want you to spend theday on that point, up there, "--he pointed to the clump of pines, --"withthis glass. " He turned to take an extra field-glass from his saddle. Handing the glass to the other, he continued "You can see all over thecountry, on the Galena Valley side of this range, from there. " Again hepaused, as though reluctant to give the final word of his instructions. 

The young man looked at him, questioningly. "Yes?"

The Ranger answered in a low tone, "You are to watch for buzzards, Aaron. "

Aaron King went white. "Brian! You think--"

The answer came sharply, "I am not thinking. I don't dare think. I am onlyrecognizing every possibility and letting nothing, _nothing_, get awayfrom me. I don't want _you_ to think. I want you to do the thing that willbe of greatest service. It's because I am afraid you will _think_, that Ihesitate to assign you to the position. "

The sharp words acted like a dash of cold water in the young man's face. Unconsciously, he straightened in his saddle. "Thank you, Brian. Iunderstand. You can depend upon me. "

"Good boy!" came the hearty and instant approval. "If you see anything, goto it; leaving a note here, under a stone on top of this rock; I'll findit to-night, when I come back. If nothing shows up, stay until dark, andthen go down to Carleton's. I'll be in late. The rest of the party willstay over at Pine Glen. "

Alone on the peak where he had sat with Sibyl the day of their last climb, Aaron King watched for the buzzards' telltale, circling flight--and triednot to think. 

It was one o'clock when the artist--resting his eyes for a moment, after along, searching look through the glass--caught, again, that flash of lightin the blue haze that lay over Fairlands in the distant valley. BrianOakley had said, --when they had seen it that first day of thesearch, --that it was a common sight; but the artist, his mind preoccupied, watched the point of light with momentary, idle interest. 

Suddenly, he awoke to the fact that there seemed to be a timed regularityin the flashes. Into his mind came the memory of something he had read ofthe heliograph, and of methods of signalling with mirrors Closely, now, hewatched--three flashes in quick succession--pause--two flashes--pause--oneflash--pause--one flash--pause--two flashes--pause--three flashes--pause. For several minutes the artist waited, his eyes fixed on the distant spotunder the haze. Then the flashes began again, repeating the same order:--- -- - - -- ---. 

At the last flash, the man sprang to his feet, and searched the mountainpeaks and spurs behind him. On lonely Granite Peak, at the far end of theGalena Range, a flash of light caught his eye--then another and another. With an exclamation, he lifted his glass. He could distinguish nothing butthe peak from which had come the flashes. He turned toward the valley tosee a long flash and then--only the haze and the dark spot that he knew tobe the orange groves about Fairlands. 

Aaron King sank, weak and trembling, against the rock. What should he do?What could he do? The signals might mean much. They might mean nothing. Brian Oakley's words that morning, came to him; "I am recognizing everypossibility, and letting nothing _nothing_, get away from me. " Instantly, he was galvanized into life. Idle thinking, wondering, conjecturing couldaccomplish nothing. 

Riding as fast as possible down to the boulder beside the trail, where hewas to leave his message, he wrote a note and placed it under the rock. Then he set out, to ride the fire-break along the top of the range, towardthe distant Granite Peak. An hour's riding took him to the end of thefire-break, and he saw that from there on he must go afoot. 

Tying the bridle-reins over the saddle-horn, and fastening a note to thesaddle, in case any one should find the horse, he turned the animal's headback the way he had come, and, with a sharp blow, started it forward. Heknew that the horse--one of Carleton's--would probably make its way home. Turning, he set his face toward the lonely peak; carrying his canteen andwhat was left of his lunch. 

There was no trail for his feet now. At times, he forced his way throughand over bushes of buckthorn and manzanita that seemed, with their sharpthorns and tangled branches, to be stubbornly fighting him back. At times, he made his way along some steep slope, from pine to pine, where theground was slippery with the brown needles, and where to lose his footingmeant a fall of a thousand feet. Again, he scaled some rocky cliff, clinging with his fingers to jutting points of rock, finding niches andprojections for his feet; or, with the help of vine and root and bush, found a way down some seemingly impossible precipice. Now and then, fromsome higher point, he sighted Granite Peak. Often, he saw, far below, onone hand the great canyon, and on the other the wide Galena Valley. Alwayshe pushed forward. His face was scratched and stained; his clothing wastorn by the bushes; his hands were bloody from the sharp rocks; his bodyreeked with sweat; his breath came in struggling gasps; but he would notstop. He felt himself driven, as it were, by some inner power that madehim insensible to hardship or death. Far behind him, the sun dropped belowthe sky-line of the distant San Gabriels, but he did not notice. Only whenthe dusk of the coming night was upon him, did he realize that the day wasgone. 

On a narrow shelf, in the lee of a great cliff, he hastily gatheredmaterial for a fire, and, with his back to the rock, ate a little of thefood he carried. Far up on that wind-swept, mountain ridge, the night wasbitter cold. Again and again he aroused himself from the weary stupor thatnumbed his senses, and replenished the fire, or forced himself to pace toand fro upon the ledge. Overhead, he saw the stars glittering with astrange brilliancy. In the canyon, far below, there were a few twinklinglights to mark the Carleton ranch, and the old home of Sibyl, where ConradLagrange and Myra Willard waited. Miles away, the lights of the townsamong the orange groves, twinkled like feeble stars in another feebleworld. The cold wind moaned and wailed in the dark pines and swirled aboutthe cliff in sudden gusts. A cougar screamed somewhere on themountainside below. An answering scream came from the ledge above hishead. The artist threw more fuel upon his fire, and grimly walked hisbeat. 

In the cold, gray dawn of that Friday morning, he ate a few mouthfuls ofhis scanty store of food and, as soon as it was light, --even while thecanyon below was still in the gloom, --started on his way. 

It was eleven o'clock when, almost exhausted, he reached what he knew mustbe the peak that he had seen through his glass the day before. There waslittle or no vegetation upon that high, wind-swept point. The side towardthe distant peak from which the artist had seen the signals, was an abruptcliff--hundreds of feet of sheer, granite rock. From the rim of thisprecipice, the peak sloped gradually down and back to the edge of thepines that grew about its base. The ground in the open space was bare andhard. 

Carefully, Aaron King searched--as he had seen the Ranger do--for signs. Beginning at a spot near the edge of the cliff, he worked gradually, backand forth, in ever widening arcs, toward the pines below. He was almostready to give up in despair, cursing himself for being such a fool as tothink that he could pick up a trail, when, clearly marked in a bit ofsofter soil, he saw the print of a hob-nailed boot. 

Instantly the man's weariness was gone. The long, hard way he had come wasforgotten. Insensible, now, to hunger and fatigue, he moved eagerly in thedirection the boot-track pointed. He was rewarded by another track. Then, as he moved nearer the softer ground, toward the trees, another andanother and then--

The man--worn by his physical exertion, and by his days of mentalanguish--for a moment, lost control of himself. Clearly marked, beside thebroad track of the heavier, man's boot, was the unmistakable print of asmaller, lighter foot. 

For a moment he stood with clenched fists and heaving breast; then, withgrim eagerness, with every sense supernaturally alert, with nerves tense, quick eyes and ready muscles, he went forward on the trail. 

 * * * * *

It was after dark, that night, when Brian Oakley, on his way back to ClearCreek, stopped at the rock where the artist had left his note. 

Reaching the floor of the canyon, he crossed to tell Myra Willard and thenovelist the result of the day's search. The men riding in the vicinity ofPine Glen had found nothing. It had been--as the Rangerexpected--impossible to follow back for any distance on the track of theroaming horse, for the animal had been grazing about the Pine Glenneighborhood for at least a day. Over the note left by Aaron King, themountaineer shook his head doubtfully. Aaron had done right to go. But forone of his inexperience, the way along the crest of the Galenas waspractically impossible. If the young man had known, he could have made thetrip much easier by returning to Clear Creek and following up to the headof that canyon, then climbing to the crest of the divide, and so around toGranite Peak. The Ranger, himself, would start, at daybreak, for thepeak, by that route; and would come back along the crest of the range, tofind the artist. 

At Carleton's, they told the officer that Aaron's horse had come in. JackCarleton and his father arrived from the country above Lone Cabin andBurnt Pine, a few minutes after Brian Oakley reached the ranch. It wasagreed that Henry should join the searchers at Pine Glen, atdaybreak--lest any one should have seen the artist's camp-fire, thatnight, and so lose precious time going to it--and that Jack shouldaccompany the Ranger to Granite Peak. 

Henry Carleton had gone on his way to Pine Glen, and Brian Oakley and Jackwere in the saddle, ready to start up the canyon, the next morning, when amessenger from the Sheriff arrived. An automobile had been seen returningfrom the mountains, about two o'clock that night. There was only one manin the car. 

"Jack, " said the Ranger, "Aaron has got hold of the right end of this, with his mirror flashes. You've got to go up the canyon alone. Get toGranite Peak as quick as God will let you, and pick up the trail ofwhoever signalled from there; keeping one eye open for Aaron. I'm going totrail that automobile as far as it went, and follow whatever met or leftit. We'll likely meet somewhere, over in the Cold Water country. "

A minute later the two men who had planned to ride together were going inopposite directions. 

Following the Fairlands road until he came to where the Galena Valley roadbranches off from the Clear Creek way, three miles below the Power-Houseat the mouth of the canyon, Brian Oakley found the tracks of anautomobile--made without doubt, during the night just past. The machinehad gone up the Galena Valley road, and had returned. 

A little before noon, the officer stood where the automobile had stoppedand turned around for the return trip. The place was well up toward thehead of the valley, near the mouth of a canyon that leads upward towardGranite Peak. An hour's careful work, and the Ranger uncovered a smallstore of supplies; hidden a quarter of a mile up the canyon. There weretracks leading away up the side of the mountain. Turning his horse looseto find its way home; Brian Oakley, without stopping for lunch, set out onthe trail. 

 * * * * *

High up on Granite Peak, Aaron King was bending over the print of aslender shoe, beside the track of a heavy hob-nailed boot. Somewhere inClear Creek canyon, Jack Carleton was riding to gain the point where theartist stood. At the foot of the mountain, on the other side of the range, Brian Oakley was setting out to follow the faint trail that started at thesupplies brought by the automobile, in the night, from Fairlands. 

Chapter XXXV

A Hard Way

When Sibyl Andrés left the studio, after meeting Mrs. Taine, her mind wasdominated by one thought--that she must get away from the world that sawonly evil in her friendship with Aaron King--a friendship that, to themountain girl, was as pure as her relations to Myra Willard or BrianOakley. 

Under the watchful, experienced care of the woman with the disfiguredface, only the worthy had been permitted to enter into the life of thischild of the hills. Sibyl's character--mind and heart and body andsoul--had been formed by the strength and purity of her mountainenvironment; by her association with her parents, with Myra Willard, andwith her parents' life-long friends; and by her mental comradeship withthe greatest spirits that music and literature have given to the world. Asher physical strength and beauty was the gift of her free mountain life, the beauty and strength of her pure spirit was the gift of those kindredspirits that are as mountains in the mental and spiritual life of therace. 

Love had come to Sibyl Andrés, not as it comes to those girls who, in thehot-house of passion we call civilization, are forced into premature andsickly bloom by an atmosphere of sensuality. Love had come to her sogently, so naturally, so like the opening of a wild flower, that she hadnot yet understood that it was love. Even as her womanhood had come tofulfill her girlhood, so Aaron King had come into her life to fulfill herwomanhood. She had chosen her mate with an unconscious obedience to thelaws of life that was divinely reckless of the world. 

Myra Willard, wise in her experience, and in her more than mother love forSibyl, saw and recognized that which the girl herself did not yetunderstand. Satisfied as to the character of Aaron King, as it had beentested in those days of unhampered companionship; and seeing, as well, hisgrowing love for the girl, the woman had been content not to meddle withthat which she conceived to be the work of God. And why not the work ofGod? Should the development, the blossoming, and the fruiting of humanlives, that the race may flower and fruit, be held less a work of divinitythan the plants that mature and blossom and reproduce themselves in theirchildren?

