Chapter IV: Settled Down

THE middle of October saw Miss Nelson and Val established in New York, and everything in good running order. Theo hired a piano and made diligent use of it; Val was much interested in her studies, and Nannie was an indefatigable student at the League. She had made much progress during the past season, which she had spent at a summer school, and was more than ever in love with her work. The boys came and went, bringing their trials, their hopes, and their fears to a sympathetic group of hearers. Mr. Smith, Val's guardian, appeared at odd times, frequently bearing off the whole party to the theatre or the opera, sometimes to dinner or to drive, and once or twice insisting upon every one's accompanying him to his country home, Lyndehurst. It was there that Thanksgiving was spent, and a merry day they made of it.

Theo and Jack alone felt troubled; the former from the fact that Jack showed evidences of not having outgrown his boyish fancy for his friend's sister, and it irked Theo to be made conscious of a devotion which she did not care to consider; and Jack, poor fellow, felt a growing uneasiness on account of his own business affairs. He anticipated that there was trouble in store for him, that his uncle's actions warranted such a suspicion he was positive, and he determined that the first of the year must decide how much or how little he would be affected. But these clouds did not more than appear above the horizon, and certainly did not affect the general sunniness of their daily life.

The studio made a delightful sitting-room, and here they all gathered in the evening, each bringing some recountal of the day's doings, some funny tale, or some pitiful one. Nannie's affairs excited the most interest, there being a certain halo of romance about her student life which gave the other girls great entertainment, and, as they were initiated into the mysteries of art, they became more and more interested in what Nannie had to say about her work. On the other hand, the counter influence of those not actual art students kept Nannie from narrowing her prejudices down to a stereotyped form of criticism, and she was not less amused than Theo and Val at the wholesale way in which some of her fellow-students condemned the work at the exhibitions.

"I think," said Theo, one day, as she and Nannie were returning from looking at some pictures, "that it is the funniest thing in the world to stand behind a group of art students; they are the most 'knowledgable' creatures I ever came across. Such unsparing condemnation I never heard, and their little set patter is so absurd."

"Don't be too hard on us," laughed Nannie.

"Oh, I don't mean you," returned Theo; "you have more sense than to say no artist can paint except the one you specially affect. Why, I heard one girl say, 'Dagnan-Bouveret can't paint,' and another declared, 'Bouguereau is no artist,' while a third criticised, in the loudest voice, the composition of one of Jules Breton's pictures; as for Meissonier and Gérome, they had no chance at all."

"Well," said Nannie, "that is because we should prefer to paint differently, ourselves."

Theo laughed mirthfully. "Take care, Nan, that savors of the clique."

"Well, I mean," expostulated Nannie, "that for my own part, I should rather paint like Zorn and Cazin and our own Sargent than like Bouguereau or Gérome."

"I like their work best, too," replied Theo; "but why say a man is no artist who is recognized as such by the best judges in the world?"

"It does sound rather conceited, I must confess," returned Nannie.

"Worse than that: I think it sounds pitifully ignorant."

"We are all looking for truth," responded Nannie; "and if the present school can see more color or more breadth of treatment, why may not that be a step beyond? But as for drawing, I am afraid many of us are very shallow there, and ought to look with utter humility upon the splendid knowledge which the older artists have shown in that direction."

"Now that sounds more like my honest Nan."

"The fact is, Theo," continued Nannie, "that there are extremes at first in any new methods; and we are extreme, perhaps, now. I don't agree with those cavilling girls. I must say, most of them do wretched work, and the worse their work, the louder they are in their censure of others. It is usually when they have only begun to study that they are so vociferous. A little knowledge proves itself a dangerous thing in their cases, for it only makes them ridiculous; and the poor things don't know it. However, they are not the only ones who flaunt their ignorance. I knew of a picture painted by a celebrated artist, no longer living; it was sent to a loan exhibition by a friend of mine,—a delightful picture it was, too,—but the chairman of the committee, in a fit of bombastic arrogance, refused it, because, forsooth, it was not cleaned and varnished. The tone was delicious: an idiot like that pretending to dictate! Oh, the Philistine!"

