Part 3 (2/2)
”Then, in the boyhood of the year, Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere Rode through the coverts of the deer With blissful treble ringing clear; She seemed a part of joyous Spring.”
Though the greater part of his time was spent in the old tower, John Graham was well known in San Francisco. His studio, at the top of a tall apartment-house in one of the unfrequented thoroughfares of the city, was familiar to most of its aspirants to artistic fame. In this large bare room, with its strong north light, there a.s.sembled every morning a dozen young men who were busily engaged in cast drawing and model painting. To the instruction of these youths two days of the week were devoted by the artist, whose only recompense was in the grat.i.tude of his scholars. One morning not long after his meeting with Miss Almsford, John Graham might have been seen carefully examining his pupils' work, giving a word of advice here, a criticism there, and a hearty encouragement to all. On his return from Paris he had opened his studio to all those who were desirous of studying art. The first year he had had but three students; at the end of the second year the number had quadrupled. On the morning in question Graham had arrived with a new model,--a rough-looking fellow whom he had met in the street, and induced to accompany him to the studio. On a platform at the end of the room stood the stalwart model; while the artist, standing beside him, gave an off-hand lecture on anatomy, the students sketched the man or took notes of what their master was saying. It was not Graham's habit to do any work at the studio; but this morning, after he had finished his discourse, he placed himself at a vacant easel, and with a strong, bold hand made a free drawing of the superbly modelled figure. As he worked he forgot his cla.s.s, his lecture, everything but the canvas before him and the subject he was studying. As the sketch grew beneath his hand the scholars one by one forsook their work, and stood watching him silently. The perfect confidence with which he worked--never hesitating, never altering what was already done--was fascinating to the younger men; and even the sculptor, Arthur Northcote, who inhabited the adjoining studio, stopped on his way upstairs and joined the group behind his chair. When the model declared himself unable longer to maintain the pose in which he had been placed, Graham threw down his brush with a sigh, saying,--
”Well, Horton, you may go now if you must, but do not fail to come to-morrow. I have your name correctly,--Daniel Horton? Where do you live?”
The stranger declined to give his address, and promised to come the next day at the appointed hour. After he had left the room the artist had something to say about expression, characterizing the face of the model as one indicative of brutal cunning and impudent daring.
As Graham quitted the studio the young sculptor joined him, and they walked together toward the station. Northcote was a slender, delicately built man some years Graham's junior. His face was instinct with the poetry of art, but was lacking in force. By the side of Graham's strong, resolute countenance his delicate features appeared weak and effeminate. The younger man took his friend's arm, as if relying on him for physical as well as moral support, and said as they walked along,--
”Graham, where did you pick up that model this morning?”
”I found him lounging about the station. Why do you ask?”
”He has such a bad face. You should be more careful about the men you engage to pose for you.”
”And why, Arthur?”
”Because you lead such an unprotected life in that terrible old ruin.”
”What a fanciful creature you are, Northcote. As if there was anything to be gained in molesting a beggarly artist in an inaccessible fortress.
You have never seen my tower, or you would not think that it would be an attractive spot to thieves.”
”Did you not hear,” continued Northcote, ”of that case of abduction in Cathgate County last week? A man was carried off by a pair of brigands, and kept for a week until a large sum of money was paid for his ransom.”
”What manner of man was he?”
”The president of the county bank.”
”Well, my dear Arthur, when I become a bank president, or even a railroad treasurer, I will take better care of my worthless self. At present I am not a promising prize to the most sanguine kidnapper. I can fancy your feelings on receiving a notice that, unless five thousand dollars be left in the hollow of a blasted pine-tree on the high-road at San Rosario, a slice of my right ear would be forwarded by way of a reminder! When are you coming out to pa.s.s the night with me?”
”When I have sold my Diana, or when Patrick Shallop gives me an order for a life-size statue of himself.”
”Come with me to-day. It will do you good to pa.s.s an afternoon in the woods.”
”Do not ask me. I will take nothing more from you, Graham,--I cannot,--not even a piece of bread, until--”
”Well, if you are so obstinate, farewell to you. I must hurry or I shall miss my train.”
The two men shook hands the sculptor turning into a dingy restaurant, the artist walking rapidly in the direction of the railroad station.
Arthur Northcote made a light repast,--for he was poorer than usual that day,--and soon returned to his studio, whose rental was defrayed by his friend's slender purse.
Graham caught his train, and reached San Rosario at about three o'clock.
He found his horse at the station, and rode toward the house. At a distant point he caught a glimpse of two figures on the piazza, which he recognized as those of Miss Almsford and Hal Deering, who were talking together, quite unconscious of his approach.
”So you like Graham?” Henry Deering was the speaker.
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