The character of Mrs. Taine represented those forces in life that are, inevery way, antagonistic to the forces that make the character of a SibylAndrés possible. In a spirit of wanton, selfish cruelty, that was born ofher worldly environment and training, "The Age" had twisted and distortedthe very virtues of "Nature" into something as hideously ugly and vile asher own thoughts. The woman--product of gross materialism andsensuality--had caught in her licentious hands God's human flower and hadcrushed its beauty with deliberate purpose. Wounded, frightened, dismayed, not understanding, unable to deny, the girl turned in reluctantflight from the place that was, to her, because of her love, holy ground. 

It was impossible for Sibyl not to believe Mrs. Taine--the woman hadspoken so kindly; had seemed so reluctant to speak at all; had appeared soto appreciate her innocence. A thousand trivial and unimportant incidents, that, in the light of the worldly woman's words, could be twisted toevidence the truth of the things she said, came crowding in upon thegirl's mind. Instead of helping Aaron King with his work, instead of trulyenjoying life with him, as she had thought, her friendship was to him amenace, a danger. She had believed--and the belief had brought her astrange happiness--that he had cared for her companionship. He had caredonly to use her for his pictures--as he used his brushes. He had playedwith her--as she had seen him toy idly with a brush, while thinking overhis work. He would throw her aside, when she had served his purpose, asshe had seen him throw a worn-out brush aside. 

The woman who was still a child could not blame the artist--she was tooloyal to what she had thought was their friendship; she was too unselfishin her yet unrecognized love for her chosen mate. No, she could not blamehim--only--only--she wished--oh how she wished--that she had understood. It would not have hurt so, perhaps, if she had understood. 

In all the cruel tangle of her emotions, in all her confused andbewildering thoughts, in all her suffering one thing was clear; she mustget away from the world that could see only evil--she must go at once. Conrad Lagrange and Aaron King might come at any moment. She could notface them; now that she knew. She wished Myra was home. But she wouldleave a little note and Myra--dear Myra with her disfigured face--wouldunderstand. 

Quickly, the girl wrote her letter. Hurriedly, she dressed in her mountaincostume. Still acting under her blind impulse to escape, she made noexplanations to the neighbors, when she went for the horse. In her desireto avoid coming face to face with any one, she even chose the moreunfrequented streets through the orange groves. In her humiliation andshame, she wished for the kindly darkness of the night. Not until she hadleft the city far behind, and, in the soft dusk, drew near the mouth ofthe canyon, did she regain some measure of her self-control. 

As she was overtaking the Power Company's team and wagon of supplies, sheturned in her saddle, for the first time, to look back. A mile away, onthe road, she could see a cloud of dust and a dark, moving spot which sheknew to be an automobile. One of the Company machines, she thought; anddrew a breath of relief that Fairlands was so far away. 

It was quite dark as she entered the canyon; but, as she drew near, shecould see against the sky, those great gates, opening silently, majestically to receive her. From within the canyon, she watched, as sherode, to see them slowly close again. The sight of the encircling peaksand ridges, rising in solemn grandeur out of the darkness into the lightof the stars, comforted her. The night wind, drawing down the canyon, wassweet and bracing with the odor of the hills. The roar of the tumblingClear Creek, filling the night with its deep-toned music, soothed andcalmed her troubled mind. Presently, she would be with her friends, and, somehow, all would be well. 

The girl had ridden half the distance, perhaps, from the canyon gates tothe Ranger Station when, above the roar of the mountain stream, her quickear caught the sound of an automobile, behind her. Looking back, she sawthe gleam of the lights, like two great eyes in the darkness. A Companymachine, going up to the Head-Work, she thought. Or, perhaps the Doctor, to see some one of the mountain folk. 

As the automobile drew nearer, she reined her horse out of the road, andhalted in the thick chaparral to let it pass. The blazing lights, as herhorse turned to face the approaching machine, blinded her. The animalrestive under the ordeal, demanded all her attention. She scarcely noticedthat the automobile had slowed down, when within a few feet of her, untila man, suddenly, stood at her horse's head; his hand on the bridle-rein asthough to assist her. At the same instant, the machine moved past them, and stopped; its engine still running. 

Still with the thought of the Company men in her mind, the girl saw onlytheir usual courtesy. "Thank you, " she said, "I can handle him verynicely. "

But the man--whom she had not had time to see, blinded as she had been bythe light, and who was now only dimly visible in the darkness--steppedclose to the horse's shoulder, as if to make himself more easily heardabove the noise of the machine, his hand still holding the bridle-rein. 

"It is Miss Andrés, is it not?" He spoke as though he was known to her;and the girl--still thinking that it was one of the Company men, andfeeling that he expected her to recognize him--leaned forward to see hisface, as she answered. 

Instantly, the stranger--standing close and taking advantage of the girl'sposition as she stooped toward him from the saddle--caught her in hispowerful arms and lifted her to the ground. At the same moment, the man'scompanion who, under cover of the darkness and the noise of the machine, had drawn close to the other side of the horse, caught the bridle-rein. 

Before the girl, taken so off her guard could cry out, a softly-rolled, silk handkerchief was thrust between her lips and skillfully tied inplace. She struggled desperately; but, against the powerful arms of hercaptor, her splendid, young strength was useless. As he bound her hands, the man spoke reassuringly; "Don't fight, Miss. I'm not going to hurt you. I've got to do this; but I'll be as easy as I can. It will do you no goodto wear yourself out. "

Frightened as she was, the girl felt that the stranger was as gentle asthe circumstances permitted him to be. He had not, in fact, hurt her atall; and, in his voice, she caught a tone of genuine regret. He seemed tobe acting wholly against his will; as if driven by some power thatrendered him, in fact, as helpless as his victim. 

The other man, still standing by the horse's head, spoke sharply; "Allright there?"

"All right, sir, " gruffly answered the man who held Sibyl, and lifting thehelpless girl gently in his arms he seated her carefully in the machine. An automobile-coat was thrown around her, the high collar turned up tohide the handkerchief about her lips, and her hat was replaced by an"auto-cap, " pulled low. Then her captor went back to the horse; the otherman took the seat beside her; and the car moved forward. 

The girl's fright now gave way to perfect coolness. Realizing theuselessness of any effort to escape, she wisely saved her strength;watchful to take quick advantage of any opportunity that might presentitself. Silently, she worked at her bonds, and endeavored to release thebandage that prevented her from crying out. But the hands that had boundher had been too skillful. Turning her head, she tried to see hercompanion's face. But, in the darkness, with upturned collar and cappulled low over "auto-glasses, " the identity of the man driving the carwas effectually hidden. 

Only when they were passing the Ranger Station and Sibyl saw the lightsthrough the trees, did she, for a moment, renew her struggle. With all herstrength she strained to release her hands. One cry from her strong, youngvoice would bring Brian Oakley so quickly after the automobile that hersafety would be assured. On that mountain road, the chestnut would soonrun them down. She even tried to throw herself from the car; but, bound asshe was, the hand of her companion easily prevented, and she sank back inthe seat, exhausted by her useless exertion. 

At the foot of the Oak Knoll trail the automobile stopped. The man whohad been following on Sibyl's horse came up quickly. Swiftly, the two menworked; placing sacks of supplies and blankets--as the girl guessed--onthe animal. Presently, the one who had bound her, lifted her gently fromthe automobile "Don't hurt yourself, Miss, " he said in her ear, as hecarried her toward the horse. "It will do you no good. " And the girl didnot again resist, as he lifted her to the saddle. 

The driver of the car said something to his companion in a low tone, andSibyl heard her captor answer, "The girl will be as safe with me as if shewere in her own home. "

Again, the other spoke, and the girl heard only the reply; "Don't worry; Iunderstand that. I'll go through with it. You've left me no chance to doanything else. "

Then, stepping to the horse's head and taking the bridle-rein, the man whoseemed to be under orders, led the way up the canyon. Behind them, thegirl heard the automobile starting on its return. The sound died away inthe distance. The silence of the night was disturbed only by the sound ofthe man's hob-nailed boots and the horse's iron-shod feet on the road. 

Once, her captor halted a moment, and, coming to the horse's shoulder, asked if she was comfortable. The girl bowed her head. "I'm sorry for thatgag, " he said. "As soon as it's safe, I'll remove it; but I dare not takechances. " He turned abruptly away and they went on. 

Dimly, Sibyl saw, in her companion's manner, a ray of hope. That noimmediate danger threatened, she was assured. That the man was actingagainst his will, was as evident. Wisely, she resolved to bend her effortstoward enlisting his sympathies, --to make it hard for him to carry out thepurpose of whoever controlled him, --instead of antagonizing him bycontinued resistance and repeated attempts to escape, and so making iteasier for him to do his master's bidding. 

Leaving the canyon by the Laurel Creek trail, they reached Burnt Pine, where the man removed the handkerchief that sealed the girl's lips. 

"Oh, thank you, " she said quietly. "That is so much better. "

"I'm sorry that I had to do it, " he returned, as he unbound her arms. "There, you may get down now, and rest, while I fix a bit of lunch foryou. "

The girl sprang to the ground. "It is a relief to be free, " she said. "But, really, I'm not a bit tired. Can't I help you with the pack?"

"No, " returned the other, gruffly, as though he understood her purpose andput himself on his guard. "We'll only be here a few minutes, and it's along road ahead. You must rest. "

Obediently, she sat down on the ground, her back against a tree. 

As they lunched, in the dim light of the stars, she said, "May I ask whereyou are taking me?"

"It's a long road, Miss Andrés. We'll be there to-morrow night, " heanswered reluctantly. 

Again, she ventured timidly; "And is, is--some one waiting for--for us, atthe end of our journey?"

The man's voice was kinder as he answered, "no, Miss Andrés; there'll hejust you and me, for some time. And, " he added, "you don't need to fear_me_. "

"I am not at all afraid of you, " she returned gently. "But I am--" shehesitated--"I am sorry for you--that you have to do this. "

The man arose abruptly. "We must he going. "

For some distance beyond Burnt Pine, they kept to the Laurel Creek trail, toward San Gorgonio; then they turned aside to follow some unmarked way, known only to the man. When the first soft tints of the day shone in thesky behind the peaks and ridges, while Sibyl's friends were assembling atthe Carleton Ranch in Clear Creek Canyon, and Brian Oakley was directingthe day's search, the girl was following her guide in the wild depths ofthe mountain wilderness, miles from any trail. The country was strange toher, but she knew that they were making their way, far above the canyonrim, on the side of the San Bernardino range, toward the distant ColdWater country that opened into the great desert beyond. 

As the light grew stronger, Sibyl saw her companion a man of mediumheight, with powerful shoulders and arms; dressed in khaki, with mountainboots. Under his arm, as he led the way with a powerful stride that toldof almost tireless strength, the girl saw the familiar stock of aWinchester rifle. Presently he halted, and as he turned, she saw his face. It was not a bad face. A heavy beard hid mouth and cheek and throat, butthe nose was not coarse or brutal, and the brow was broad and intelligent. In the brown eyes there was, the girl thought, a look of wistful sadness, as though there were memories that could not be escaped. 

"We will have breakfast here, if you please, Miss Andrés, " he saidgravely. 

"I'm so hungry, " she answered, dismounting. "May I make the coffee?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry; but there must be no telltale smoke. TheRanger and his riders are out by now, as like as not. "

"You seem very familiar with the country, " she said, moving easily towardthe rifle which he had leaned against a tree, while he busied himself withthe pack of supplies. 

"I am, " he answered. "I have been forced to learn it thoroughly. By theway, Miss Andrés, "--he added, without turning his head, as he knelt on theground to take food from the pack, --"that Winchester will do you no good. It is not loaded. I have the shells in my belt. " He arose, facing her, andthrowing open his coat, touched the butt of a Colt forty-five that hung ina shoulder holster under his left armpit. "This will serve in case quickaction is needed, and it is always safely out of your reach, you see. "

The girl laughed. "I admit that I was tempted, " she said. "I might haveknown that you put the rifle within my reach to try me. "

"I thought it would save you needless disappointment to make things clearat once, " he answered. "Breakfast is ready. "

The incident threw a strong light upon the character with which Sibyl hadto deal. She realized, more than ever, that her only hope lay in sowinning this man's sympathies and friendship that he would turn againstwhoever had forced him into his present position. The struggle was to beone of those silent battles of the spirit, where the forces that war arenot seen but only felt, and where those who fight must often fight withsmiling faces. The girl's part was to enlist her captor to fight for her, against himself. She saw, as clearly, the need of approaching her objectwith caution. Eager to know who it was that ruled this man, and by whatpeculiar power a character so strong could be so subjected, she dared notask. Hour after hour, as they journeyed deeper and deeper into themountain wilds, she watched and waited for some sign that her companion'smood would make it safe for her to approach him. Meanwhile, she exercisedall her womanly tact to lead him to forget his distasteful position, andso to make his uncongenial task as pleasant as possible. 