Theo laughed at Nannie's indignation. "You're great fun, Nan, when you get off on one of these harangues. Go on."

"You have dashed my inspiration," returned Nannie. "I forget what I was going to say next. Oh, yes, only this, that Hunt says it is much easier to condemn than to praise; it takes very little knowledge to pick flaws, but a great deal to commend judiciously."

"Good!" exclaimed Theo. "I like that. It is just what I should like to have said myself. Oh, Nan, weren't you amused at Val's school friend, Nettie Wayne, when you asked her to sit for you?"

Nannie smiled.

"She looked so conscious," continued Theo. "Why did you ask her? She isn't a bit pretty."

"No," answered Nannie; "but she has a certain paintable quality. I can hardly explain, but we have had very ugly models sometimes that were interesting in the extreme. We don't always ask people to sit for us because we think they are handsome, but they nearly always think that is it."

"I might have thought so myself, if you hadn't taught me better. We are lots of help to each other in more ways than one, Nan."

"Yes; but I am afraid we are all so content with one another that it makes us selfish about outsiders. I actually am getting to hate to see a stranger come into the studio."

"I don't wonder. Think of last Saturday, when Mrs. Ashton called. She hasn't a bit of mental property to exchange, but she thinks artists and such people are so amusing, and she wants to be amused; so she wastes your time by the hour. I was so provoked, for I knew your poor flowers would fade, and I knew you couldn't half attend to your painting with such a rasp at your elbow."

"A rasp at my elbow!" laughed Nannie. "What a figure of speech, Theo. Yes, I know she is a bore. I am always reminded of the drones in a hive when I meet such people. I do need all my time for my work, and to have some one come in and say, 'I'll not detain you a minute, I know you are busy; I just wanted to see what you were doing, it is so interesting.' And then they stay and stay, and you are fidgety, and the daylight is going, and you wish you were a bee and could sting them out of the hive. I feel actually vicious sometimes. It is a great strain on one's powers of endurance. Oh, Theo, I wonder if it is ourselves or they who are selfish?"

"Both, maybe," replied Theo.

"Well, girlies!" was Miss Nelson's greeting as they entered the room together. "We have been waiting for you. Val is full of a scheme, and I could hardly restrain her from going out to find you."

"Girls! Girls!" called Val from the next room. "Wait."

"We are waiting," responded Theo. "What did you think we were going to do?"

"I didn't know," answered Val, making her appearance; "you might be going to do most anything. Girls, I have found the dearest old lady to take our French class. She has white hair, and is so fat and so funny, and is so sentimental and ridiculous; no, I don't mean ridiculous, but she is so funny. I met her at Nettie Wayne's to-day. She came to inquire about possible pupils, and I told her to come here. If you girls and Archie and Jack would join, it would be quite a little class, and we could meet her. Don't you think it is just what we want?"

"Exactly," agreed Theo. "We will dilate upon the subject this evening when the boys come. And, auntie, you will be one of us, won't you?"

Miss Nelson shook her head. "I think not," she replied. "I have expended all my superfluous brain matter upon my Dante class, and cannot take up anything now. I am not going to fritter away my time with chits of girls."

"Now, auntie!" in a chorus.

"Auntie doesn't need to, she means," explained Theo. "She reads French perfectly now, and it would only be tiresome to her; but we shall have her to help us along, and that will be fine."

"Madame Ribeau is coming to see auntie," Val informed them; "though I know all about her from the Waynes."

The boys consenting to give certain hours during the week, the French class was formed without delay, and, as Miss Janet's engagements took her away on Friday, it was arranged that the young people should make that their lesson day, and great fun they had out of it.

In lieu of a blackboard, the back of a wardrobe, standing in one corner of the studio, was used, the boys laboriously turning it around each week, and to this very day, one may possibly see the remains of "J'aime, Tu aime, Il aime," chalked upon the wooden surface.

