T H E G I R L
I N P I N K.
By Joe Cone.
“You don’t come as
often as you once did, Claude.”
“But Ruth, I’m so
busy, trying to get my canvas done in time for the exhibition.”
“Is your canvas and
the exhibition more to you than I am?”
“No, no, Ruth, of
course not, but you see –“
“Yes, I see Mr.
Hassel coming across the fields now. He
comes to see me as often, if not oftener than ever. He doesn’t let his canvas
and his exhibition keep him away from me out of painting hours.”
“But his picture is
nearly done; he got here a month ahead of me. Ruth, I think you are unjust
to-day. Of course, if you don’t want me to exhibit I will stop the picture now
and give you my whole attention. I –“
“O, nothing of the
kind. Don’t neglect art for me, Claude. You would be foolish to do that. I
never asked you to come, anyway. In fact I rather discouraged you at the start.
Is it not so?”
“But I want to come,
Ruth; I really do. I can’t stay away, only I – the picture –“
”You will have to
excuse me now, Claude, I am to sit for Mr. Hassel this morning.”
The scene was just
outside the gate in front of a quaint, colonial house situated in the centre of
one of the prettiest villages in New England. Artists had discovered the
beauties of the surrounding country and had settled in large numbers in and
around the village. The large house mentioned was a headquarters for painters
and students, many of them boarding there, and many who were quartered
elsewhere frequenting the premises for a social hour most any time of day.
Bert Hassel was a
young man just on the verge of fame as a painter of portraits. He was spending
his summer at the boarding house. Claude Drummond also was a painter of more
than passing notice, his joys being found in the wild and rocky country along
the winding river that passed through the village. In this region he had built
a crude studio, and here he did his work away from the noise and distractions
of the coterie that gathered at the center.
Ruth Whitcomb was
really a student, who with her mother, boarded at the “headquarters,” but her
queenly face and Titian hair brought her much in demand as a model. She sat
partly from pleasure and partly because it brought her in touch with many of
the more noted painters from whom she received much valuable assistance in her
own work. The roomy side-veranda of the old house was a sort of combination
studio and dining room, and here Miss Whitcomb would often be sitting in
artistic pose, the summer sun straggling through the overhanging branches and
flinging streaks of soft light on her wonderful hair.
As Bert Hassel came
through the gate, lifting his hat to Ruth and bestowing a curt nod upon his
rival, Claude reluctantly turned his steps in the direction of his studio up in
the hills.
“I believe she is
growing fond of that fellow,” he muttered, wishing for the moment he were a
painter of portraits rather than of the prosaic landscape. Reaching his studio
he immediately threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and took up palette
and brushes. But the paint didn’t find its way to the canvas. For the first
time since he had started the picture, his work dragged. His thoughts went
straying to the wide veranda with its fair model and its clever artist.
“Damn him!”
ejaculated Claude, dropping his tools and seeking the solace of his pipe. “It
must be his Frenchy ways that are dazzling her. O, Paree, Paree, ever’sing
Paree. Thank God I’ve never been in Paree!”
But two more days
remained for pictures to be brought before the exhibition commission. The
rivals had worked like Trojans to finish their canvasses, each having an inner
feeling that success or failure at the exhibition would have a strong bearing
upon their standing with the fair and enthusiastic artist-model. In fact it was
whispered about the colony that Miss Whitcomb had playfully remarked that the
greatest man in the exhibit would be the greatest man in her eyes, and as a
girl’s playful remarks are invariably taken seriously by her suitors, the young
men had double reasons for putting forth their best efforts. To be a great man
in so pretty a pair of eyes was indeed worth striving for.
The final touches had
been given the portrait and it was hung in the great front room at “headquarters”
for the inspection of the interested. The work was highly praised by most of
the colony, its younger members waxing enthusiastic over it.
Drummond’s landscape,
finished to his satisfaction, was still upon the easel in his studio. Nobody
had been to see it. The following day it was to be framed and brought to the
centre. It was a beautiful valley scene, a winding river in the foreground, a
few lazy cattle on the left bank, with the background melting into the soft
grays for which the locality was peculiarly noted.
Claude, desirous of
seeing the portrait before it went to the committee, and hoping at the same
time to find opportunity to speak his feelings more freely to the girl he
loved, set out for “headquarters’ while it was yet daylight. He was determined
to bring back some kind of an answer, hopeful or otherwise. The uncertainty of
it was unfitting him for his work.
