At length he sold a few small pictures, which, with some help in touching up from monsieur, were very creditable to him. But instead of being elated that his work was beginning to attract attention and be appreciated, he was greatly chagrined at the prices he received for them, and allowed himself to become somewhat discouraged in view of these small returns; and, during his fourth year, it became evident that his interest was waning, and he was growing weary of his work.
He had never been a systematic worker, much to the annoyance of his teacher, who was rigidly methodical and painstaking in every detail. John would begin a subject which gave promise of being above the ordinary, and work well upon it for a while; but after a little it would pall upon his fancy, and be set aside to try something else, while Monsieur Jacques would look on with grave disapproval, and often sharply criticize such desultory efforts. This, of course, caused strained relations between teacher and student, and conditions drifted from bad to worse, until he began to absent himself from the studio; at first for only a day in the week; then, as time went on, he grew more and more irregular, and sometimes several days would elapse during which he would do nothing at his easel, while no one seemed to know where, or with whom, he was spending his time.
Monsieur Jacques was very forbearing. He knew the young man possessed rare talent, if not real genius; he believed there was the promise of a great artist in him, and he was ambitious to have him make his mark in the world. He was puzzled by his peculiar moods and behavior, and strove in various ways to arouse his waning enthusiasm. He knew nothing of his circumstances, except that he had a lovely wife and child, of whom he appeared to be very fond and proud, and he believed him to be possessed of ample means, for he spent money freely upon himself and his fellow students, with whom he was exceedingly popular; hence he was wholly unable to account for his growing indifference and indolence, unless there were some secret, subtle influence that was leading him astray—beguiling him from his high calling.
Two years more passed thus, and still he had made no practical advancement. He worked by fits and starts, but rarely completed and sold anything, even though everything he attempted was, as far as developed, alive with brilliant possibilities.
Helen had also realized, during this time, that something was very wrong with her husband. He was often away from home during the evening, and had little to say when she questioned him regarding his absence; sometimes he told her he had been at the theater with the boys, or he had been bowling at the club, or having a game of whist at the studio.
She was very patient; she believed in him thoroughly, and not a suspicion arose in her loyal heart that he would tell her a falsehood to conceal any wrongdoing on his part.
But one night he did not return at all; at least, it was early morning before he came in, and, not wishing to disturb his wife, he threw himself, half dressed, upon the couch in the library, where Helen found him, in a deep sleep, when she came downstairs in the morning. She appeared relieved on seeing him, and stood for a minute or two curiously searching his face, noting how weary and haggard he looked after his night of evident dissipation, while the odor of wine was plainly perceptible in his heavy breathing.
Her heart was very sore, but she was careful not to wake him, for she felt he needed to sleep, and she presently moved away from him, gathering up the light overcoat he had worn the previous evening, and which he had heedlessly thrown in a heap upon a chair on removing it. She gently shook out the wrinkles, preparatory to putting the garment away in its place, when something bright, hanging from an inner pocket, caught her eye.
With the color fading from her face, she drew it forth and gazed at it as one dazed.
It was a long, silken, rose-hued glove, that exhaled a faint odor of attar of roses as it slipped from its hiding place. It was almost new, yet the shape of the small hand that had worn it was plainly discernible, while on one of the rounded finger tips there was a slight stain, like a drop of wine.