Colonel Carter's Christmas and The Romance of an Old-Fashioned Gentleman Part 16

Staggered by the sight, almost reeling from the saddle, he drove the spurs into his horse, dashed through the ruined gate, and drew rein at the one unburned cabin. A young negro woman stood in the door.

For an instant he could hardly trust himself to speak.

"I am Mr. Gregg," he said in a choking voice, "and was here ten years ago. When did this happen?" and he pointed to the blackened ruins. He had thrown himself from his saddle and stood looking into her face, the bridle in his hand.

"In de summer time--las' August, I think."

"Where's your mistress? Was she here when the house was burned?"

"I ain't got no mist'ess--not now. Oh, you mean de young mist'ess what used to lib here? Aunt Dinah cooked for 'em--she b'longed to 'em."

"Yes, yes," urged Gregg.

"She's daid!"

"My G.o.d! Not when the house was burned?"

"No, she warn't here. She was down in Baltimo'--she went dar after de Jedge died. But she's daid, fo' sho', 'cause Aunt Dinah was wid her, and she tol' me."

Adam dropped upon a bench outside the door of the cabin and began pa.s.sing his hand nervously over his forehead as if he would relieve a pain he could not locate. A cold sweat stood on his brow; his knees shook.

The woman kept her eyes on him. Such incidents were not uncommon.

Almost every day strangers on their way South had pa.s.sed her cabin, looking for friends they would never see again--a woman for her husband; a mother for her son; a father for his children. Unknown graves and burned homes could be found all the way to the Potomac and beyond. This strong man who seemed to be an officer, was like all the others.

For some minutes Adam sat with his head in his hand; his elbows on his knees, the bridle still hooked over his wrist. Hot tears trickled between his closed fingers and dropped into the dust at his feet. Then he raised his head, and with a strong effort pulled himself together.

"And the little boy--or rather the son--he must be grown now. Philip was his name--what has become of him?" He had regained something of his old poise--his voice and manner showed it.

"I ain't never yeard what 'come 'o him. Went in de army, I reck'n.

Daid, I spec'--mos' ev'ybody's daid dat was here when I growed up."

Adam turned his head and looked once more at the blackened ruins.

What further story was yet to come from their ashes?

"One more question, please. Were you here when the fire came?"

"Yes, suh, me and my husban' was both here. He ain't home to-day. We was takin' care of de place when it ketched fire--dat's how we come to save dis cabin. Dere warn't no water and n.o.body to help, and dis was all we could do."

Again Adam bowed his head. Was there nothing left?--nothing to recall even her smile? Then slowly, as if he feared the result:

"Was anything saved--any furniture, or--pictures--or----"

"Nothin' but dem two chairs inside dar--and dat bench what you's settin' on. Dey was on de lawn and dat's how we come to git 'em."

For some minutes Adam sat looking into the ground at his feet, his eyes blurred with tears.

"Thank you," was all he said.

And once more he turned his horse's head towards the North.

V

A thin, shabby little man, with stooping shoulders, hooked nose and velvet tread, stood before the card rack in the lower corridor of the old studio building on Tenth Street. He was scanning the names, beginning at the top floor and going down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. Suddenly his eyes glistened:

"Second floor," he whispered to himself. "Yes, of course; I knew it all the time--second floor," and "second floor" he kept repeating as he helped his small body up the steps by means of the hand-rail.

The little man earned his living by obtaining orders for portraits which he turned over to the several painters, fitting the price to their reputations, and by hunting up undoubted old masters, rare porcelains, curios and miniatures for collectors. He was reasonably honest, and his patrons followed his advice whenever it was backed by somebody they knew. He was also cunning--softly, persuasively cunning--with all the patience and philosophy of his race.

On this morning the little man had a Gilbert Stuart for sale, and what was more to the point he had a customer for the masterpiece: Morlon, the collector, of unlimited means and limited wall s.p.a.ce, would buy it provided Adam Gregg, the distinguished portrait painter, Member of the International Jury, Commander of the Legion of Honor, Hors Concours in Paris and Munich, etc., etc., would p.r.o.nounce it genuine.

The distinguished painter never hesitated to give his services in settling such matters. He delighted in doing it. Just as he always delighted in criticising the work of any young student who came to him for counsel--a habit he had learned in his life abroad--and always with a hand on the boy's shoulder and a twinkle in his brown eyes that robbed his words of any sting.

When dealers sought his help he was not so gracious. He disliked dealers--another of his foreign prejudices. Tender-hearted as he was he generally exploded with dynamic force--and he could explode when anything stirred him--whenever a dealer attempted to make him a party to anything that looked like fraud. He had once cut an a.s.sumed Corot into ribbons with his pocket-knife--and this since he had been home in New York, fifteen years now--and had then handed the strips back to the dealer with the remark:

"Down in the Treasury they brand counterfeits with a die; I do it with a knife. Send me the bill."

The little man, with the cunning of his race, knew this peculiarity, and he also knew that ten chances to one the great painter would receive him with a frigid look, and perhaps bow him out of the door.

So he had studied out and arranged a little game. Only the day before he had obtained an order for a portrait to be painted by the best man-painter of his time. The picture was to be full length and to hang in the directors' room of a great corporation. This order he had in his pocket in writing, signed by the secretary of the board.

Confirmations were sometimes valuable.

As the little man's body neared the great painter's door a certain pleasurable sensation trickled through him. To catch a painter on a hook baited with an order, and then catch a great collector like Morlon on another hook baited with a painter, was admirable fis.h.i.+ng.

With these thoughts in his mind he rapped timidly on Adam Gregg's door, and was answered by a strong, cheery voice calling:

"Come in!"

The door swung back, the velvet curtains parted, and the little man made a step into the great painter's s.p.a.cious studio.

"Oh, I have such a fine sitter for you!" he whispered, with his hand still grasping the curtain. "Such a distinguished-looking man he is--like a pope--like a doge. It will make a great Franz Hal; such a big spot of white hair and black coat and red face. He's coming to-morrow and----"

"Who is coming to-morrow?" asked Gregg. His tone would have swamped any other man. He had recognized the dealer with a simple "Good-morning," and had kept his place before his easel, the overhead light falling on his upturned mustache and crisp gray hair.

The little man rubbed his soft, flabby hands together, and tiptoed to where Gregg stood as noiseless as a detective approaching a burglar.

"The big banker," he whispered. "Did you not get my letter? The price is no object. I can show you the order." He had reached the easel now and was standing with bent head, an unctuous smile playing about his lips.

"No, I don't want to see it," remarked Gregg, squeezing a tube on his palette. "I can't reach it for some time, you know."

"Yes, I have told them so, but the young gentleman wants to have the entry made on the minutes and have the money appropriated. I had great confidence, you see, in your goodness," and the little man touched his forehead with one skinny finger and bowed obsequiously.

"I thought you said he had white hair."

"So he has. The portrait is to hang up in the directors' room of one of the big copper companies. The young gentleman is a member of the banking firm that is to pay for the picture, and is quite a young man.

He buys little curios of me now and then, and he asked me whom I would recommend to paint the director's portrait, and, of course, there is but one painter--" and the dealer bowed to the floor. "He's coming to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock and will stay but a moment, for he's a very busy man. You will, I know, receive him."