There was only the one figure silhouetted against long rows of dusky pines, but the meaning of the way in which the hard, scarred hands were clenched on the big ax was very plain, and Ida could fill in from memory the form of the big chopper and the clusters of expectant men.
“Excellent!” said one of the guests. “That fellow means to fight. He’s in hard training, too, and that has now and then a much bigger effect than the toughening of his muscles upon the man who submits himself to it. Is it a portrait or a type?”
The speaker was from the metropolis, and while Arabella hesitated, Ida answered him with a suggestive ring in her voice.
“It’s both, one should like to think,” she said. “The man came from England; and if you can send us out more of that type we shall be satisfied.”
Then she and the questioner became conscious of the awkward silence that had fallen upon the rest. They belonged to the dales, and they glanced covertly at Weston, who was gazing at the picture, purple in face, and with a very hard look in his eyes. Ida guessed that it was the scarred workman’s hands and the track-grader’s old blue shirt and tattered duck that had hurt his very curious pride. Still, it was evident that he could face the situation.
“Yes,” he said, a trifle hoarsely, “it’s a portrait—an excellent one. In fact, as some of you are quite aware, it’s my son.”
He rose, and crossing a strip of lawn sat down heavily near Ida. The latter, looking around, saw Arabella’s satisfied smile suddenly subside; but the next moment Weston, leaning forward, laid his hand roughly on her arm.
“Why Clarence permitted that portrait to be painted I don’t quite understand, though he was fond of flying in the face of all ideas of decency,” he said. “You must have met him out yonder. What was he doing?”
“Shoveling gravel on a railroad that my father was grading,” said Ida, with rather grim amusement, for she was determined that the man should face the plain reality, even if it hurt him.
“Shoveling gravel!” said Weston. “But he is my son.”