The Stillwater Tragedy

  IX

  Towards the close of his second year with Mr. Slocum, Richard wasassigned a work-room by himself, and relieved of his accountant'sduties. His undivided energies were demanded by the carvingdepartment, which had proved a lucrative success.

  The rear of the lot on which Mr. Slocum's house stood was shut offfrom the marble yard by a high brick wall pierced with a private doorfor Mr. Slocum's convenience. Over the kitchen in the extension,which reached within a few feet of the wall, was a disused chamber,approachable on the outside by a flight of steps leading to averanda. To this room Richard and his traps were removed. With around table standing in the center, with the plaster models arrangedon shelves and sketches in pencil and crayon tacked against thewhitewashed walls, the apartment was transformed into a delightfulatelier. An open fire-place, with a brace of antiquated iron-dogsstraddling the red brick hearth, gave the finishing touch. Theoccupant was in easy communication with the yard, from which the busydin of clinking chisels came musically to his ear, and was stillbeyond the reach of unnecessary interruption. Richard saw clearly allthe advantages of this transfer, but he was far form having anyintimation that he had made the most important move of his life.

  The room had two doors: one opened on the veranda, and the otherinto a narrow hall connecting the extension with the main building.Frequently, that first week after taking possession, Richard detectedthe sweep of a broom and the rustle of drapery in this passage-way,the sound sometimes hushing itself quite close to the door, as ifsome one had paused a moment just outside. He wondered whether it wasthe servant-maid or Margaret Slocum, whom he knew very well by sight.It was, in fact, Margaret, who was dying with the curiosity offourteen to peep into the studio, so carefully locked whenever theyoung man left it,--dying with curiosity to see the workshop, andstanding in rather great awe of the workman.

  In the home circle her father had a habit of speaking with deeprespect of young Shackford's ability, and once she had seen him attheir table,--at a Thanksgiving. On this occasion Richard hadappalled her by the solemnity of his shyness,--poor Richard, who wasso unused to the amenities of a handsomely served dinner, that thechill which came over him cooled the Thanksgiving turkey on hispalate.

  When it had been decided that he was to have the spare room forhis workshop, Margaret, with womanly officiousness, had swept it anddusted it and demolished the cobwebs; but since then she had not beenable to obtain so much as a glimpse of the interior. A ten minutes'sweeping had sufficed for the chamber, but the passage-way seemed inquite an irreclaimable state, judging by the number of times it wasnecessary to sweep it in the course of a few days. Now Margaret wasnot an unusual mixture of timidity and daring; so one morning, abouta week after Richard was settled, she walked with quaking heart up tothe door of the studio, and knocked as bold as brass.

  Richard opened the door, and smiled pleasantly at Margaretstanding on the threshold with an expression of demure defiance inher face. Did Mr. Shackford want anything more in the way of pans andpails for his plaster? No, Mr. Shackford had everything he requiredof the kind. But would not Miss Margaret walk in? Yes, she would stepin for a moment, but with a good deal of indifference, though, givingan air of chance to her settled determination to examine that roomfrom top to bottom.

  Richard showed her his drawings and casts, and enlightened her onall the simple mysteries of the craft. Margaret, of whom he was atrifle afraid at first, amused him with her candor and sedateness,seeming now a mere child, and now an elderly person gravelyinspecting matters. The frankness and simplicity were hers by nature,and the oldish ways--notably her self-possession, so quick to assertitself after an instant's forgetfulness--came perhaps of losing hermother in early childhood, and the premature duties which thatmisfortune entailed. She amused him, for she was only fourteen; butshe impressed him also, for she was Mr. Slocum's daughter. Yet it wasnot her lightness, but her gravity, that made Richard smile tohimself.

  "I am not interrupting you?" she asked presently.

  "Not in the least," said Richard. "I am waiting for these molds toharden. I cannot do anything until then."

  "Papa says you are very clever," remarked Margaret, turning herwide black eyes full upon him. _"Are_ you?"

  "Far from it," replied Richard, laughing to veil his confusion,"but I am glad your father thinks so."

  "You should not be glad to have him think so," returned Margaretreprovingly, "if you are not clever. I suppose you are, though. Tellthe truth, now."

  "It is not fair to force a fellow into praising himself."

  "You are trying to creep out!"

  "Well, then, there are many cleverer persons than I in the world,and a few not so clever."

  "That won't do," said Margaret positively.

  "I don't understand what you mean by cleverness, Miss Margaret.There are a great many kinds and degrees. I can make fairly honestpatterns for the men to work by; but I am not an artist, if you meanthat."

  "You are not an artist?"

  "No; an artist creates, and I only copy, and that in a small way.Any one can learn to prepare casts; but to create a bust or astatue--that is to say, a fine one--a man must have genius."

  "You have no genius?"

  "Not a grain."

  "I am sorry to hear that," said Margaret, with a disappointedlook. "But perhaps it will come," she added encouragingly. "I haveread that nearly all great artists and poets are almost alwaysmodest. They know better than anybody else how far they fall short ofwhat they intend, and so they don't put on airs. You don't, either. Ilike that in you. May be you have genius without knowing it, Mr.Shackford."

  "It is quite without knowing it, I assure you!" protested Richard,with suppressed merriment. "What an odd girl!" he thought. "She isactually talking to me like a mother!"