A group of students
and teachers were before the canvas when he entered the room. Hassel had
painted as he had never done before. It was as if Ruth, clad in a soft,
clinging, pink dress, were actually sitting before him. The picture was full
length; she was reading. He made no comment, nor did any of those about him
while he was present, but he realized as he left the room that he had a
formidable rival in art as well as in love. He was rewarded in his search by
finding Ruth alone in a remote corner of the side veranda. She was reading, and
except for the absence of the pink dress it was as though he were looking at
the picture over again. She arose in girlish fashion and gave him her hand.
“My picture is done,
Ruth, and now I can come as often as you wish me to.”
“Rather it should be
as often as you wish to.”
“I would rather know
whether you wish me to,” and he looked at her beseechingly.
She made no reply,
but closed her book thoughtfully.
“Have you seen the portrait?”
she asked.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Well?”
“It is beautiful,
Ruth.”
“The work or the
subject?”
“The work is
excellent; the subject divine.”
“Come, now, Claude,
you are making fun.”
“No, Ruth, I am
always serious when I talk with you.”
“Too much so, Claude;
you spoil all our good times.”
He stepped closer to
her now and seized her disengaged hand.
“But, Ruth, I love
you; I love you, I say, and love is a serious thing. Does it mean
nothing to you? It means everything to me. It is my work, my life, my whole
existence!”
“O – I – don’t know,
Claude; I am so young – I need time to think, to learn. Life is so fair as
things are now, and besides I want to become a painter.”
“Become my wife,
Ruth, and you shall become a great painter. I will teach you, morning, noon and
night. My life will be spent in teaching you, and in teaching you I shall learn
myself!”
“Ah! Claude, but it
doesn’t work that way. When a woman marries she gains much and loses much. It
spells ruin to her ambition and her profession.”
“I don’t believe it,
Ruth; I can’t believe it. We can work together, help each other and so reach
for higher things.”
“That is the
theoretical side of it, Claude.”
“And could easily be
the practical side if both persons could see alike. But what is this I hear
about the outcome of our two pictures at the exhibit? I can’t believe you
started such a silly story, Ruth. Would you cast your future on the result of a
possible accident? My picture, or his, may go up or down, according to
circumstances; real merit may not enter the question at all when it remains
with the purchaser. A mere numskull may buy one or the other for any number of
reasons.”
“Claude, I am
something of a joker.”
“Yes, I realize that,
to my sorrow.”
“Why can’t you cheer
up and see life as it really is, bright and beautiful?”
“I can, Ruth, when
you have promised to become my wife; not before. After that life will be a paradise
for me.”
“O, well, if you are
to continue glum perhaps we’d best change the subject.”
“Ruth, won’t you give
me some hope?”
“Y-yes, a little
hope, but no promises.”
“You dear, good –“
“You won’t mind if we
arrange the table for tea, Mr. Drummond?” queried the hostess, appearing to be
oblivious only to the duty in question.
“Not at all, my dear
madam,” replied the artist, a shade of disappointment crossing his face.
“And we shall be
delighted to have you remain over for tea, Mr. Drummond, won’t we dear?” she
added, turning a searching glance upon Ruth.
“Why, yes, I’m sure,”
replied the girl, hesitatingly.
“And I should be
equally delighted to remain, I assure you,” responded the painter, the thought
of being seated at the table with Ruth giving him extreme pleasure.
“Let us go and look
at the portrait again,” suggested Ruth. “It will soon be dark, and it is to be
moved early in the morning.”
Drummond followed the
slip of a girl to the front room where they gazed in silence at the wonderful
likeness. The crowd of visitors had disappeared, the only disturbance being a
babble of voices coming from the front piazza. But the windows and doors were
open and Claude hesitated about taking up the conversation where it was
unhappily broken off.
“It is Hassel’s
masterpiece,” he remarked, half to himself.
“Hasn’t Drummond a
masterpiece, also?” queried the girl, viewing him seriously.
“I hope so,” he
replied, “but I don’t think it has the individuality this picture has. But you
haven’t been over to see it, Ruth, ever,” a touch of reproach in his voice.
“I wanted to go over
yesterday, but mamma was too tired,” she explained; “besides, I didn’t want to
hinder you.”
“Did you think of
that, Ruth?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you are
interested?”
“Of course, I am. No
painter can help being interested in a brother painter’s work.”
“O, I didn’t mean
that, exactly.”
Further conversation
was interrupted by the bell calling them to tea. It was a merry party that
gathered round the long table on the side veranda. Gray-haired painters,
middle-aged painters, young men and girls, teachers and students, all interested
in the one thing, but not one of them dull or tiresome. It was an inspiration
to be part of a company like that. For many years the place has been called the
“Barbizon of America,” and most happily so. The lion-to-be, of that particular
occasion, however, was absent. Bert Hassel, he who had painted the most
striking portrait since the establishment of the colony, could not be found. Many
laid it to his extreme modesty, while a few concluded it was because his rival,
Claude Drummond, had been asked to remain to tea and had appropriated Ruth
Whitcomb to himself. Be that as it may, Hessel, to the wonderment of everybody,
kept aloof from the table and from the house for a period of several hours.