The girl did not realize how far her decision, in itself, aroused theadmiring sympathy of her captor. Her coolness, self-possession, andbravery in meeting the situation with calm, watchful readiness, ratherthan with hysterical moaning and frantic pleading, did more than sherealized toward accomplishing her purpose. 

During that long forenoon, she sought to engage her guide in conversation, quite as though they were making a pleasure trip that was mutuallyagreeable. The man--as though he also desired his thoughts removed as faras might be from his real mission--responded readily, and succeeded inmaking himself a really interesting companion. Only once, did the girlventure to approach dangerous ground. 

"Really, " she said, "I wish I knew your name. It seems so stupid not toknow how to address you. Is that asking too much?"

The man did not answer for some time, and the girl saw his face cloudedwith somber thought. 

"I beg your pardon, " she said gently. "I--I ought not to have asked. "

"My name is Henry Marston, Miss Andrés, " he said deliberately. "But it isnot the name by which I am known these days, " he added bitterly. "It is anhonorable name, and I would like to hear it again--" he paused--"fromyou. "

Sibyl returned gently, "Thank you, Mr. Marston--believe me, I doappreciate your confidence, and--" she in turn hesitated--"and I will keepthe trust. "

By noon, they had reached Granite Peak in the Galenas, having come by anunmarked way, through the wild country around the head of Clear CreekCanyon. 

They had finished lunch, when Marston, looking at his watch, took a smallmirror from his pocket and stood gazing expectantly toward the distantvalley where Fairlands lay under the blue haze. Presently, a flash oflight appeared; then another and another. It was the signal that AaronKing had seen and to which he had called Brian Oakley's attention, thatfirst day of their search. 

With his mirror, the man on Granite Peak answered and the girl, watchingand understanding that he was communicating with some one, saw his facegrow dark with anger. She did not speak. 

They had traveled a half mile, perhaps, from the peak, when the man againstopped, saying, "You must dismount here, please. "

Removing the things from the saddle, he led the horse a little way downthe Galena Valley side of the ridge, and tied the reins to a tree. Then, slapping the animal about the head with his open hand, he forced the horseto break the reins, and started him off toward the distant valley. Again, the girl understood and made no comment. 

Lifting the pack to his own strong shoulders, her companion--his eyesavoiding hers in shame--said gruffly, "Come. "

Their way, now, led down from the higher levels of peak and ridge, intothe canyons and gorges of the Cold Water country. There was no trail, butthe man went forward as one entirely at home. At the head of a deep gorge, where their way seemed barred by the face of an impossible cliff thattowered above their heads a thousand feet and dropped, another thousand, sheer to the tops of the pines below, he halted and faced the girl, enquiringly. "You have a good head, Miss Andrés?"

Sibyl smiled. "I was born in the mountains, Mr. Marston, " she answered. "You need not fear for me. "

Drawing near to the very brink of the precipice, he led her, by a narrowledge, across the face of the cliff; and then, by an easier path, down theopposite wall of the gorge. 

It was late in the afternoon when they arrived at a little log cabinthat was so hidden in the wild tangle of mountain growth at the bottom ofthe narrow canyon as to be invisible from a distance of a hundred yards. 

The girl knew that they had reached the end of their journey. Nearlyexhausted by the hours of physical exertion, and worn with the mental andnervous strain, she sank down upon the blankets that her companion spreadfor her upon the ground. 

"As soon as it is dark, I will cook a hot supper for you, " he said, regarding her kindly. "Poor child, this has been a hard, hard, day foryou. For me--"

Fighting to keep back the tears, she tried to thank him. For a moment hestood looking down at her. Then she saw his face grow black with rage, and, clenching his great fists, he turned away. 

While waiting for the darkness that would hide the smoke of the fire, theman gathered cedar boughs from trees near-by, and made a comfortable bedin the cabin, for the girl. As soon as it was dark, he built a fire in therude fire-place, and, in a few minutes, announced supper. The meal wasreally excellent; and Sibyl, in spite of her situation, ate heartily;which won an admiring comment from her captor. 

The meal finished, he said awkwardly, "I want to thank you, Miss Andrés, for making this day as easy for me as you have. We will be alone here, until Friday, at least; perhaps longer. There is a bar to the cabin door. You may rest here as safely as though you were in your own room. Goodnight. "

Before she could answer, he was gone. 

A few minutes later, Sibyl stood in the open door. "Mr. Marston, " shecalled. 

"Yes, Miss Andrés, " came, instantly, out of the darkness. 

"Please come into the cabin. "

There was no answer. 

"It will be cold out there. Please come inside. "

"Thank you, Miss Andrés; but I will do very nicely. Bar the door and go tosleep. "

"But, Mr. Marston, I will sleep better if I know that you arecomfortable. "

The man came to her and she saw him in the dim light of the fire, standinghat in hand. He spoke wonderingly. "Do you mean, Miss Andrés, that youwould not be afraid to sleep, if I occupied the cabin with you?"

"No, " she answered, "I am not afraid. Come in. "

But he did not move to cross the threshold. "And why are you not afraid?"he asked curiously. 

"Because, " she answered, "I know that you are a gentleman. "

The man laughed harshly--such a laugh as Sibyl had never before heard. "Agentleman! This is the first time I have heard that word in connectionwith myself for many a year, Miss Andrés. You have little reason for usingit--after what I have done to you--and am doing. "

"Oh, but you see, I know that you are forced to do what you are doing. You_are_ a gentleman, Mr. Marston. --Won't you please come in and sleep by thefire? You will be so uncomfortable out there. And you have had such a hardday. "

"God bless you, for your good heart, Miss Andrés, " the man said brokenly. "But I will not intrude upon your privacy to-night. Don't you see, " headded savagely, "don't you see that I--I _can't?_ Bar your door, please, and let me play the part assigned to me. Your kindness to me, yourconfidence in me, is wasted. "

He turned abruptly away and disappeared in the darkness. 

Chapter XXXVI

What Should He Do

The next morning, it was evident to Sibyl Andrés that the man who said hisname was Henry Marston had not slept. 

All that day, she watched the battle--saw him fighting with himself. Hekept apart from her, and spoke but little. When night came, as soon assupper was over, he again left the cabin, to spend the long, dark hours ina struggle that the girl could only dimly sense. She could not understand;but she felt him fighting, fighting; and she knew that he fought for her. What was it? What terrible unseen force mastered this man, --compelled himto do its bidding, --even while he hated and loathed himself forsubmitting?

Watchful, ready, hoping, despairing, the helpless girl could only praythat her companion might be given strength. 

The following morning, at breakfast, he told her that he must go toGranite Peak to signal. His orders were to lock her in the cabin, and togo alone; but he would not. She might go with him, if she chose. 

Even this crumb of encouragement--that he would so far disobey hismaster--filled the girl's heart with hope. "I would love to go with you, Mr. Marston, " she said, "but if it is going to make trouble for you, Iwould rather stay. "

"You mean that you would rather be locked up in the cabin all day, than tomake trouble for me?" he asked. 

"It wouldn't be so terrible, " she answered, "and I would like to dosomething--something to--to show you that I appreciate your, kindness tome. There's nothing else I _can_ do, is there?"

The man looked at her wonderingly. It was impossible to doubt hersincerity. And Sibyl, as she saw his face, knew that she had never beforewitnessed such mental and spiritual anguish. The eyes that looked intohers so questioningly, so pleadingly, were the eyes of a soul in torment. Her own eyes filled with tears that she could not hide, and she turnedaway. 

At last he said slowly, "No, Miss Andrés, you shall not stay in the cabinto-day. Come; we must go on, or I shall be late. "

At Granite Peak, Sibyl watched the signal flashes from distantFairlands--the flashes that Aaron King was watching, from the peak wherethey had sat together that day of their last climb. As the man answeredthe signals with his mirror, and the girl beside him watched, the artistwas training his glass upon the spot where they stood; but, partiallyconcealed as they were, the distance was too great. 

When Sibyl's captor turned, after receiving the message conveyed by theflashes of light, his face was terrible to see; and the girl, withoutasking, knew that the crisis was drawing near. Deadly fear gripped herheart; but she was strangely calm. On the way back to the cabin, the manscarcely spoke, but walked with bent head; and the girl felt him fighting, fighting. She longed to cry out, to plead with him, to demand that he tellher why he must do this thing; but she dared not. She knew, instinctivelythat he must fight alone. So she watched and waited and prayed. As theywere crossing the face of the canyon wall, on the narrow ledge, the manstopped and, as though forgetting the girl's presence, stood lookingmoodily down into the depths below. Then they went on. That night, he didnot leave the cabin as soon as they had finished their evening meal, butsat on one of the rude seats with which the little hut was furnished, gazing into the fire. 

The girl's heart beat quicker, as he said, "Miss Andrés, I would like toask your opinion in a matter that I cannot decide satisfactorily tomyself. "

She took the seat on the other side of the rude fireplace. 

"What is it, Mr. Marston?"

"I will put it in the form of a story, " he answered. Then, after a wait ofsome minutes, as though he found it hard to begin, he said, "It is an oldstory, Miss Andrés; a very common one, but with a difference. A young man, with every chance in the world to go right, went wrong. He was well-born. He was fairly well educated. His father was a man of influence andconsiderable means. He had many friends, good and bad. I do not think theman was intentionally bad, but I do not excuse him. He was a fool--that'sall--a fool. And, as fools must, he paid the price of his foolishness. 

"A sentence of thirty years in the penitentiary is a big price for a youngman to pay for being a fool, Miss Andrés. He was twenty-five when he wentin--strong and vigorous, with a good mind; the prospects years of prisonlife--but that's not the story. I could not hope to make you understandwhat a thirty years sentence to the penitentiary means to a man oftwenty-five. But, at least, you will not wonder that the man watched foran opportunity to escape. He prayed for an opportunity. For tenyears, --ten years, --Miss Andrés, the man watched and prayed for a chanceto escape. Then he got away. 

"He was never a criminal at heart, you must understand. He had no wish, now, to live a life of crime. He wished only to live a sane, orderly, useful, life of freedom. They hunted him to the mountains. They could nottake him, but they made it impossible for him to escape--he wasstarving--dying. He would not give himself up to the twenty years of hellthat waited him. He did not want to die--but he would die rather than goback. 

"Then, one day, when he was very near the end, a man found him. The poorhunted devil of a convict aroused his pity. He offered help. He gave thewretched, starving creature food. He arranged to furnish him withsupplies, until it would be safe for him to leave his hiding place. Hebrought him food and clothing and books. Later, when the convict's prisonpallor was gone, when his hair and beard were grown, and the prison mannerand walk were, in some measure, forgotten; when the officers, thinkingthat he had perished in the mountains, had given up looking for him; hisbenefactor gave him work--beautiful work in the orange groves--where hewas safe and happy and useful and could feel himself a _man_. 

"Do you wonder, Miss Andrés, that the man was grateful? Do you wonder thathe worshipped his benefactor--that he looked upon his friend as upon hissavior?"

"No, " said the girl, "I do not wonder. It was a beautiful thing to do--tohelp the poor fellow who wanted to do right. I do not wonder that the manwho had escaped, loved his friend. "

"But listen, " said the other, "when the convict was beginning to feelsafe; when he saw that he was out of danger; when he was living anhonorable, happy life, instead of spending his days in the hell they callprison; when he was looking forward to years of happiness instead of toyears of torment; then his benefactor came to him suddenly, one day, andsaid, 'Unless you do what I tell you, now--unless you help me to somethingthat I want, I will send you back to prison. Do as I say, and your lifeshall go on as it is--as you have planned. Refuse, and I will turn youover to the officers, and you will go back to your hell for the remainderof your life. '

"Do you wonder, Miss Andrés, that the convict obeyed his master?"

