Stories - 'The Girl in Pink'

 

                                                         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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