CHAPTER VI.
THE ARTIST.
Sprague was a dilettante in art as he was in life. If he had not been rich, he might perhaps have become a great artist. But, lacking the spur of poverty, he seemed incapable of sustained effort. Occasionally he was seized with a frenzy for labor; and, for weeks at a time, he would shut himself up in his studio, until he had creditably accomplished some bit of work. But the fever was soon spent, and a reaction invariably followed, during which palette and brush were taken up only in desultory fashion. Thus it was that at the age of eight and twenty, Sprague had painted a few pictures which had attracted favorable attention at the annual exhibitions of the Academy of Design, and which the critics had spoken of as "promising"; and thus it was that the promise was as yet unfulfilled, and that Sprague, though a man of undoubted talent, was not likely ever to rank as a genius in his profession.
Sturgis, with his keen insight into human nature, fully realized the potential capacities of the artist, and at times he could not control his impatience at his friend's inert drifting through life. But, with all their differences, these two men held each other in the highest esteem, each admiring in the other those very qualities which were lacking in himself.
The artist lived in a fashionable quarter of the city, in a bachelor apartment which included a large and commodious studio fitted up according to the latest canons of artistic taste.
On this particular New Year's morning, after waking and observing, by the filtering of a few bright sunbeams through the closely drawn blinds, that it was broad daylight, he stretched himself with a voluptuous yawn and prepared to relapse into the sensuous enjoyment of that semi-somnolent state which succeeds a night of calm and refreshing sleep.
Just as he was settling himself comfortably, however, he was startled by a knock at the bedroom door. Most men, under the circumstances, would have betrayed some vexation at being thus unceremoniously disturbed. But there was no suspicion of annoyance in Sprague's cheery voice, as he exclaimed:
"You cannot come in yet, Mrs. O'Meagher. I am asleep, and I shall be asleep for another hour at the least. Surely you cannot have forgotten that to-day is a holiday. Happy New Year! You have time to go to several masses before——"
"Get up, old lazybones; and don't keep a man waiting at your door in this inhospitable way, when he is in a hurry," interrupted a voice whose timbre was not that of the housekeeper, Mrs. O'Meagher.
"Oh! is that you, Sturgis?" laughed the artist. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself to come routing honest men out of bed at this unseemly hour? Wait a minute, till I put on my court costume, that I may receive you with the honors and ceremonies due to your rank and station."
A couple of minutes later, the artist, picturesquely attired in a loose oriental dressing gown and fez, opened the door to his friend, Ralph Sturgis.
"Come in, old man," he said, cordially extending his hand to the reporter; "you are welcome at any hour of the day or night. What is it now? This is not your digestion call, I presume."
"No," replied Sturgis, "I merely dropped in to say that I should be unable to take our projected bicycle trip this afternoon, I shall probably be busy with the Knickerbocker bank case all day. By the way, if you would like to come to the bank with me, I shall be glad of your company. I am on my way there now."
"I should like nothing better," said Sprague, "but I have made an appointment for this morning with a——er——er——with a sitter."
"What, on New Year's day, you heathen!"
Sturgis observed the artist closely, and then added quizzically:
"Accept my congratulations, old man."
"Your congratulations?" inquired Sprague, coloring slightly.
"Yes; my congratulations and my condolence. My congratulations on the fact that she is young and beautiful, and possessed of all those qualities of mind and heart which——and so on and so forth. My condolence because I fear you are hit, at last."
"What do you mean?" stammered the artist sheepishly; "do you know her? What do you know about her?"
"Nothing whatever," replied Sturgis laughing, "except what you are telling me by your hesitations, your reticence and your confusion."
The artist spoke after a moment of thoughtful silence:
"Your inductions in this case are premature, to say the least. My sitter is a young lady, so much is undeniably true. And there is no doubt in my mind as to her possession of all the qualities you jocularly attribute to her; but my interest in her is only that of the artist in a beautiful and charming woman.
"At any rate," he added, after a moment's hesitation, "I hope so; for I have heard that she is as good as betrothed to another man."
The reporter's keen ear detected in his friend's tones a touch of genuine sadness of which the artist himself was probably unconscious. Laying his hand gently upon Sprague's shoulder, he said gravely:
"I hope so too, old man; for you are one of those foolish men whose lives can be ruined by an unhappy love affair. I suppose it is useless to preach to you;—more's the pity—but, in my humble opinion, no woman's love is worth the sacrifice of a good man's life."
"Yes, I know your opinion on that subject, you old cynic," replied Sprague, "but you need not worry on my account; not yet, at all events. I am still safe; the portrait is almost finished; and I should be a fool to walk into such a scrape with my eyes wide open."
"Humph!" ejaculated Sturgis skeptically, "when a man makes a fool of himself for a woman, it matters little whether his eyes be open or shut; the result is the same."
Sprague laughed somewhat uneasily; and then, as if to change the subject:
"Come and see the picture," he said. "I should like your opinion of it."
The reporter consulted his watch.
"I shall have to come back some other time for that," he replied; "I must hurry off now to keep my appointment with Mr. Dunlap."
He started toward the door; but suddenly facing Sprague again, he held out his hand to the artist, who pressed it cordially.
"Good-bye, old man," he said affectionately; "be as sensible as you can, and don't wantonly play with the fire."
And before Sprague could frame an answer, the reporter was gone.
The artist remained thoughtfully standing until his friend's footsteps had died away in the distance. Then he turned and walked slowly into the studio. Here, in the middle of the room, stood an easel, upon which was the portrait of a beautiful young girl.
Sprague gazed at it long and earnestly. Then he heaved an almost inaudible sigh.
"Sturgis is right," he said to himself, turning away at last, "and——and I am a confounded idiot!"