The Maker of Opportunities

She ignored the inquiry of his upraised brows.

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

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

“I shouldn’t say that – only – ”

“What?”

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

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

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

“Oh, please don’t laugh.”

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

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

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

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

“That depends – ”

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

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

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

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

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

But she made no move to get into the position.

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

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

“I’ll pose again on one condition – ”

“Yes.”

“That you put on overalls.”

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

CHAPTER XIV

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

For reply he held out his paint-smudged hands.

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

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

“Won’t you prove it?”

“How?”

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

“Please,” she urged.

“I can’t, really.”

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

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

“I can’t go on.”

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

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

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

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

“Ross!” he said, “what on earth – ”

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

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

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

As the door closed words less polite came forth.

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

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

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

“But, my dear chap – ”

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

With a glance toward the easel Mortimer Crabb went out.

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

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

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

But Burnett did not move.

“Miss Darrow – ” he began.

“Will you let me pass?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he said. “And you – ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marry me – at once.”

“Oh!”

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

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

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

At her side his eyes questioned mutely.

“And that?” he asked at last.

“My reputation,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV

After this first success, Patricia was filled with the spirit of altruism, and winter and summer went out upon the highways and byways seeking the raw material for her fateful loom. She was Puck, Portia and Patricia all rolled into one. There were Stephen Ventnor and Jack Masters, whom she still saw occasionally, but they only sighed and even refused to dine at the Castle of Enchantment. She thought sometimes of Heywood Pennington, too, and often found herself wondering how the world was faring with him, hoping that some day chance would throw him in her way. The old romance was dead, of course. But what an opportunity for regeneration!

Meantime she had much to do in keeping up her establishment, many friends to make in New York, many social duties to perform. She spent much time with her husband over the plans of the country place he was building on Long Island, which was to be ready for occupancy late in the following spring. Mortimer Crabb had formed a habit of going down town for a part of every day at least, and if he really did no work he created an impression of stability which was rather surprising to those who had known him longest. The Crabbs were desirable acquaintances in the married set, and before two years had passed, Patricia made for herself an enviable reputation as a hostess and dinner guest, to say nothing of that of a model wife. Not a cloud larger than a speck had risen upon the matrimonial horizon and their little bark sailed steadily forward propelled by the mildest of breezes upon an ocean that was all made up of ripples and sunshine. Mortimer Crabb loved abundantly, and Patricia was contented to watch him worship, while she shaped the course to her liking.

There were still times, however, when she sat and watched the flames of the library fire while she stirred up the embers of romance. Few women who have been adored as Patricia had been are willing too abruptly to shut the door upon the memory of the might-have-beens. The coquette in her was dying hard – as it sometimes does in childless women. She still liked the attentions to which she had been accustomed, and her husband saw that she was constantly amused – provided with clever men from his clubs as dance partners for the Philadelphia girls who visited them. Stephen Ventnor, who was selling bonds down-town, had been persuaded at last to forget his troubles and now came frequently to dinner. There was nothing Patricia wanted, it seemed, except something to want.

One day, quite by chance, she met another one of the might-have-beens upon the street. She did not know him at first, for he now wore a small moustache and the years had not passed as lightly over his head as they had over hers. She felt her way barred by a tall figure, and before she knew it, was shaking hands with Heywood Pennington.

“Patty,” he was saying, “don’t you know me? Does four years make such a difference?” A warm tint rose and spread unbidden from Patricia’s neck to temples. It angered her that she could not control it, but she smiled at him and said that she was glad to see him.

Together they walked up the Avenue, and, as they went, she questioned and he told her his story. No recriminations passed. He made it plain to her that he was too glad to see her for that. He was in business, he said vaguely, and in the future was to make New York his home. So, when she took leave of him, Patricia asked the prodigal to call. It will be apparent to anyone that there was nothing else to do.

Mortimer Crabb received the information at the dinner table that night with a changeless expression.

“I’m sure if you want Mr. Pennington here, he’ll be welcome,” he said with a slow smile. “He’s a very, very old friend of yours, isn’t he, Patty?”

“Oh, yes – since school days,” she said, quietly. And she blushed again, but if Crabb noticed, it was not apparent, for he immediately busied himself with his soup.

“He used to be such a nice boy,” said Patricia. “But I’m afraid he got pretty wild and – ”

“Yes,” put in her husband, a little dryly. “I’ve heard something about him.”

She glanced at him quickly, but he did not look up and she went on:

“I thought it would be nice if we could do a little something for him, give him a lift, introduce him to some influential people – ”

“Make an opportunity for him, in short,” said Crabb.

“Er – yes. He has had a pretty hard time, I think.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Crabb, “most people do.”