The girl's face was white with despair, but she did not lose herself-control. She answered the man, thoughtfully--as though they werediscussing some situation in which neither had a vital interest. "I think, Mr. Marston, " she said, "that it would depend upon what it was that theman wanted the convict to do. It seems to me that I can imagine theconvict being happier in prison, knowing that he had not done what the manwanted, than he would he, free, remembering what he had done to gain hisfreedom. What was it the man wanted?"

Breathlessly, Sibyl waited the answer. 

The man on the other side of the fire did not speak. 

At last, in a voice hoarse with emotion, Henry Marston said, "Freedom anda life of honorable usefulness purchased at a price, or hell, with onlythe memory of a good deed--which should the man choose, Miss Andrés?"

"I think, " she replied, "that you should tell me, plainly, what it wasthat the man wanted the convict to do. "

"I will go on with the story, " said the other. 

"The convict's benefactor--or, perhaps I should say, master--loved a womanwho refused to listen to him. The girl, for some reason, left home, verysuddenly and unexpectedly to any one. She left a hurried note, saying, only, that she was going away. By accident, the man found the note and sawhis opportunity. He guessed that the girl would go to friends in themountains. He saw that if he could intercept her, and keep her hidden, noone would know what had become of her. He believed that she would marryhim rather than face the world after spending so many days with him alone, because her manner of leaving home would lend color to the story that shehad gone with him. Their marriage would save her good name. He wanted theman whom he could send back to prison to help him. 

"The convict had known his benefactor's kindness of heart, you mustremember, Miss Andrés. He knew that this man was able to give his wifeeverything that seems desirable in life--that thousands of women wouldhave been glad to marry him. The man assured the convict that he desiredonly to make the girl his wife before all the world. He agreed that sheshould remain under the convict's protection until she _was_ his wife, andthat the convict should, himself, witness the ceremony. " The man paused. 

When the girl did not speak, he said again, "Do you wonder, Miss Andrés, that the convict obeyed his master?"

"No, " said the girl, softly, "I do not wonder. But, Mr. Marston, " shecontinued, hesitatingly, "what do you think the convict in your storywould have done if the man had not--if he had not wanted to marry thegirl?"

"I know what he would have done in that case, " the other answered withconviction. "He would have gone back to his twenty years of hell. He wouldhave gone back to fifty years of hell, if need be, rather than buy hisfreedom at such a price. "

The girl leaned forward, eagerly; "And suppose--suppose--that after theconvict had done his master's bidding--suppose that after he had taken thegirl away from her friends--suppose, then, the man would not marry her?"

For a moment there was no sound in the little room, save the crackling ofthe fire in the fire-place, and the sound of a stick that had burned intwo, falling in the ashes. 

"What would the convict do if the man would not marry the girl?" persistedSibyl. 

Her companion spoke with the solemnity of a judge passing sentence; "Ifthe man violated his word--if he lied to the convict--if his purposetoward the girl was anything less than an honorable marriage--if herefused to keep his promise after the convict had done his part--he woulddie, Miss Andrés. The convict would kill his benefactor--as surely asthere is a just God who, alone, can say what is right and what is wrong. "

The girl uttered a low cry. 

The man did not seem to notice. "But the man will do as he promised, MissAndrés. He wishes to make the girl his wife. He can give her all thatwomen, these days, seem to desire in marriage. In the eyes of the world, she would be envied by thousands. And the convict would gain freedom andthe right to live an honorable life--the right to earn his bread by doingan honest man's work. Freedom and a life of honorable service, at theprice; or hell, with only the memory of a good deed--which should hechoose, Miss Andrés? The convict is past deciding for himself. "

The troubled answer came out of the honesty of the girl's heart; "Mr. Marston, I do not know. "

A moment, the man on the other side of the fireplace waited. Then, rising, he quietly left the cabin. The girl did not know that he was gone, untilshe heard the door close. 

 * * * * *

In that log hut, hidden in the deep gorge, in the wild Cold Water country, Sibyl Andrés sat before the dying fire, waiting for the dawn. On a high, wind-swept ledge in the Galena mountains, Aaron King grimly walked hisweary beat. In Clear Creek Canyon, Myra Willard and Conrad Lagrangewaited, and Brian Oakley planned for the morrow. Over in the GalenaValley, an automobile from Fairlands stopped at the mouth of a canyonleading toward Granite Peak. Somewhere, in the darkness of the night, aman strove to know right from wrong. 

Chapter XXXVII

The Man Was Insane

Neither Sibyl Andrés nor her companion, the next morning, reopened theirconversation of the night before. Each was preoccupied and silent, withtroubled thoughts that might not be spoken. 

Often, as the forenoon passed, Sibyl saw the man listening, as though fora step on the mountainside above. She knew, without being told, that theconvict was expecting his master. It was, perhaps, ten o'clock, when theyheard a sound that told them some one was approaching. 

The man caught up his rifle and slipped a round of cartridges into themagazine; saying to the girl, "Go into the cabin and bar the door; quick, do as I say! Don't come out until I call you. "

She obeyed; and the convict, himself, rifle in hand, disappeared in theheavy underbrush. 

A few minutes later, James Rutlidge parted the bushes and stepped into thelittle open space in front of the cabin. The convict reappeared, his rifleunder his arm. 

The new-comer greeted the man whom Sibyl knew as Henry Marston, with, "Hello, George, everything all right? Where is she?"

"Miss Andrés is in the cabin. When I heard you coming, I asked her to goinside, and took cover in the brush, myself, until I knew for sure that itwas you. "

Rutlidge laughed. "You are all right, George. But you needn't worry. Everything is as peaceful as a graveyard. They've found the horse, andthey think now that the girl killed herself, or met with an accident whilewandering around the hills in a state of mental aberration. "

"You left the supplies at the same old place, I suppose?" said theconvict. 

"Yes, I brought what I could, " Rutlidge indicated a pack which he hadslipped from his shoulder as he was talking. "You better hike over thereand bring in the rest to-night. If you leave at once, you will make itback by noon, to-morrow. "

The girl in the cabin, listening, heard every word and trembled with fear. The convict spoke again. 

"What are your plans, Mr. Rutlidge?"

"Never mind my plans, now. They can wait until you get back. You muststart at once. You say Miss Andrés is in the cabin?" He turned toward thedoor. 

But the other said, shortly, "Wait a minute, sir. I have a word to say, before I go. "

"Well, out with it. "

"You are not going to forget your promise to me?"

"Certainly not, George. You are safe. "

"I mean regarding Miss Andrés. "

"Oh, of course not! Why, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, only she is in my care until she is your wife. "

James Rutlidge laughed. "I will take good care of her until you get back. You need have no fear. You're not doubting my word, are you?"

"If I doubted your word, I would take Miss Andrés with me, " answered theconvict, simply. 

James Rutlidge looked at him, curiously; "Oh, you would?"

"Yes, sir, I would; and I think I should tell you, too, that if you_should_ forget your promise--"

"Well, what would you do if I should forget?"

The answer came deliberately; "If you do not keep your promise I will killyou, Mr. Rutlidge. "

James Rutlidge did not reply. 

Stepping to the cabin door, the convict knocked. 

Sibyl's voice answered, "Yes?"

"You may come out now, please, Miss Andrés. "

As the girl opened the door, she spoke to him in a low tone. "Thank you, Mr. Marston. I heard. "

"I meant you to hear, " he returned in a whisper. "Do not be afraid. " In alouder tone he continued. "I must go for supplies, Miss Andrés. I will beback to-morrow noon. "

He stepped around the corner of the cabin, and was gone. 

Sibyl Andrés faced James Rutlidge, without speaking. She was not afraid, now, as she had always been in his presence, until that day when he had soplainly declared himself to her and she met his advances with a gun. Theconvict's warning to the man who could send him back to prison forpractically the remaining years of his life, had served its purpose ingiving her courage. She did not believe that, for the present, Rutlidgewould dare to do otherwise than heed the warning. 

[Illustration: Still she did not speak. ]

James Rutlidge regarded her with a smile of triumphant satisfaction. "Really, " he said, at last, "you do not seem at all glad to see me. "

She made no reply. 

"I am frightfully hungry"--he continued, with a short laugh, moving towardher as she stood in the door of the cabin--"I've been walking sincemidnight I was in such a hurry to get here that I didn't even stop forbreakfast. "

She stepped out, and moved away from the door. 

With another laugh, he entered the cabin. 

Presently, when he had helped himself to food, he went back to the girlwho had seated herself on a log, at the farther side of the littleclearing. "You seem fairly comfortable here, " he said. 

She did not speak. 

"You and my man get along nicely, I take it. He has been kind to you?"

Still she did not speak. 

He spoke sharply, "Look here, my girl, you can't keep this up, you know. Say what you have to say, and let's get it over. "

All the time, she had been regarding him intently--her wide, blue eyesfilled with wondering pain. "How could you?" she said at last. "Oh, howcould you do such a thing?"

His face flushed. "I did it because you have driven me mad, I guess. Fromthe first time I saw you, I have wanted you. I have tried again andagain, in the last three years, to approach you; but you would havenothing to do with me. The more you spurned me, the more I wanted you. Then this man, King, came. You were friendly enough, with him. It made mewild. From that day when I met you in the mountains above Lone Cabin, Ihave been ready for anything. I determined if I could not win you by fairmeans, I would take you in any way I could. When my opportunity came, Itook advantage of it. I've got you. The story is already started that youwere the painter's mistress, and that you have committed suicide. Youshall stay here, a while, until the belief that you are dead has become acertainty; then you will go East with me. "

"But you cannot do a thing so horrible!" she exclaimed "I would tell mystory to the first people we met. "

He laughed grimly, as he retorted with brutal meaning, "You do not seem tounderstand. You will be glad enough to keep the story a secret--when thetime comes to go. "

Bewildered by fear and shame, the girl could only stammer, "How couldyou--oh how could you! Why, why--"

"Why!" he echoed. Then, as he went a step toward her, he exclaimed, withreckless profanity, "Ask the God who made me what I am, why I want you!Ask the God who made you so beautiful, why!"

He moved another step toward her, his face flushed with the insane passionthat mastered him, his eyes burning with the reckless light of one pastcounting the cost; and the girl, seeing, sprang to her feet, in terror. Wheeling suddenly, she ran into the cabin, thinking to shut and bar thedoor. She reached the door, and swung it shut, but the bar was gone. Whilehe was in the cabin he had placed it out of her reach. Putting hisshoulder to the door, the man easily forced it open against her lighterweight. As he crossed the threshold, she sprang to the farthest corner ofthe little room, and cowered, trembling--too shaken with horror to cryout. A moment he paused; then started toward her. 

At that instant, the convict burst through the underbrush into the littleopening. 

Hearing the sound, Rutlidge wheeled and sprang to the open door. 

The convict was breathing heavily from the exertion of a hard run. 

"What are you doing here?" demanded Rutlidge, sharply. "What's thematter?"

"Some one is following my trail down from Granite Peak. "

"Well, what are you carrying that rifle for?" said Rutlidge, harshly, withan oath. 

"There may be others near enough to hear a shot, " answered the convict. "Besides, Mr. Rutlidge, this is your part of the game--not mine. I did notagree to commit murder for you. "

"Where did you see him?"

"A half mile beyond the head of the gulch, where we turn off to go to thesupply point. "

Rutlidge, rifle in hand, stepped from the house. "You stay here and takecare of the girl--and see that she doesn't scream. " With the last word heset out at a run. 

The convict sprang into the cabin, where Sibyl still crouched in thecorner. The man's voice was imploring as he said, "Miss Andrés, MissAndrés, what is the matter? Did he touch you? Tell me, did he harm you?"

Sobbing, the girl held out her hands, and he lifted her to her feet. "You--you came--just in time, Mr. Marston. "

An instant he stood there, then muttering something under his breath, heturned, caught up his rifle, and started toward the door. 

But, as he reached the threshold, she cried out, "Mr. Marston, don't, don't leave me again. "

The convict stopped, hesitated, then he said solemnly "Miss Andrés, canyou pray? I know you can. You are a good girl. If God can hear a prayer hewill surely hear you. Come with me. Come--and pray girl--pray for me. "

 * * * * *

The most charitable construction that can be put upon the action of JamesRutlidge, just related, is to accept the explanation of his conduct thathe, himself made to Sibyl. The man was insane--as Mr. Taine was insane--asMrs. Taine was insane. 