The evening was well
advanced when Claude left “headquarters” and walked in the direction of his
little studio. He was to pack his picture and have it ready for delivery in the
morning. He unlocked the door and struck a match. As he adjusted the lamp wick
and then turned around to look at his work he discovered something which
rendered him speechless with wonder and indignation. A hole fully six by two
inches had been cut out in the left side of the canvas. That night Claude
Drummond failed to appear at the old farmhouse where he had secured board and
lodging for the season. He spent a sleepless night in his studio vainly trying
to reason out the situation. A dark suspicion ever and again crossed his mind,
but he would not entertain it.
The next day the
little art colony was in an uproar. No one openly accused Claude’s rival of
being concerned in the outrage, directly or indirectly, but his near friends
and sympathizers did declare that Hassel could be the only person interested in
Claude’s failure. And then, he was absent from ”headquarters” during tea hour,
and for two hours afterwards, they argued. The first hint he had of being
suspected was when Miss Whitcomb passed him on the stairs
with an icy nod. He immediately sought out the landlady to inquire if there was
a hint amongst the artists that he was in any way concerned with the ruining of
Drummond’s picture. Her manner told him better than words. The poor woman was
on the verge of tears, for the frequenters of her house had taken sides and it
looked like a disruption of the good fellowship that had long existed there.
In the meantime
Claude had consulted the town officials and the shrewdest of them were at work
upon the case. He had offered a liberal reward and no pains were to be spared
in trying to bring the guilty one or ones to account. Hassel’s picture had
already gone before the committee, but that had no interest for him now. In a
frenzy of indignation he seized his hat and hurried across the lots to Claude’s
studio. By good fortune he found him alone; the painter was standing with bowed
head before the mutilated canvas.
“Drummond!” cried the
other, bursting in upon him, “in God’s name do you accuse me of so dastardly a
deed?”
“I accuse no man,”
replied Drummond, sadly, “let the law work it out. I have turned it over to the
authorities.”
“But I was away from
the house last evening, and I understand this happened at that time. If you don’t
suspect me, whom do you suspect?”
“It is true, it
happened while I was there at tea. However, it is out of my hands, and I can
express no opinion. Doubtless you can explain your absence if called upon to do
so,” replied Claude, evading the direct question.
“I can prove where I
was, Drummond, if I choose to do so, but I would rather not for the present. It
is evident, though, that I am under suspicion. I would cut my right hand off
before I would lower myself to do such a thing. I will start at once to try help
clear up this mystery. My first move will be to stop my own picture from going
to the exhibit.”
“Don’t do anything of
the kind,” remonstrated Claude, trying to smile. “You may assist us if you wish
to, but send your picture in; there’s no reason why you shouldn’t.”
“You are generous,”
said Hassel, extending his hand.
Claude took the
proffered palm and was about to reply when a step was heard from behind.
“O, Mr. Drummond, I’m
so sorry!” and Miss Whitcomb, followed by her panting mother, bounded into the
studio.
“I thank you for your
sympathy,” responded Claude, his face lighting up; “I wish you might have seen
the canvas before it was reduced.”
“What is missing?”
queried the girl, stepping nearer the easel.
“An old boat; a punt
that was lying on the bank. I think it belonged to Bill Seward.”
“Bill Seward, the
crazy clam digger? I know him. Do you know what he says about we artists?” she
queried.
Claude shook his
head.
“Well, he says we
artists come out here and paint things that belong to other people and make
money by it, and he for one doesn’t like it. He says we’re robbers, and the
town ought to put a stop to it.”
Hassel, who had edged to the background now came forward
and spoke excitedly.
“I saw that punt
coming in this direction last night about dark. I’ve got an idea! Excuse me,
Mr. Drummond and ladies, but I want to work this up alone,” and before a reply
could be made the painter of portraits had disappeared.
After a good deal of
delay Hassel had secured a warrant for the arrest of Bill Seward, but when the
law went to place its hand upon the clam digger’s shoulder it wasn’t there. He
and his punt, with his few belongings, were many miles further along the coast,
and proceedings, as far as he was concerned, were finally dropped.
The exhibit was held,
and, as predicted, the “girl in pink” was a prize winner. Claude, however, decided
that he had won a greater prize, for in his hour of distress the real girl in
pink found that she loved the painter of landscapes.
Joe
Cone.
(undated)
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