Archie's ingenuity knew no bounds, and with Val as an able abettor, some absurdity was introduced into each lesson, to the great delight of Madame Ribeau, who was entertained beyond measure by her lively pupils, and gave them an interest and affection she gave no others, for the boys were courteously attentive to her, and the girls generously interested in her pleasure.

"What is our fable to-day?" whispered Archie to Val, one afternoon.

"Don't you remember?" returned Val. "Une tortue lasse d'être toujours enfermée."

"Oh, yes," replied Archie, "I recollect," and, giving her a significant nod, he left the room.

"Ou est Monsieur Archie?" asked Madame, looking around before commencing the lesson. "And Mademoiselle Val, she has too departed, for why?" and Madame looked inquiringly at the others, who shook their heads.

"We do not know, Madame."

"Ah, it is nothing," said Madame, foreseeing some diversion; "we will proceed with the lesson. Vous, Mademoiselle Theo, commencez. Une tortue—"

"Une tortue lasse d'être toujours enfermée dans son écaille," read Theo, when the door opened, and in walked Val and Archie, bearing between them a stick, the ends of which were held between their teeth; from the middle dangled a marvellous presentment of a turtle, composed of a small pin-cushion with appended legs and head of paper. The two advanced into the middle of the room, and with all gravity stood before Madame.

"Ciel!" cried she, throwing up her hands. "Quel Niais! Comme le tortue est drôle," and she laughed till the tears ran down her fat cheeks.

At another time, when the fable was "Un navire charge d'un grand nombre des singes, etc.," Archie launched from some unperceived spot a boat-load of absurd little sponge monkeys.

But Madame was clever enough to turn the little episode into an object lesson for them all, and drilled them upon the different parts of a ship, till Jack declared himself ready to man a French cruiser.

But into the happy little company crept at last an intruder whose presence finally drove away Jack Allen, and who gave uneasiness in more or less measure to them all.

Theo announced, one day, that she had met an old acquaintance, Felix Parkhurst. "You remember him, Val?" she said.

Val nodded. "Of course I do; the young man with the sleepy eyes and the lazy way of talking. You rather liked him, didn't you? Oh, yes," as Nannie looked around, "I remember all about it now. Why, Nan, he is your cousin—and—" but Val stopped.

"He is my cousin," replied Nannie. "I wasn't laughing at that. I was laughing at the tender way my aunt referred to him in her conversation with Theo after she had discovered Theo had inherited Preston."

"Now, Theo, don't blush," laughed Val.

"I didn't let Felix know of my being here," continued Nannie, "because I knew he would be drifting in here any hour of the day and taking up our time; he has nothing on earth to do. I despise a useless man."

"Oh, and I told him where we were; I never thought," and Theo gave the information with some misgivings. "It never occurred to me, Nan, but what you would like to see him."

"I don't object to seeing him; he isn't a bad fellow," admitted Nan; "he is simply useless and uninteresting. Don't you think so?" and she turned suddenly to Theo.

Theo looked down. "I don't know;" she gave the answer hesitatingly. "I think maybe there is more in him than you imagine, Nan; anyhow, he is coming to see us."

"To see you, you mean," Val specified, teasingly.

Theo drew herself up to her full height, and looked down haughtily at the little figure nestling among the cushions of the divan.

"Don't, Theo, don't," expostulated Val, laughing saucily; "you appropriate all the pride of your ancestors when you put on that look. I'll tell you one thing,—Archie won't like him; neither will Jack."

"As if I cared," returned Theo, turning her back to her cousin.

And then Val formed a scheme in her mischievous little head, not meaning to do much harm. But, being rather a thoughtless little mortal, she loved her cousin absorbingly; but she could not resist following out a plan which she meant should benefit her, and which, perhaps, really did in the end, although the means employed were not praiseworthy.