Patricia foresaw an opportunity such as she had never had before, and a hundred plans at once flashed into her pretty head for the prodigal’s regeneration. First, of course, she must kill the fatted calf, and she therefore planned at once a dinner party, at which Mr. Pennington should meet some of her intimate friends, Dicky Bowles and his wife, the Burnetts, who were on from Washington, the Charlie Chisolms and her sister Penelope. For reasons of her own Stephen Ventnor was not invited.

Patricia presided skilfully with an air of matronly benevolence not to be denied and dextrously diverted the conversation into channels strictly impersonal. So that after dinner, while Charlie Chisolm was still talking rifle-bores with Mortimer, Patricia and Heywood Pennington went into the conservatory to see the new orchids.

That was the first of many dinners. Patricia invited all the eligible girls of her acquaintance, one after another, and sat them next to Mr. Pennington in an apparent endeavor to supply the deficiency she had caused in that gentleman’s affections. But new orchids came continually to the conservatory, and Patricia was not loath to show them. Then followed rides in the motor car when Crabb was down-town, and shopping expeditions when Crabb was at the club, for which Patricia chose Heywood Pennington as her escort, and whatever Mortimer Crabb thought of it all, he said little and looked less.

But if her husband had been willing to worship blindly before he and Patricia had been engaged, marriage had cleared away some of the nebulæ. He had learned to look upon his wife as a dear, capricious being, and with the abounding faith and confidence of amply proportioned men he was willing to believe that Patricia, like Cæsar’s wife, was above suspicion. He was quite sure that she was foolish. But Patty’s little finger foolish was more important to Mortimer than a whole Minerva.

Mr. Pennington’s ways were not Crabb’s ways, however, and the husband learned one day, quite by chance, of an incident that had happened in New York which confirmed a previous impression. He went home a little sombre, for that very night Mr. Pennington was to dine again at his house.

After dinner Patricia and Pennington vanished as usual into the conservatory and were seen no more until it was time for Patricia’s guests to go. The husband lingered moodily by the fire after the door had closed upon the last one, who happened to be the might-have-been.

“Patty,” he began, “don’t you think it a little – er – inhospitable – ”

“Oh, Mort,” Patricia broke in, “don’t be tiresome.”

But Mortimer Crabb had taken out his watch and was examining it with a judicial air.

“Do you know,” he said, calmly, “that you’ve been out there since ten? I don’t think it’s quite decent.”

It was the first time her husband had used exactly this tone, and Patricia looked at him curiously, then pouted and laughed.

“Jealous!” she laughed, and blowing him a kiss flew upstairs, leaving her husband still looking into the fire. But he did not smile as he usually did when this was her mood, and in her last backward glance Patricia did not fail to notice it. Instead of following her, Mortimer Crabb lit a cigar and went over to his study. Perhaps he should have spoken more severely to Patricia before this. He had been on the point of it a dozen times. Gossip had dealt with Pennington none too kindly, but Crabb didn’t believe in gossip and he did believe in his wife.

He finished his cigar and then lit another while he tried to think the matter out, until, at last, Patricia, a pretty vision in braids and lace, came pattering down. He heard the footfalls and felt the soft hands upon his shoulders, but did not turn his head. He knew what was to come and had not the humor or the art to compromise. Patricia, with quick divination, took her hands away and went around by the fire where she could look at her husband.

“Well,” she said, half defiantly. Crabb replied without raising his eyes from the fire.

“Patty,” he said quietly, “you mustn’t ask Mr. Pennington to the house.” Patricia looked at him as though she had not heard aright. But she did not speak.

“You must know,” he went on, “that I’ve been thinking about you and Mr. Pennington for some time, but I haven’t spoken so plainly before. You mustn’t be seen with Mr. Pennington again.”

He rose and knocked his cigar ashes into the chimney and then turned to face his wife. Patricia’s foot was tapping rapidly upon the fender while her figure presented the picture of injured dignity.

“It is preposterous – impossible,” she gasped. “I’m going to ride with him to-morrow afternoon.”

And then after a pause in which she eagerly scanned her husband’s face, she broke forth into a nervous laugh: “Upon my word, Mort, I believe you are jealous.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Crabb, slowly, “but I’m in earnest, too. Do what I ask, Patricia. Don’t ride to-morrow – ”

“And if I should refuse – ”

Crabb shrugged his broad shoulders and turned away.

“It would be too bad,” he said, “that’s all.”

“But how can you do such a thing,” she cried, “without a reason – without any excuse? Why, Heywood has been here every day for – ” and then broke off in confusion.

Crabb smiled rather grimly, but he generously passed the opportunity by.

“Every reason that I wish – every excuse that I need. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, it isn’t – I refuse to believe anything about him.” Crabb looked at his wife sombrely.

“Then we’d better say no more. Your attitude makes it impossible for me to argue the question. Good-night.” He opened the door and stood waiting for her to go out. She hesitated a moment and then swept by him, her very ruffles breathing rebellion.