What else can be said of a class of people who, in an age wedded tomaterialism, demand of their artists not that they shall set before themideals of truth and purity and beauty, but that they shall feed theirdiseased minds with thoughts of lust and stimulate their abnormal passionswith lascivious imaginings? Can a class--whatever its pretense to culturemay be--can a class, that, in story and picture and music and play, countsgreatest in art those who most effectively arouse the basest passions ofwhich the human being is capable, be rightly judged sane?

James Rutlidge was bred, born, and reared in an atmosphere that does nottolerate purity of thought. It was literally impossible for him to thinksanely of the holiest, most sacred, most fundamental facts of life. Education, culture, art, literature, --all that is commonly supposed tolift man above the level of the beasts, --are used by men and women of hiskind to so pervert their own natures that they are able to descend tobestial depths that the dumb animals themselves are not capable ofreaching. In what he called his love for Sibyl Andrés, James Rutlidge wasinsane--but no more so than thousands of others. The methods of securingthe objects of their desires vary--the motive that prompts is thesame--the end sought is identical. 

As he hurriedly climbed the mountainside, out of the deep gorge that hidthe cabin, the man's mind was in a whirl of emotions--rage at beinginterrupted at the moment of his triumph; dread lest the approaching oneshould be accompanied by others, and the girl be taken from him; fear thatthe convict would prove troublesome, even should the more immediate dangerbe averted; anger at himself for being so blindly precipitous; and amaddening indecision as to how he should check the man who was followingthe tracks that led from Granite Peak to the evident object of hissearch. The words of the convict rang in his ears. "This is your job. Idid not agree to commit murder for you. "

Murder had no place in the insanity of James Rutlidge To destroyinnocence, to kill virtue, to murder a soul--these are commonplaces in theinsane philosophy of his kind. But to kill--to take a lifedeliberately--the thought was abhorrent to him. He was not educated to thethought of _taking_ life--he was trained to consider its _perversion_. Theheroes in _his_ fiction did not _kill_ men--they _betrayed_ women. Theheroines in his stories did not desire the death of their betrayers--theyloved them, and deserted their husbands for them. 

But to stand idly aside and permit Sibyl Andrés to be taken from him--toface the exposure that would inevitably follow--was impossible. If the manwho had struck the trail was alone, there might still be a chance--if hecould be stopped. But how could he check him? What could he do? Arifle-shot might bring a dozen searchers. 

While these thoughts were seething in his hot brain, he was climbingrapidly toward the cliff at the head of the gorge, across which, he knew, the man who was following the tracks that led to the cabin below, mustcome. 

Gaining the end of the ledge that leads across the face of that mightywall of rock, less than a hundred feet to the other side, he stopped. There was no one in sight. Looking down, he saw, a thousand feet below thetops of the trees in the bottom of the gorge. Lifting his head, he lookedcarefully about, searching the mountainsides that slope steeply back fromthe rim of the narrow canyon. He looked up at the frowning cliff thattowered a thousand feet above his head. He listened. He was thinking, thinking. The best of him and the worst of him struggled for supremacy. 

A sound on the mountainside, above the gorge, and beyond the other end ofthe ledge, caught his ear. With a quick step he moved behind a projectingcorner of the cliff. Rifle in hand, he waited. 

Chapter XXXVIII

An Inevitable Conflict

When Aaron King set out to follow the tracks he had found at Granite Peak, after his long, hard trip along the rugged crest of the Galenas, hisweariness was forgotten. Eagerly, as if fresh and strong, but with carefuleyes and every sense keenly alert, he went forward on the trail that heknew must lead him to Sibyl Andrés. 

He did not attempt to solve the problem of how the girl came there, nordid he pause to wonder about her companion. He did not even ask himself ifSibyl were living or dead. He thought of nothing; knew nothing; wasconscious of nothing; but the trail that led away into the depths of themountain wilderness. Insensible to his own physical condition; withoutfood; unacquainted with the wild country into which he was going; recklessof danger to himself but with all possible care and caution for the sakeof the girl he loved, he went on. 

Coming to the brink of the gorge in which the cabin was hidden, the trail, following the rim, soon led him to the ledge that lay across the face ofthe cliff at the head of the narrow canyon. A moment, he paused, to searchthe vicinity with careful eyes, then started to cross. As he set foot uponthe ledge, a voice at the other end called sharply, "Stop. "

At the word, Aaron King halted. 

A moment passed. James Rutlidge stepped from behind the rocks at the otherend of the ledge. He was covering the artist with a rifle. 

In a flash, the man on the trail understood. The automobile, the mirrorsignals from Fairlands--it was all explained by the presence and by themenacing attitude of the man who barred his way. The artist's hand movedtoward the weapon that hung at his hip. 

"Don't do that, " said the man with the rifle. "I can't murder you in coldblood; but if you attempt to draw your gun, I'll fire. "

The other stood still. 

James Rutlidge spoke again, his voice hoarse with emotion; "Listen to me, King. It's useless for me to deny what brought me here. The trail you arefollowing leads to Sibyl Andrés. You had her all summer. I've got her now. If you hadn't stumbled onto the trail up there, I would have taken her outof the country, and you would never have seen her again. I might havekilled you before you saw me, but I couldn't. I'm not that kind. Under thecircumstances there is no possible compromise. I'll give you a fightingchance for your life and the girl. I'll take a fighting chance for my lifeand the girl. Throw your gun out of reach and I'll leave mine here. We'llmeet on the ledge there. "

James Rutlidge was no coward. Mr. Taine, also, --it will be remembered, --onthe night of his death, boasted that he was game. 

Without an instant's hesitation, Aaron King unbuckled the belt that heldhis weapon and, turning, tossed it behind him, with the gun still in itsholster. At the other end of the ledge, James Rutlidge set his riflebehind the rock. 

Deliberately, the two men removed their coats and threw aside their hats. For a moment they stood eyeing each other. Into Aaron King's mind flashedthe memory of that scene at the Fairlands depot, when, moved by thedistress of the woman with the disfigured face, he had first spoken to theman who faced him now. With startling vividness, the incidents of theiracquaintance came to him in flash-like succession--the day that Rutlidgehad met Sibyl in the studio; the time of his visit to the camp in thesycamore grove; the night of the Taine banquet--a hundred things that hadstrengthened the feeling of antagonism which had marked their firstmeeting. And, through it all, he seemed to hear Conrad Lagrange sayingthat in his story of life this character's name was "Sensual. " The artist, in that instant, knew that this meeting was inevitable. 

It was only for a moment that the two men--who in their lives andcharacters represented forces so antagonistic--stood regarding each other, each knowing that the duel would be--must be--to the death. Deliberately, they started toward the center of the ledge. Over their heads towered thegreat cliff. A thousand feet below were the tops of the trees in thebottom of the gorge. About them, on every hand, the silent, mighty hillswatched--the wild and lonely wilderness waited. 

As they drew closer together, they moved, as wrestlers, warily--crouching, silent, alert. Stripped to their shirts and trousers, they were both splendid physical types. James Rutlidge was the heavier, but Aaron King made up for his lack in weight by a more clean-cut, muscular firmness. 

They grappled. As two primitive men in a savage age might have met, barehanded, they came together. Locked in each other's arms, their limbsentwined, with set faces, tugging muscles, straining sinews, and tautnerves they struggled. One moment they crushed against the rocky wall ofthe cliff--the next, and they swayed toward the edge of the ledge and hungover the dizzy precipice. With pounding hearts, laboring breath, andclenched teeth they wrestled. 

James Rutlidge's foot slipped on the rocky floor; but, with a desperateeffort, he regained his momentary loss. Aaron King--worn by his days ofanxiety, by his sleepless nights and by the long hours of toil over themountains, without sufficient food or rest--felt his strength going. Slowly, the weight and endurance of the heavier man told against him. James Rutlidge felt it, and his eyes were beginning to blaze with savagetriumph. 

They were breathing, now, with hoarse, sobbing gasps, that told of thenearness of the finish. Slowly, Aaron King weakened. Rutlidge, spurred toincrease his effort, and exerting every ounce of his strength, was bearingthe other downward and back. 

At that instant, the convict and Sibyl Andrés reached the cliff. With acry of horror, the girl stood as though turned to stone. 

Motionless, without a word, the convict watched the struggling men. 

With a sob, the girl stretched forth her hands. In a low voice she called, "Aaron! Aaron! Aaron!"

The two men on the ledge heard nothing--saw nothing. 

Sibyl spoke again, almost in a whisper, but her companion heard. "Mr. Marston, Mr. Marston, it is Aaron King. I--I love him--I--love him. "

Without taking his eyes from the struggling men, the convict answered, "Pray, girl; pray, pray for me. " As he spoke, he steadily raised his rifleto his shoulder. 

Aaron King went down upon one knee. Rutlidge his legs braced, his bodyinclined toward the edge of the precipice, was gathering his strength forthe last triumphant effort. 

The convict, looking along his steady rifle barrel, was saying again, "Pray, pray for me, girl. " As the words left his lips, his finger pressedthe trigger, and the quiet of the hills was broken by the sharp crack ofthe rifle. 

James Rutlidge's hold upon the artist slipped. For a fraction of a second, his form half straightened and he stood nearly erect; then, as a weed cutby the sharp scythe of a mower falls, he fell; his body whirling downwardtoward the trees and rocks below. The sound of the crashing branchesmingled with the reverberating report of the shot. On the ledge, AaronKing lay still. 

The convict dropped his rifle and ran forward. Lifting the unconscious manin his arms, he carried him a little way down the mountain, toward thecabin; where he laid him gently on the ground. To Sibyl, who hung over theartist in an agony of loving fear, he said hurriedly, "He'll be all right, presently, Miss Andrés. I'll fetch his coat and hat. "

Running back to the ledge, he caught up the dead man's rifle, coat, andhat, and threw them over the precipice, as he swiftly crossed for theartist's things. Recovering his own rifle, he ran back to the girl. 

"Listen, Miss Andrés, " said the convict, speaking quickly. "Mr. King willbe all right in a few minutes. That rifle-shot will likely bring hisfriends; if not, you are safe, now, anyway. I dare not take chances. Good-by. "

From where she sat with the unconscious man's head in her lap, she lookedat him, wonderingly. "Good-by?" she repeated questioningly. 

Henry Marston smiled grimly. "Certainly, good-by What else is there forme?"

A moment later, she saw him running swiftly down the mountainside, likesome hunted creature of the wilderness. 

Chapter XXXIX

The Better Way

Alone on the mountainside with the man who had awakened the pure passionof her woman heart, Sibyl Andrés bent over the unconscious object of herlove. She saw his face, unshaven, grimy with the dirt of the trail and thesweat of the fight, drawn and thin with the mental torture that had drivenhim beyond the limit of his physical strength; she saw how his clothingwas stained and torn by contact with sharp rocks and thorns and bushes;she saw his hands--the hands that she had watched at their work upon herportrait as she stood among the roses--cut and bruised, caked with bloodand dirt--and, seeing these things, she understood. 

In that brief moment when she had watched Aaron King in the struggle uponthe ledge, --and, knowing that he was fighting for her, had realized herlove for him, --all that Mrs. Taine had said to her in the studio was sweptaway. The cruel falsehoods, the heartless misrepresentations, the vileaccusations that had caused her to seek the refuge of the mountains andthe protection of her childhood friends were, in the blaze of her awakenedpassion, burned to ashes; her cry to the convict--"I love him, I lovehim"--was more than an expression of her love; it was a triumphantassertion of her belief in his love for her--it was her answer to the evilseeing world that could not comprehend their fellowship. 

As the life within the man forced him slowly toward consciousness, thegirl, natural as always in the full expression of herself, bent over himwith tender solicitude. With endearing words, she kissed his brow, hishair, his hands. She called his name in tones of affection. "Aaron, Aaron, Aaron. " But when she saw that he was about to awake, she deftly slippedoff her jacket and, placing it under his head, drew a little back. 

He opened his eyes and looked wonderingly up at the dark pines thatclothed the mountainsides. His lips moved and she heard her name; "Sibyl, Sibyl. "

She leaned forward, eagerly, her cheeks glowing with color. "Yes, Mr. King. "

"Am I dreaming, again?" he said slowly, gazing at her as though strugglingto command his senses. 