The very next day Felix Parkhurst presented himself. He was a gentle-mannered young man, but, as Nannie said, "he was born weary;" and his little languid air amused her, though she felt a contempt for it. Theo, however, was rather impressed by it.

Theo was a girl of strong sentiment, but she was too young to distinguish between real feeling and a certain sentimentalism which young people are apt to esteem highly.

From the first, Felix Parkhurst attached himself to the girl, who was so sweetly sympathetic, and who told herself she felt "so sorry for him."

"It is not a happy existence I lead; there is nothing worth living for," he said once, lifting his head and looking gloomily at the girl.

Theo opened her eyes. "Oh, don't say that; there is so much to live for; it is a beautiful world."

"To some," replied Mr. Felix. And then he dropped a few romantic phrases about his lonely heart, about his being misunderstood, about the emptiness of all his pursuits, all of which Theo repeated in innocent confidence to Nannie.

"Why doesn't he go to work?" said Nannie, bluntly, standing off from her easel and viewing her canvas with half-closed eyes.

"Oh, Nan," answered Theo; "his father does not encourage him to do the things he likes, and he has no heart for mercantile life."

"What would he like to do?" asked Nan, stepping forward with loaded brush, and putting a dab of paint on her canvas.

"Oh, he would like to be a writer, or something of that sort."

Nannie again stepped back, viewing her work critically, but made no immediate reply. But presently, she turned and looked at Theo. "You goose!" was all she said.

Finding Nannie entirely unsympathetic, Theo gave no more confidences, but brooded over the matter in silence, gaining interest in Felix as she did so.

Theo had heretofore shown such a lofty disdain of any possible lover that it never occurred to Miss Janet that hers was anything more than the same friendly interest the girl had shown in Gilbert Rogers or other friends of her brother's. She could not guess that the dear child was weaving her first romance out of such very unsubstantial stuff.

Nannie gave a superb scorn to it; that any one could really fall in love with Felix seemed impossible to her. Archie saw nothing; for Theo, like the true woman she was, would rather have died than have confessed her liking to any one, even to her beloved Archie.

But little Val was wiser than any, and here came in her plan of operation. Felix's entrance into the French class was Val's signal for a series of coquetries which surprised Theo, amused Archie and Nannie, and flattered Felix. Only Jack sensitively felt the reflex of Theo's every emotion, saw her grow pale and red by turns, saw her charming, unconsciously gracious manner change to a disturbed silence, saw furtive, miserable glances cast at Val, whose little bewitching ways would have attracted a much less susceptible heart than that of Felix, who, however, possessed no real sentiment, knowing only a sort of surface sentimentality which pleased itself with romantic phrases and a theatrical display of emotion. While Theo counted his triflings as coming from his heart, Val recognized them at their counterfeit worth, and played with them accordingly, believing that she was doing Theo a real kindness.

Not so, poor Theo. Feeling that Nannie had no sympathy with her fancy, that auntie was blind to it, and that Val was determinedly putting a barrier between confidences by her apparent usurping of Theo's place, the girl was very miserable; the more so that difficulties having arisen made the object of her fancy the more attractive by reason of there appearing a possible loss.

"What is the matter with Theo?" asked Miss Janet. "She looks so dejected and pale; she says she is well, so she must be worrying over something. It cannot be Jack's affairs, do you think, Val? I sometimes wonder if Theo is not more interested in him than she is willing to confess."

Val laughed, a little wickedly.

"Does it seem so amusing?" inquired auntie.

Val came up and put her arms around her. "You dear blind auntie, I am not going to tell you, if you cannot see for yourself. Theo care for Jack! Not a bit of it."

Miss Nelson turned around and took the girl's face between her hands. "What are you up to, Val?" she asked, as Val's eyes shot out a mischievous glance.

