John Marsh's Millions Part 3

CHAPTER IV.

The sound of the lawyer's retreating footsteps died away in the distance. Once more a heavy stillness settled down over the gallery.

Left to herself, the young girl resumed working with increased vigor. As her brushes moved rapidly, touching places here and there, now seeking fresh color on the palette, now making some spot on the rapidly progressing canvas glow with rich tints, her movements gradually grew more or less mechanical. While her hand kept busy, her thoughts were elsewhere.

She was sorry to leave Paris. Much that she held dear, her friends, the bohemian student life which she loved, she must now give up forever. A new world, new acquaintances claimed her. Yes, Mr. Ricaby was right. It was her duty to go back and do good with the fortune which fate had sent her. She would seek happiness by making others happy. She would use the money left by her father to alleviate the sufferings of the unfortunate.

She would build model tenements, endow hospitals and homes for orphaned and crippled children. She would make that her life work. Her face flushed with pleasure as she planned out all that she could do. Mr.

Ricaby should be her legal adviser. He would tell her how to invest her fortune to best advantage, so she might do all the good possible. It would reconcile her to leaving Paris if she could devote her life to trying to solve the social problem.

Her thoughts reverted to her childhood days in America. She had a dim recollection of living in a great gloomy house in the outskirts of an ugly, smoky city. At night when she went to bed she could see in the distance tall chimneys belching flame, terrifying tongues of flame that reached almost to the sky. They lived very quietly and saw no one. Her father, reserved and uncommunicative, discouraged callers, and her mother, a French woman, not understanding the language very well, made no acquaintances among her neighbors. Then she went to the convent school where she was educated, and after that they moved to Paris and made a long stay with relatives of her mother. On the return to America they lived quietly for a time in New York, seeing absolutely no one, and it was at this period that she became seriously interested in Settlement work.

She wondered why her father had always insisted on keeping his marriage secret. It was not because he was ashamed of her mother, who came of a distinguished family. He must have been fond of her in his undemonstrative way, for he cried bitterly when she died. For some time he seemed to find comfort in his daughter's companions.h.i.+p, but little by little the man's eccentricities estranged them. Owing to his frequent absences she saw less and less of him until, at last, she asked to be allowed to return to Paris to study art. He readily acquiesced and provided her with a comfortable allowance. To their friend, Leon Ricaby, to whom he handed a long envelope, he had said in her hearing: "This, Mr. Ricaby, contains my last will. I have named you as executor. I have left everything to Paula. If anything happens to me, look after my little girl. Another will, executed years ago, in my brother's favor, is in existence. For reasons of my own I do not wish to destroy that will.

It would lead to explanations and unpleasantness I would rather avoid.

But this new will post-dates the old one. This is the only valid will."

That was only six months ago, and now he, too, was gone.

Thus absorbed in these reflections, Paula did not notice how dangerously her stool tilted on the treacherous, highly polished parquet floor.

There was a little spot high up on the canvas which she wanted to reach, so, slightly elevating herself, she leaned forward, palette in one hand, brush extended in the other. Suddenly the stool slipped backwards and she was thrown heavily against the easel which went cras.h.i.+ng to the ground, the picture, palette, paint box, and brushes being hurled in all directions. It was all over before she had time to cry out, and the next instant she found herself sitting unceremoniously on the floor in the midst of all the debris.

"Gee! That was a tumble! Not hurt, are you?" exclaimed a man's voice in English.

Paula looked up in amazement. She had heard no footsteps and had no idea that anyone was near. Standing looking down at her, his face trying to suppress a grin, was a young man of about twenty-five. He was rather loudly dressed in a check lounging suit and red tie, and as much by his manner as by his clean-shaven face and clothes she took him for a fellow countryman. "Just like an American's bad breeding to laugh at a woman's misfortune," was her inward indignant comment.

Lifting his hat, he extended his hand to a.s.sist her to rise.

"Lucky I happened along, eh?" he grinned.

Paula carefully stretched out her arms to make sure that no bones were broken.

"You didn't prevent my fall," she said ruefully.

"No," he laughed, "but it's given me an excuse to make the acquaintance of a pretty girl."

She tried to look displeased and dignified, but the stranger's impudence and breezy familiarity amused her. He was a clean-cut, rather good-looking boy, and his laugh was not only contagious but positively refres.h.i.+ng after Mr. Ricaby's depressing conversation and funereal countenance.

"How did you know that I understood English?" she inquired.

Pointing to a copy of _Galignani's Messenger_ in which her palette and brushes had been wrapped, he said with a chuckle:

"I saw that--jumped at conclusions--that's all. I'd make good as a Sherlock Holmes, eh, what? Besides, don't you suppose I can spot an American girl when I see one?"

"I'm only half American," she answered, surprised to find herself conversing so glibly with a perfect stranger. "My mother was French. My father was an American."

Noticing that she spoke in the past tense and remarking her mourning dress, he surmised that her parents were dead. She interested him, and it was more sympathy than idle curiosity that prompted the query:

"Where do you live--New York?"

She shook her head.

"No, I live here, or, rather, have done so until quite recently. I'm going to America next Sat.u.r.day--to live there for good."

"Next Sat.u.r.day!" he cried, in surprise. "Say, that's odd! I'm going on the _Touraine_ myself!"

"The _Touraine_--yes--I think that's the name of the boat." Almost apologetically she added: "You see I haven't travelled very much."

Looking at him more closely, she inquired:

"You are an American?"

He grinned, showing fine white teeth.

"I try to be. Greatest country on earth. My name's Todhunter Chase--'Tod' for short you know. Everyone calls me Tod. It's hard to be dignified with such a name, ain't it?"

Suddenly the girl caught sight of her painting which, hurled a dozen paces away, was lying face down in the dust.

"Oh, my picture!" she exclaimed anxiously. "I do hope it's not damaged!"

She started forward to pick it up, but Tod, by a quick jump, got there before her.

"No damage done!" he cried triumphantly. With a careless laugh he added: "Anyhow, it's only a picture."

"Only a picture!" she exclaimed indignantly as she clasped the precious canvas to her breast. "Don't you love what is your own? I've worked six long months over it. I wouldn't have anything happen to it for anything in the world. Don't you like pictures?"

He gave a broad grin as he answered:

"Pictures? I'm crazy for 'em--especially the kind engraved on a $500 U. S. Treasury note. I'm perfectly dippy over those."

"Dippy? What's that?" she asked, puzzled.

"Oh--you're not familiar with Broadway slang, are you? Well--'dippy' is most expressive and up to date. It means that one's joy over a certain thing is so keen that the mental faculties are put temporarily out of gear."

She laughed heartily. He was certainly droll, this American. He made her laugh and that in itself was a novel sensation. As she packed up her things, she asked:

"What is your life work?"

"My what?" he gasped.

"Your work. What is your occupation?"

"Oh, you mean what I do for a living?" Puffing out his chest he went on proudly: "I'm in the automobile business, and I'm a cracker jack at it, too. Only been in it a month, but I guess I've made good all right."

She smiled at his unblus.h.i.+ng self-conceit.

"Only been at it a month?" she echoed. "Why, what did you do before that?"

The question seemed to embarra.s.s him.

"Oh, I worked hard enough," he replied carelessly. "I got up at noon, had breakfast, played golf or took a spin in the machine, ran in to the club, dressed for dinner, ate, went to a show, back to clubs, played poker till three A. M., back home. Same old thing week in, week out, all through the season. Isn't that hard work?"