"No, Mr. King, " she answered cheerily, "you are not dreaming. "

Carefully, as one striving to follow a thread of thought in a bewilderingtangle of events, he went over the hours just past. "I was up on that peakwhere you and I ate lunch the day you tried to make me see the GoldenState Limited coming down from the pass. Brian Oakley sent me there towatch for buzzards. " For a moment he turned away his face, then continued, "I saw flashes of light in Fairlands and on Granite Peak. I left a notefor Brian and came over the range. I spent one night on the way. I foundtracks on the peak. There were two, a man and a woman. I followed them toa ledge of rock at the head of a canyon, " he paused. Thus far the threadof his thought was clear. "Did some one stop me? Was there--was there afight? Or is that part of my dream?"

"No, " she said softly, "that is not part of your dream. "

"And it was James Rutlidge who stopped me, as I was going to you?"

"Yes. "

"Then where--" with quick energy he sat up and grasped her arm--"My God!Sibyl--Miss Andrés, did I, did I--" He could not finish the sentence, butsank back, overcome with emotion. 

The girl spoke quickly, with a clear, insistent voice that rallied hismind and forced him to command himself. 

"Think, Mr. King, think! Do you remember nothing more? You werestruggling--your strength was going--can't you remember? You must, youmust!"

Lifting his face he looked at her. "Was there a rifle-shot?" he askedslowly. "It seems to me that something in my brain snapped, and everythingwent black. Was there a rifle-shot?"

"Yes, " she answered. 

"And I did not--I did not--?"

"No. You did not kill James Rutlidge. He would have killed you, but forthe shot that you heard. "

"And Rutlidge is--?"

"He is dead, " she answered simply. 

"But who--?"

Briefly, she told him the story, from the time that she had met Mrs. Taine in the studio until the convict had left her, a few minutes before. "And now, " she finished, rising quickly, "we must go down to the cabin. There is food there. You must be nearly starved. I will cook supper foryou, and when you have had a night's sleep, we will start home. "

"But first, " he said, as he rose to his feet and stood before her, "I musttell you something. I should have told you before, but I was waiting untilI thought you were ready to hear. I wonder if you know. I wonder if youare ready to hear, now. "

She looked him frankly in the eyes as she answered, "Yes, I know what youwant to tell me. But don't, don't tell me here. " She shuddered, and theman remembering the dead body that lay at the foot of the cliff, understood. "Wait, " she said, "until we are home. "

"And you will come to me when you are ready? When you want me to tellyou?" he said. 

"Yes, " she answered softly, "I will go to you when I am ready. "

 * * * * *

At the cabin in the gulch, the girl hastened to prepare a substantialmeal. There was no one, now, to fear that the smoke would be seen. Later, with cedar boughs and blankets, she made a bed for him on the floor nearthe fire-place. When he would have helped her she forbade him; saying thathe was her guest and that he must rest to be ready for the homeward trip. 

Softly, the day slipped away over the mountain peaks and ridges that shutthem in. Softly, the darkness of the night settled down. In the rudelittle hut, in the lonely gulch, the man and the woman whose lives wereflowing together as two converging streams, sat by the fire, where, thenight before, the convict had told that girl his story. 

Very early, Sibyl insisted that her companion lie down to sleep upon thebed she had made. When he protested, she answered, laughing, "Very well, then, but you will be obliged to sit up alone, " and, with a "Good night, "she retired to her own bed in another corner of the cabin. Once or twice, he spoke to her, but when she did not answer he lay down upon his woodlandcouch and in a few minutes was fast asleep. 

In the dim light of the embers, the girl slipped from her bed and stolequietly across the room to the fire-place, to lay another stick of woodupon the glowing coals. A moment she stood, in the ruddy light, lookingtoward the sleeping man. Then, without a sound, she stole to his side, andkneeling, softly touched his forehead with her lips. As silently, shecrept back to her couch. 

 * * * * *

All that afternoon Brian Oakley had been following with trained eyes, thefaintly marked trail of the man whose dead body was lying, now, at thefoot of the cliff. When the darkness came, the mountaineer ate a coldsupper and, under a rude shelter quickly improvised by his skill inwoodcraft, slept beside the trail. Near the head of Clear Creek, JackCarleton, on his way to Granite Peak, rolled in his blanket under thepines. Somewhere in the night, the man who had saved Sibyl Andrés andAaron King, each for the other, fled like a fearful, hunted thing. 

 * * * * *

At daybreak, Sibyl was up, preparing their breakfast But so quietly didshe move about her homely task that the artist did not awake. When themeal was ready, she called him, and he sprang to his feet, declaring thathe felt himself a new man. Breakfast over, they set out at once. 

When they came to the cliff at the head of the gulch, the girl halted and, shrinking back, covered her face with trembling hands; afraid, for thefirst time in her life, to set foot upon a mountain trail. Gently, hercompanion led her across the ledge, and a little way back from the rim ofthe gorge on the other side. 

Five minutes later they heard a shout and saw Brian Oakley coming towardthem. Laughing and crying, Sibyl ran to meet him; and the mountaineer, whohad so many times looked death in the face, unafraid and unmoved, weptlike a child as he held the girl in his arms. 

When Sibyl and Aaron had related briefly the events that led up to theirmeeting with the Ranger, and he in turn had told them how he had followedthe track of the automobile and, finding the hidden supplies, had followedthe trail of James Rutlidge from that point, the officer asked the girlseveral questions. Then, for a little while he was silent, while they, guessing his thoughts, did not interrupt. Finally, he said, "Jack is dueat Granite Peak, sometime about noon. He'll have his horse, and with Sibylriding, we'll make it back down to the head of Clear Creek by dark. Youyoung folks just wait for me here a little. I want to look around belowthere, a bit. "

As he started toward the gulch, Sibyl sprang to her feet and threw herselfinto his arms. "No, no, Brian Oakley, you shall not--you shall not do it!"

Holding her close, the Ranger looked down into her pleading eyes, smilingly. "And what do you think I am going to do, girlie?"

"You are going down there to pick up the trail of the man who savedAaron--who saved me. But you shall not do it. I don't care if you are anofficer, and he is an escaped convict! I will not let you do anything thatmight lead to his capture. "

"God bless you, child, " answered Brian Oakley, "the only escaped convict Iknow anything about, this last year, according to my belief, diedsomewhere in the mountains. If you don't believe it, look up my officialreports on the matter. "

"And you're not going to find which way he went?"

"Listen, Sibyl, " said the Ranger gravely. "The disappearance of JamesRutlidge, prominent as he was, will be heralded from one end of the worldto the other. The newspapers will make the most of it. The search is sureto be carried into these hills, for that automobile trip in the night willnot go unquestioned, and Sheriff Walters knows too much of my suspicions. In a few days, the body will be safely past recognition, even should it bediscovered through the buzzards. But I can't take chances of anythingdurable being found to identify the man who fell over the cliff. "

When he returned to them, two hours later, he said, quietly, "It's amighty good thing I went down. It wasn't a nice job, but I feel better. Wecan forget it, now, with perfect safety. Remember"--he charged themimpressively--"even to Myra Willard and Conrad Lagrange, the story must beonly that an unknown man took you, Sibyl, from your horse. The manescaped, when Aaron found you. We'll let the Sheriff, or whoever can, solve the mystery of that automobile and Jim Rutlidge's disappearance. "

A half mile from Granite Peak, they met Jack Carleton and, by dark, asBrian Oakley had said, were safely down to the head of Clear Creek; havingcome by routes, known to the Ranger, that were easier and shorter than theroundabout way followed by the convict and the girl. 

It was just past midnight when the three friends parted from youngCarleton and crossed the canyon to Sibyl's old home. 

Chapter XL

Facing the Truth

As Brian Oakley had predicted, the disappearance of James Rutlidgeoccupied columns in the newspapers, from coast to coast. In every articlehe was headlined as "A Distinguished Citizen;" "A Famous Critic;" "AProminent Figure in the World of Art;" "One of the Greatest LivingAuthorities;" "Leader in the Modern School;" "Of Powerful Influence Uponthe Artistic Production of the Age. " The story of the unknown mountaingirl's abduction and escape was a news item of a single day; but thedisappearance of James Rutlidge kept the press busy for weeks. It may bedismissed here with the simple statement that the mystery has never beensolved. 

Of the unknown man who had taken Sibyl away into the mountains, and whohad escaped, the world has never heard. Of the convict who died but didnot die in the hills, the world knows nothing. That is, the world knowsnothing of the man in this connection. But Aaron and Sibyl, some yearslater, knew what became of Henry Marston--which does not, at all, belongto this story. 

Upon his return with Conrad Lagrange to their home in the orange groves, Aaron King plunged into his work with a purpose very different from themotive that had prompted him when first he took up his brushes in thestudio that looked out upon the mountains and the rose garden. 

Day after day, as he gave himself to his great picture, --"The Feast ofMaterialism, "--he knew the joy of the worker who, in his art, surrendershimself to a noble purpose--a joy that is very different from the light, passing pleasure that comes from the mere exercise of technical skill. Theartist did not, now, need to drive himself to his task, as the beggingmusician on the street corner forces himself to play to the passing crowd, for the pennies that are dropped in his tin cup. Rather was he driven bythe conviction of a great truth, and by the realization of its woeful needin the world, to such adequate expression as his mastery of the tools ofhis craft would permit He was not, now, the slave of his technicalknowledge; striving to produce a something that should be merelytechnically good. He was a master, compelling the medium of his art toserve him; as he, in turn, was compelled to serve the truth that hadmastered him. 

Sometimes, with Conrad Lagrange, he went for an evening hour to the littlehouse next door. Sometimes Sibyl and Myra Willard would drop in at thestudio, in the afternoon. The girl never, now, came alone. But every day, as the artist worked, the music of her violin came to him, out of theorange grove, with its message from the hills. And the painter at hiseasel, reading aright the message, worked and waited; knowing surely thatwhen she was ready she would come. 

Letters from Mrs. Taine were frequent. Aaron King, reading them--nearlyalways under the quizzing eyes of Conrad Lagrange, whose custom it was tobring the daily mail--carefully tore them into little pieces and droppedthem into the waste basket, without comment. 

Once, the novelist asked with mock gravity, "Have you no thought for theday of judgment, young man? Do you not know that your sins will surelyfind you out?"

The artist laughed. "It is so written in the law, I believe. "

The other continued solemnly, "Your recklessness is only hastening theend. If you don't answer those letters you will be forced, shortly, tomeet the consequences face to face. "

"I suppose so, " returned the painter, indifferently. "But I have my answerready, you know. "

"You mean that portrait?"

"Yes. "

The novelist laughed grimly. "I think it will do the trick. But, believeme, there will be consequences!"

The artist was in his studio, at work upon the big picture, when Mrs. Taine called, the day of her return to Fairlands. 

It was well on in the afternoon. Conrad Lagrange and Czar had started fora walk, but had gone, as usual, only as far as the neighboring house. YeeKee, meeting Mrs. Taine at the door, explained, doubtfully, that theartist was at his work. He would go tell Mr. King that Mrs. Taine washere. 

"Never mind, Kee. I will tell him myself, " she answered; and, before theChinaman could protest, she was on her way to the studio. 

"Damn!" said the Celestial eloquently; and retired to his kitchen toruminate upon the ways of "Mellican women. "

Mrs. Taine pushed open the door of the studio, so quietly, that thepainter, standing at his easel and engrossed with his work, did not noticeher presence. For several moments the woman stood watching him, paying noheed to the picture, seeing only the man. When he did not look around, shesaid, "Are you too busy to even _look_ at me?"

With an exclamation, he faced her; then, as quickly, turned again; withhand outstretched to draw the easel curtain. But, as though obeying asecond thought that came quickly upon the heels of the first impulse, hedid not complete the movement. Instead, he laid his palette and brushesbeside his color-box, and greeted her with, "How do you do, Mrs. Taine?When did you return to Fairlands? Is Miss Taine with you?"