"I wonder if I ought to tell you," said Val, settling herself at auntie's feet. "Yes, I will; you ought to know everything about us, auntie dear, for you always know how to get the right out of anything. My opinion is, that Theo is sort of, kind of interested in Felix, and I am doing my best to cut her out," and with this audacious speech, Val looked up, but looked down again very quickly as she encountered Miss Nelson's grave face.

"If that is so," said auntie, "you are doing a very wicked thing."

"Oh, auntie!"

"Yes, dear child; perhaps you do not mean to. I do not know your motive."

"Why, oh, auntie," put in Val, hastily, "I am doing it all for Theo. He is so unworthy of her; and if he didn't flirt with me, he would with her. He says the same things to us both, I know he does: he is that kind, and he doesn't mean a word of it; but Theo is so earnest, she doesn't see it at all, and in time, she might like him too much. Mind, I don't say she does, but she idealizes him, and he makes her think she is a comfort and a help to him, as if he needed either. He has everything in the world to make him happy; he is only 'blasé' and discontented, and Theo calls it sensitiveness, and all that."

"Who made you so worldly-wise, little girl?"

"I don't know; it is because I love Theo, I suppose, that I see it. Jack—" Then Val paused.

"What about Jack?"

"Nothing—only—Jack sees it, too. I am sure that is why he is going to give up the French class; he says it is because he cannot spare a whole afternoon from the office. Oh, dear! It is a muddle. Auntie dear, help me," and Val looked up so appealingly that auntie had to bend and kiss her.

"My darling, you are all wrong, I am afraid. It is true that if Felix Parkhurst has a shallow nature, he would make Theo very miserable. She is too fine and earnest herself, but you, no doubt, are only adding fuel to the flames. To make her jealous is not only the surest way to help on the matter, but it is disloyal. Suppose we say that Theo had something which she valued very much, perhaps only a little bird with a harsh note, but which had learned to eat from her hand, and sing its meaningless little song to her, and suppose you should coax it from her, and at last appropriate it entirely, saying 'Theo shall not have it; that is not a song it sings.'"

Val was listening attentively.

"I should say, better let her find out that there is no music there, and she will set it free of her own accord; but you have no right to steal it."

"Steal it!"

"Yes, dear; it is nothing more nor less than robbery, and unworthy of the really noble, loving heart I know yours to be."

The tears were in Val's eyes, and she took Miss Janet's hand, laying her cheek against it, then sighed.

"Auntie, the top of your ladder is so near the sky, I am afraid it is beyond poor humanity to reach it. I don't believe any one looks at things quite so loftily; at least, I know lots of girls who have done, and still do, and intend to keep on doing, as I have done from a very different motive."

"Even so; it does not follow that it is right. Poor humanity, indeed! Where would it be if anything less than the highest moral life were our goal? When we have that before us, if we still stumble and err so constantly, what could we hope for with less high aims?"

"Where is Theo?" asked Val, presently.

"In her room, I think."

"And Nannie has not come in yet?"

"Not yet."

In another moment, Val was at Theo's door. She knocked timidly, and then turned the knob and entered.

Theo had evidently just sprung to her feet from the bed where she had been lying; there was the imprint of her head on the pillow, and her eyes were red with crying.

Val sprang towards her. "Oh, darling, darling!" she cried. "I am a mean, wicked girl, but I didn't mean to be," and she poured forth her tale in Theo's ears.

"And he has talked that way to you?" said Theo, as Val concluded her recital.

"Yes," softly replied Val.

There were two burning spots in Theo's cheeks. She put out her hand and held Val's tightly.

"Thank you," she said.

Val's arm stole around her. "Don't you hate me?" she whispered.

"I was so disappointed in you," was Theo's low reply; "it hurt me so to feel that you were not true, Val. I felt as if I couldn't believe in friendship at all, if I couldn't trust yours."

From that time Val's coquetries with Felix Parkhurst ceased. And Theo's manner towards him, though slightly haughty, was as graciously polite as ever.

"Theo is really grown up," said Archie to his aunt, as he watched his sister at an evening gathering.

She was, indeed, across the threshold.