Part 23 (1/2)

In these five weeks he gave to Miss Macks only the odd hours of his leisure. He made her no promises; but when he found that he should have a morning or half-morning unoccupied, he sent a note to the street of the Hyacinth, naming a gallery and an hour. She was always promptly there, and so pleased, that there was a sort of fresh aroma floating through the time he spent with her, after all--but a mild one.

To give the proper position to the place the young art student's light figure occupied on the canvas of Raymond Noel's winter, it should be mentioned that he was much interested in a French lady who was spending some months in Rome. He had known her and admired her for a long time; but this winter he was seeing more of her, some barriers which had heretofore stood in the way being down. Madame B---- was a charming product of the effects of finished cultivation and fas.h.i.+onable life upon a natural foundation of grace, wit, and beauty of the French kind. She was not artificial, because she was art itself. Real art is as real as real nature is natural. Raymond Noel had a highly artistic nature. He admired art. This did not prevent him from taking up occasionally, as a contrast to this lady, the society of the young girl he called ”Faith.”

Most men of imagination, artistic or not, do the same thing once in a while; it seems a necessity. With Noel it was not the contrast alone.

The French lady led him an uneasy life, and now and then he took an hour of Faith, as a gentle soothing draught of safe quality. She believed in him so perfectly! Now Madame appeared to believe in him not at all.

It must be added that, in his conversations with Miss Macks, he had dropped entirely even the very small amount of conventional gallantry that he had bestowed upon her in the beginning. He talked to her not as though she was a boy exactly, or an old woman, but as though he himself was a relative of mature age--say an uncle of benevolent disposition and a taste for art.

February gave way to March. And now, owing to a new position of his own affairs, Noel saw no more of Faith Macks. She had been a contrast, and he did not now wish for a contrast or a soothing draught, and a soothing draught was not at present required. He simply forgot all about her.

In April he decided rather suddenly to leave Rome. This was because Madame B---- had gone to Paris, and had not forbidden her American suitor to follow her a few days later. He made his preparations for departure, and these, of course, included farewell calls. Then he remembered Faith Macks; he had not seen her for six weeks. He drove to the street of the Hyacinth, and went up the dark stairs. Miss Macks was at home, and came in without delay; apparently, in her trim neatness, she was always ready for visitors.

She was very glad to see him; but did not, as he expected, ask why he had not come before. This he thought a great advance; evidently she was learning. When she heard that he had come to say good-bye her face fell.

”I am so very sorry; please sit as long as you can, then,” she said, simply. ”I suppose it will be six months before I see you again; you will hardly return to Rome before October.” That he would come at that time she did not question.

”My plans are uncertain,” replied Noel. ”But probably I shall come back.

One always comes back to Rome. And you--where do you go? To Switzerland?”

”Why--we go nowhere, of course; we stay here. That is what we came for, and we are all settled.”

He made some allusion to the heat and unhealthiness.

”I am not afraid,” replied Miss Macks. ”Plenty of people stay; Mr.

Jackson says so. It is only the rich who go away, and we are not rich.

We have been through hot summers in Tuscolee, I can tell you!” Then, without asking leave this time, as if she was determined to have an opinion from him before he departed, she took from a portfolio some of the work she had done under Mr. Jackson's instruction.

Noel saw at once that the Englishman had not kept his word. He had not put her back upon the alphabet, or, if he had done so, he had soon released her, and allowed her to pursue her own way again. The original faults were as marked as ever. In his opinion all was essentially bad.

He looked in silence. But she talked on hopefully, explaining, comparing, pointing out.

”What does Mr. Jackson think of this?” he said, selecting the one he thought the worst.

”He admires the idea greatly; he thinks it very original. He says that my strongest point is originality,” she answered, with her confident frankness.

”He means--ah--originality of subject?”

”Oh yes; my execution is not much yet. But that will come in time. Of course, the subject, the idea, is the important thing; the execution is secondary.” Here she paused; something seemed to come into her mind. ”I know _you_ do not think so,” she added, thoughtfully, ”because, you know, you said”--and here she quoted a page from one of his art articles with her clear accuracy. ”I have never understood what you meant by that, Mr. Noel; or why you wrote it.”

She looked at him questioningly. He did not reply; his eyes were upon one of the sketches.

”It would be dreadful for me if you were right!” she added, with slow conviction.

”I thought you believed that I was always right,” he said, smiling, as he placed the sketches on the table.

But she remained very serious.

”You are--in everything but that.”

He made some unimportant reply, and turned the conversation. But she came back to it.