"Louise is abroad, " she answered. "I--I preferred California. I arrivedthis afternoon. " She went a step toward him. "You--you don't seem veryglad to see me. "

The painter colored, but she continued impulsively, without waiting forhis reply. "If you only knew all that I have been doing for you!--thewires I have pulled; the influences I have interested; the critics andnewspaper men that I have talked to! Of course I couldn't do anything in alarge public way, so soon after Mr. Taine's death, you know; but I havebeen busy, just the same, and everything is fixed. When our picture isexhibited next season, you will find yourself not only a famous painter, but a social success as well. " She paused. When he still did not speak, she went on, with an air of troubled sadness; "I _do_ miss Jim's helpthough. Isn't it frightful the way he disappeared? Where do you suppose heis? I can't--I won't--believe that anything has happened to him. It's alljust one of his schemes to get himself talked about. You'll see that hewill appear again, safe and sound, when the papers stop filling theircolumns about him. I know Jim Rutlidge, too well. "

Aaron King thought of those bones, picked bare by the carrion birds, atthe foot of the cliff. "It seems to be one of the mysteries of the day, "he said. "Commonplace enough, no doubt, if one only had the key to it. "

Mrs. Taine had evidently not been in Fairlands long enough to hear thestory of Sibyl's disappearance--for which the artist mentally gave thanks. 

"I am glad for one thing, " continued the woman, her mind intent upon themain purpose of her call. "Jim had already written a splendid criticism ofyour picture--before he went away--and I have it. All this newspaper talkabout him will only help to attract attention to what he has said about_you. _ They are saying such nice things of him and his devotion to art, you know--it is all bound to help you. " She waited for his approval, andfor some expression of his gratitude. 

"I fear, Mrs. Taine, " he said slowly, "that you are making a mistake. "

She laughed nervously, and answered with forced gaiety. "Not me. I'm tooold a hand at the game not to know just how far I dare or dare not go. "

"I do not mean that"--he returned--"I mean that I can not do my part. Ifear you are mistaken in me. "

Again, she laughed. "What nonsense! I like for you to be modest, ofcourse--that will be one of your greatest charms. But if you are worriedabout the quality of your work--forget it, my dear boy. Once I have madeyou the rage, no one will stop to think whether your pictures are good orbad. The art is not in what you do, but in how you get it before theworld. Ask Conrad Lagrange if I am not right. "

"As to that, " returned the artist, "Mr. Lagrange agrees with you, perfectly. "

"But what is this that you are doing now? Will it be ready for theexhibition too?" She looked past him, at the big canvas; and he, watchingher curiously stepped aside. 

Parts of the picture were little more than sketched in, but still, lineand color spoke with accusing truth the spirit of the company that hadgathered at the banquet in the home on Fairlands Heights, the night of Mr. Taine's death. The figures were not portraits, it is true, but theyexpressed with striking fidelity, the lives and characters of those whohad, that night, been assembled by Mrs. Taine to meet the artist. Thefigure in the picture, standing with uplifted glass and drunken pose atthe head of the table--with bestial, lust-worn face, disease-shrunkenlimbs, and dying, licentious eyes fixed upon the beautiful girlmusician--might easily have been Mr. Taine himself. The distinguishedwriters, and critics; the representatives of the social world and ofwealth; Conrad Lagrange with cold, cynical, mocking, smile; Mrs. Tainewith her pretense of modest dress that only emphasized her immodesty; and, in the midst of the unclean minded crew, the lovely innocence and theunconscious purity of the mountain girl with her violin, offering to themthat which they were incapable of receiving--it was all there upon thecanvas, as the artist had seen it that night. The picture cried aloud theintellectual degradation and the spiritual depravity of that class who, arrogating to themselves the authority of leaders in culture and art, bytheir approval and patronage of dangerous falsehood and sham in picture orstory, make possible such characters as James Rutlidge. 

Aaron King, watching Mrs. Taine as she looked at the picture on the easel, saw a look of doubt and uncertainty come over her face. Once, she turnedtoward him, as if to speak; but, without a word, looked again at thecanvas. She seemed perplexed and puzzled, as though she caught glimpses ofsomething in the picture that she did not rightly understand Then, as shelooked, her eyes kindled with contemptuous scorn, and there was apronounced sneer in her cold tones as she said, "Really, I don't believe Icare for you to do this sort of thing. " She laughed shortly. "It remindsone a little of that dinner at our house. Don't you think? It's the girlwith the violin, I suppose. "

"There are no portraits in it, Mrs. Taine, " said the artist, quietly. 

"No? Well, I think you'd better stick to your portraits. This is a greatpicture though, " she admitted thoughtfully. "It, it grips you so. I can'tseem to get away from it. I can see that it will create a sensation. Butjust the same, I don't like it. It's not nice, like your portrait of me. By the way"--and she turned eagerly from the big canvas as though glad toescape a distasteful subject--"do you remember that I have never seen mypicture yet? Where do you keep it?"

The painter indicated another easel, near the one upon which he was atwork, "It is there, Mrs. Taine. "

"Oh, " she said with a pleased smile. "You keep it on the easel, still!"Playfully, she added, "Do you look at it often?--that you have it sohandy?"

"Yes, " said the artist, "I must admit that I have looked at itfrequently. " He did not explain why he looked at her portrait while he wasworking upon the larger picture. 

"How nice of you, " she answered "Please let me see it now. I remember whenyou wanted to repaint it, you said you would put on the canvas just whatyou thought of me; have you? I wonder!"

"I would rather that you judge for yourself, Mrs. Taine, " he answered, anddrew the curtain that hid the painting. 

As the woman looked upon that portrait of herself, into which Aaron Kinghad painted, with all the skill at his command, everything that he hadseen in her face as she posed for him, she stood a moment as thoughstunned. Then, with a gesture of horror and shame, she shrank back, asthough the painted thing accused her of being what, indeed, she reallywas. 

Turning to the artist, imploringly, she whispered, "Is it--is it--true? AmI--am I _that_?"

Aaron King, remembering how she had sent the girl he loved so nearly to ashameful end, and thinking of those bones at the foot of the cliff, answered justly; "At least, madam, there is more truth in that picturethan in the things you said to Miss Andrés, here in this room, the day youleft Fairlands. "

Her face went white with quick rage, but, controling herself, she said, "And where is the picture of your _mistress_? I should like to see itagain, please. "

"Gladly, madam, " returned the artist. "Because you are a woman, it is theonly answer I can make to your charge; which, permit me to say, is asfalse as that portrait of you is true. "

Quickly he pushed another easel to a position beside the one that heldMrs. Taine's portrait, and drew the curtain. 

The effect, for a moment, silenced even Mrs. Taine--but only for a moment. A character that is the product of certain years of schooling in thethought and spirit of the class in which Mrs. Taine belonged, is nottransformed by a single exhibition of painted truth. From the twoportraits, the woman turned to the larger canvas. Then she faced theartist. 

"You fool!" she said with bitter rage. "O you fool! Do you think that youwill ever be permitted to exhibit such trash as this?" she waved her handto include the three paintings. "Do you think that I am going to dragyou up the ladder of social position to fame and to wealth for suchreward as that?" she singled out her own portrait. "Bah! you areimpossible--impossible! I have been mad to think that I could makeanything out of you. As for your idiotic claim that you have painted thetruth--" She seized a large palette knife that lay with the artist's toolsupon the table, and springing to her portrait, hacked and mutilated thecanvas. The artist stood motionless making no effort to stop her. When thepicture was utterly defaced she threw it at his feet. "_That_, for yourtruth, Mr. King!" With a quick motion, she turned toward the otherportrait. 

But the artist, who had guessed her purpose, caught her hand. "Thatpicture was yours, madam--this one is mine. " There was a significant ringof triumph in his voice. 

Neither Aaron King nor Mrs. Taine had noticed three people who had enteredthe rose garden, from the orange grove, through the little gate in thecorner of the hedge. Conrad Lagrange, Myra Willard and Sibyl were going tothe studio; deliberately bent upon interrupting the artist at his work. They sometimes--as Conrad Lagrange put it--made, thus, a life-saving crewof three; dragging the painter to safety when the waves of inspirationwere about to overwhelm him. Czar, of course, took an active part in theserescues. 

As the three friends approached the trellised arch that opened from thegarden into the yard, a few feet from the studio door, the sound of Mrs. Taine's angry voice, came clearly through the open window. 

Conrad Lagrange stopped. "Evidently, Mr. King has company, " he said, dryly. 

"It is Mrs. Taine, is it not?" asked Sibyl, quietly, recognizing thewoman's voice. 

"Yes, " answered the novelist. 

The woman with the disfigured face said hurriedly, "Come, Sibyl, we mustgo back. We will not disturb Mr. King, now, Mr. Lagrange. You two comeover this evening. " They saw her face white and frightened. 

"I believe I'll go back with you, if you don't mind, " returned ConradLagrange, with his twisted grin; "I don't think I want any of that inthere, either. " To the dog who was moving toward the studio door, headded; "Here, Czar, you mustn't interrupt the lady. You're not in herclass. "

They were moving away, when Mrs. Taine's voice came again, clearly anddistinctly, through the window. 

"Oh, very well. I wish you joy of your possession. I promise you, though, that the world shall never hear of this portrait of your mistress. If youdare try to exhibit it, I shall see that the people to whom you must lookfor your patronage know how you found the original, an innocent, mountaingirl, and brought her to your studio to live with you. Fairlands hasalready talked enough, but my influence has prevented it from going toofar. You may be very sure that from now on I shall not exert myself todeny it. "

The artist's friends in the rose garden, again, stopped involuntarily. Sibyl uttered a low exclamation. 

Conrad Lagrange looked at Myra Willard. "I think, " he said in a low tone, "that the time has come. Can you do it?"

"Yes. I--I--must, " returned the woman. She spoke to the girl, who, being alittle in advance, had not heard the novelist's words, "Sibyl, dear, willyou go on home, please? Mr, Lagrange will stay with me. I--I will join youpresently. "

At a look from Conrad Lagrange, the girl obeyed. 

"Go with Sibyl, Czar, " said the novelist; and the girl and the dog wentquickly away through the garden. 

In the studio, Aaron King gazed at the angry woman in amazement. "Mrs. Taine, " he said, with quiet dignity, "I must tell you that I hope to makeMiss Andrés my wife. "

She laughed harshly. "And what has that to do with it?"

"I thought that if you knew, it might help you to understand thesituation, " he answered simply. 

"I understand the situation, very well, " she retorted, "but you do notappear to. The situation is this: I--I was interested in you--as anartist. I, because my position in the world enabled me to help you, commissioned you to paint my portrait. You are unknown, with no name, noplace in the world. I could have given you success. I could haveintroduced you to the people that you must know if you are to succeed. Myinfluence would insure you a favorable reception from those who make thereputations of men like you. I could have made you the rage. I could havemade you famous. And now--"

"Now, " he said calmly, "you will exert your influence to hinder me in mywork. Because I have not pleased you, you will use whatever power you haveto ruin me. Is that what you mean, Mrs. Taine?"

"You have made your choice. You must take the consequences, " she repliedcoldly, and turned to leave the studio. 

In the doorway, stood the woman with the disfigured face. 

Conrad Lagrange stood near. 

XLI

Marks of the Beast

When Mrs. Taine would have passed out of the studio, the woman with thedisfigured face said, "Wait madam, I must speak to you. "

Aaron King recalled that strange scene at the depot, the day of hisarrival in Fairlands. 

"I have nothing to say to you"--returned Mrs. Taine, coldly--"stand asideplease. "

But Conrad Lagrange quietly closed the door. "I think, Mrs. Taine, " heremarked dryly, "than you will be interested in what Miss Willard has tosay. "

"Oh, very well, " returned the other, making the best of the situation. "Evidently, you heard what I just said to your protege. "

The novelist answered, "We did. Accept my compliments madam; you did itvery nicely. "

"Thanks, " she retorted, "I see you still play your role of protector. Youmight tell your charge whether or not I am mistaken as to the probableresult of his--ah--artistic conscientiousness. "

"Mr. King knows that you are not. You have, indeed, put the situationrather mildly. It is a sad fact, but, never-the-less, a fact, that thenoblest work is often forced to remain unrecognized and unknown to theworld by the same methods that are used to exalt the unworthy. Youundoubtedly have the power of which you boast, Mrs. Taine, but--"

"But what?" she said triumphantly. "You think I will hesitate to use myinfluence?"

"I _know_ you will not use it--in this case, " came the unexpected answer. 

She laughed mockingly, "And why not? What will prevent?"

"The one thing on earth, that you fear, madam"--answered ConradLagrange--"the eyes of the world. "

Aaron King listened, amazed. 

"I don't think I understand, " said Mrs. Taine, coldly. 

"No? That is what Miss Willard proposes to explain, " returned thenovelist. 

She turned haughtily toward the woman with the disfigured face. "What canthis poor creature say to anything I propose?"

Myra Willard answered gently, sadly, "Have you no kindness, no sympathy atall, madam? Is there nothing but cruel selfishness in your heart?"

"You are insolent, " retorted the other, sharply. "Say what you have to sayand be brief. "

Myra Willard drew close to the woman and looked long and searchingly intoher face. The other returned her gaze with contemptuous indifference. 

"I have been sorry for you, " said Myra Willard slowly. "I have not wishedto speak. But I know what you said to Sibyl, here in the studio; and Ioverheard what you said to Mr. King, a few minutes ago. I cannot keepsilent. "

"Proceed, " said Mrs. Taine, shortly. "Say what you have to say, and bedone with it. "

Myra Willard obeyed. "Mrs. Taine, twenty-six years ago, your guardian, thefather of James Rutlidge won the love of a young girl. It does not matterwho she was. She was beautiful and innocent That was her misfortune. Beauty and innocence often bring pain and sorrow, madam, in a world wherethere are too many men like Mr. Rutlidge, and his son. The girl thoughtthe man--she did not know him by his real name--her lover. She thoughtthat he became her husband. A baby was born to the girl who believedherself a wife; and the young mother was happy. For a short time, she wasvery happy. 

"Then, the awakening came. The girl mother was holding her baby to herbreast, and singing, as happy mothers do, when a strange woman appeared inthe open door of the room. She was a beautiful woman, richly dressed; buther face was distorted with passion. The young mother did not understand. She did not know, then, that the woman was Mrs. Rutlidge--the true wife ofthe father of her child. She knew that, afterward. The woman, in thedoorway lifted her hand as though to throw something, and the mother, instinctively, bowed her head to shield her baby. Then something thatburned like fire struck her face and neck. She screamed in agony, andfainted. 

"The rest of the story does not matter, I think. The injured mother wastaken to the hospital. When she recovered, she learned that Mrs. Rutlidgewas dead--a suicide. Later, Mr. Rutlidge took the baby to raise as hisward; telling the world that the child was the daughter of a relative whohad died at its birth. You must understand that when the disfigured motherof the baby came to know the truth, she believed that it would be betterfor the little one if the facts of its birth were never known. The wealthyMr. Rutlidge could give his ward every advantage of culture and socialposition. The child would grow to womanhood with no stain upon her name. Because she felt she owed her baby this, the only thing that she couldgive her, the mother consented and disappeared. 

"Madam, " finished Myra Willard, slowly, "a little of the acid that burnedthat mother's face fell upon the shoulder of her illegitimate baby. "

"God!" exclaimed the artist. 

Throughout Myra Willard's story, Mrs. Taine stood like a woman of stone. At the end, she gazed at the woman's disfigured face, as though fascinatedwith horror, while her hands moved to finger the buttons of her dress. Unconscious of what she was doing, as though under some strange spell, without removing her gaze from Myra Willard's marred features she openedthe waist of her dress and bared to them her right shoulder. It was markedby a broad scar like the scars that disfigured the face of her mother. 

Myra Willard started forward, impelled by the mother instinct. "My baby, my poor, poor girl!"

The words broke the spell. Drawing back with an air of cold, unconquerablepride, the woman looked at Conrad Lagrange. "And now, " she said, as sheswiftly rearranged her dress, "perhaps you will be good enough to tell mewhy you have done this. "

Myra Willard turned away to sink into a chair, white and trembling. AaronKing stepped quickly to her side, and, placing his hand gently on hershoulder waited for the novelist to speak. 

"Miss Willard told you this story because I asked her to, " said ConradLagrange. "I asked her to tell you because it gives me the power toprotect the two people who are dearer to me than all the world. "

"Still in your role of protector, I see, " sneered Mrs. Taine. 

"Exactly, madam. It happens that I was a reporter on a certain newspaperwhen the incidents just related occurred. I wrote the story for the press. In fact, it was the story that gave me my start in yellow journalism, fromwhich I graduated the novelist of your acquaintance. I know the newspapergame thoroughly, Mrs. Taine. I know the truth of this story that you havejust heard. Permit me to say, that I know how to write in the approvednewspaper style, and to add that my name insures a wide hearing. Proceedto carry out your threats, and I promise you that I will give thisattractive bit of news, in all its colorful details, to every newspaper inthe land. Can't you see the headlines? 'Startling Revelation, ' 'The Secretof the Beautiful Mrs. Taine's Shoulders, ' 'Why a Leader in the SocialWorld makes Modesty her Fad, ' 'The Parentage of a Social Leader. ' Do youunderstand, madam? Use your influence to interfere with or to hinder Mr. King in his work; or fail to use your influence to contradict the liesyou have already started about the character of Miss Andrés; and I willuse the influence of my pen and the prestige of my name to put you beforethe eyes of the world for what you are. "

For a moment the woman looked at him, defiantly. Then, as she grasped thefull significance of what he had said, she slowly bowed her head. 

Conrad Lagrange opened the door. 

As she went out, the woman with the disfigured face started forward, holding out her hands appealingly. 

Mrs. Taine did not look back, but went quickly toward the big automobilethat was waiting in front of the house. 

Chapter XLII

Aaron King's Success

The winter months were past. 

Aaron King was sitting before his finished picture. The colors were stillfresh upon the canvas that, to-day, hangs in an honored place in one ofthe great galleries of the world. To the last careful touch, the artisthad put into his painted message, the best he had to give. Back of everyline and brush-stroke there was the deep conviction of a worthy motive. For an hour, he had been sitting there, before the easel, brush andpalette in hand, without touching the canvas. He could do no more. 

Laying aside his tools, he went to his desk, and took from the drawer, that package of his mother's letters. He pushed a deep arm-chair in frontof his picture, and again seated himself. As he read letter after letter, he lifted his eyes, at almost every sentence from the written pages to hiswork. It was as though he were submitting his picture to a final test--as, indeed, he was. He had reached the last letter when Conrad Lagrangeentered the studio; Czar at his heels. 

Every day, while the picture was growing under the artist's hand, hisfriend had watched it take on beauty and power. He did not need to speakof the finished painting, now. 

"Well, lad, " he said, "the old letters again?"

The artist, caressing the dog's silky head as it was thrust against hisknee, answered, "Yes, I finished the picture two hours ago. I have beenhaving a private exhibition all on my own hook. Listen. " From the letterin his hand he read:

"It is right for you to be ambitious, my son. I would not have youotherwise. Without a strong desire to reach some height that in thedistance lifts above the level of the present, a man becomes a laggard onthe highway of life--a mere loafer by the wayside--slothful, indolent--slipping easily, as the years go, into the most despicable ofplaces--the place of a human parasite that, contributing nothing to thewealth of the race, feeds upon the strength of the multitude of toilerswho pass him by. But ambition, my boy, is like to all the other gifts thatlead men Godward. It must be a noble ambition, nobly controlled. A merestriving for place and power, without a saving sense of the responsibilityconferred by that place and power, is ignoble. Such an ambition, Iknow--as you will some day come to understand--is not a blessing but acurse. It is the curse from which our age is suffering sorely; and which, if it be not lifted, will continue to vitiate the strength and poison thelife of the race. 

"Because I would have your ambition, a safe and worthy ambition, Aaron, Iask that the supreme and final test of any work that comes from your handmay be this; that it satisfy you, yourself--that you may be not ashamed tosit down alone with your work, and thus to look it squarely in the face. Not critics, nor authorities, not popular opinion, not even law orreligion, must be the court of final appeal when you are, by what you do, brought to bar; but by you, _yourself_, the judgment must be rendered. Andthis, too, is true, my son, by that judgment and that judgment alone, youwill truly live or you will truly die. "

"And that"--said the novelist--so famous in the eyes of the world, soinfamous in his own sight--"and that is what she tried to make me believe, when she and I were young together. But I would not. I would not acceptit. I thought if I could win fame that she--" he checked himself suddenly. 

"But you have led me to accept it, old man, " cried the artist heartily. "You have opened my eyes. You have helped me to understand my mother, as Inever could have understood her, alone. "

Conrad Lagrange smiled. "Perhaps, " he admitted whimsically. "No doubt goodmay sometimes be accomplished by the presentation of a horrible example. But go on with your private exhibition. I'll not keep you longer. Come, Czar. "

In spite of the artist's protests, he left the studio. 

While the painter was putting away his letters, the novelist and the dogwent through the rose garden and the orange grove, straight to the littlehouse next door. They walked as though on a definite mission. 

Sibyl and Myra Willard were sitting on the porch. 

"Howdy, neighbor, " called the girl, as the tall, ungainly form of thefamous novelist appeared. "You seem to be the bearer of news. What is thelatest word from the seat of war?"

"It is finished, " said Conrad Lagrange, returning Myra's gentle greeting, and accepting the chair that Sibyl offered. 

"The picture?" said the girl eagerly, a quick color flushing her cheeks. "Is the picture finished?"

"Finished, " returned the novelist. "I just left him mooning over it like amother over a brand-new baby. "

They laughed together, and when, a moment later, the girl slipped into thehouse and did not return, the woman with the disfigured face and thefamous novelist looked at each other with smiling eyes. When Czar, withsudden interest, started around the corner of the house, his master saidsuggestively, "Czar, you better stay here with the old folks. "

Passing through the house, and out of the kitchen door, Sibyl ran, lightly, through the orange grove, to the little gate in the corner of theRagged Robin hedge. A moment she paused, hesitating, then, stealingcautiously into the rose garden, she darted in quick flight to the shelterof the arbor; where she parted the screen of vines to gain a view of thestudio. 

Between the big, north window and the window that opened into the garden, she saw the artist. She saw, too, the big canvas upon the easel. But AaronKing was not, now, looking at his work just finished. He was sittingbefore that other picture into which he had unconsciously painted, notonly the truth that he saw in the winsome loveliness of the girl who posedfor him with outstretshed hands among the roses, but his love for her aswell. 

With a low laugh, Sibyl drew back. Swiftly, as she had reached the arbor, she crossed the garden, and a moment later, paused at the studio door. Again she hesitated--then, gently, --so gently that the artist, lost in hisdreams, did not hear, --she opened the door. For a little, she stoodwatching him. Softly, she took a few steps toward him. The artist, asthough sensing her presence, started and looked around. 

She was standing as she stood in the picture; her hands outstretched, asmile of welcome on her lips, the light of gladness in her eyes. 

As he rose from his chair before the easel, she went to him. 

 * * * * *

Not many days later, there was a quiet wedding, at Sibyl's old home in thehills. Besides the two young people and the clergyman, only Brian Oakley, Mrs. Oakley, Conrad Lagrange and Myra Willard were present. These friendswho had prepared the old place for the mating ones, after a simple dinnerfollowing the ceremony, returned down the canyon to the Station. 

Standing arm in arm, where the old road turns around the cedar thicket, and where the artist had first seen the girl, Sibyl and Aaron watched themgo. From the other side of roaring Clear Creek, they turned to wave hatsand handkerchiefs; the two in the shadow of the cedars answered; Czarbarked joyful congratulations; and the wagon disappeared in the wildernessgrowth. 

Instead of turning back to the house behind them, the two, withoutspeaking, as though obeying a common impulse, set out down the canyon. 

A little later they stood in the old spring glade, where the alders bore, still, in the smooth, gray bark of their trunks, the memories of long-agolovers; where the light fell, slanting softly through the screen of leafand branch and vine and virgin's-bower, upon the granite boulder and thecress-mottled waters of the spring, as through the window traceries of avast and quiet cathedral; and where the distant roar of the mountainstream trembled in the air like the deep tones of some great organ. 

Sibyl, dressed in her brown, mountain costume, was sitting on the boulder, when the artist said softly, "Look!"

Lifting her eyes, as he pointed, she saw two butterflies--it might almosthave been the same two--with zigzag flight, through the opening in thedraperies of virgin's-bower. With parted lips and flushed cheeks, the girlwatched. Then--as the beautiful creatures, in their aerial waltz, whirledabove her head--she rose, and lightly, gracefully, --almost as her wingedcompanions, --accompanied them in their dance. 

The winged emblems of innocence and purity flitted away over the willowwall. The girl, with bright eyes and smiling lips--half laughing, halfserious--looked toward her mate. He held out his arms and she went to him. 

The End