  The twinkling light in the young man's eyes, or something thatjarred in his manner, caused Margaret at once to withdraw intoherself. She went silently about the room, examining the tools andpatterns; then, nearing the door, suddenly dropped Richard a quaintlittle courtesy, and was gone.

  This was the colorless beginning of a friendship that was destinedspeedily to be full of tender lights and shadows, and to flow on withunsuspected depth. For several days Richard saw nothing more ofMargaret, and scarcely thought of her. The strangle little figure wasfading out of his mind, when, one afternoon, it again appeared at hisdoor. This time Margaret had left something of her sedateness behind;she struck Richard as being both less ripe and less immature than hehad fancied; she interested rather than amused him. Perhaps he hadbeen partially insulated by his own shyness on the first occasion,and had caught only a confused and inaccurate impression ofMargaret's personality. She remained half an hour in the workshop,and at her departure omitted the formal courtesy.

  After this, Margaret seldom let a week slip without tapping onceor twice at the studio, at first with some pretext or other, and thenwith no pretense whatever. When Margaret had disburdened herself ofexcuses for dropping in to watch Richard mold his leaves and flowers,she came oftener, and Richard insensibly drifted into the habit ofexpecting her on certain days, and was disappointed when she failedto appear. His industry had saved him, until now, from discoveringhow solitary his life really was; for his life was as solitary--assolitary as that of Margaret, who lived in the great house with onlyher father, the two servants, and an episodical aunt. The mother waslong ago dead; Margaret could not recollect when that gray headstone,with blotches of rusty-green moss breaking out over the lettering,was not in the churchyard; and there never had been any brothers orsisters.

  To Margaret Richard's installation in the empty room, where as achild she had always been afraid to go, was the single importantbreak she could remember in the monotony of her existence; and now avague yearning for companionship, the blind sense of the plantreaching towards the sunshine, drew her there. The tacitly prescribedhalf hour often lengthened to an hour. Sometimes Margaret brought abook with her, or a piece of embroidery, and the two spoke scarcelyten words, Richard giving her
a smile now and then, and she returninga sympathetic nod as the cast came out successfully.

  Margaret at fifteen--she was fifteen now--was not a beauty. Thereis the loveliness of the bud and the loveliness of the full-blownflower; but Margaret as a blossom was not pretty. She was awkward andangular, with prominent shoulder-blades, and no soft curves anywherein her slimness; only her black hair, growing low on the forehead,and her eyes were fine. Her profile, indeed, with the narrow foreheadand the sensitive upper lip, might fairly have suggested the mask ofClytie which Richard had bought of an itinerant image-dealer, andfixed on a bracket over the mantel-shelf. But her eyes were herspecialty, if one may say that. They were fringed with such heavylashes that the girl seemed always to be in half-mourning. Her smilewas singularly sweet and bright, perhaps because it broke through somuch somber coloring.

  If there was a latent spark of sentiment between Richard andMargaret in those earlier days, neither was conscious of it; they hadseemingly begun where happy lovers generally end,--by being dearcomrades. He liked to have Margaret sitting there, with her needleflashing in the sunlight, or her eyelashes making a rich gloom abovethe book as she read aloud. It was so agreeable to look up from hiswork, and not be alone. He had been alone so much. And Margaret foundnothing in the world pleasanter than to sit there and watch Richardmaking his winter garden, as she called it. By and by it became hercustom to pass every Saturday afternoon in that employment.

  Margaret was not content to be merely a visitor; she took ahousewifely care of the workshop, resolutely straightening out itschronic disorder at unexpected moments, and fighting the white dustthat settled upon everything. The green-paper shade, which did notroll up very well, at the west window was of her devising. An emptycamphor vial on Richard's desk had always a clove pink, or a pansy,or a rose, stuck into it, according to the season. She hid herselfaway and peeped out in a hundred feminine things in the room.Sometimes she was a bit of crochet-work left on a chair, andsometimes she was only a hair-pin, which Richard gravely picked upand put on the mantel-piece.

  Mr. Slocum threw no obstacles in the path of this idyllicfriendship; possibly he did not observe it. In his eyes Margaret wasstill a child,--a point of view that necessarily excluded anyconsideration of Richard. Perhaps, however, if Mr. Slocum could haveassisted invisibly at a pretty little scene which took place in thestudio, one day, some twelve or eighteen months after Margaret'sfirst visit to it, he might have found food for reflection.

  It was a Saturday afternoon. Margaret had come into the workshopwith her sewing, as usual. The papers on the round table had beenneatly cleared away, and Richard was standing by the window,indolently drumming on the glass with a palette-knife.

  "Not at work this afternoon?"

  "I was waiting for you."

  "That is no excuse at all," said Margaret, sweeping across theroom with a curious air of self-consciousness, and arranging herdrapery with infinite pains as she seated herself.

  Richard looked puzzled for a moment, and then exclaimed,"Margaret, you have got on a long dress!"

  "Yes," said Margaret, with dignity. "Do you like it,--the train?"

  "That's a train?"

  "Yes," said Margaret, standing up and glancing over her leftshoulder at the soft folds of maroon-colored stuff, which, with amysterious feminine movement of the foot, she caused to untwistitself and flow out gracefully behind her. There was really somethingvery pretty in the hesitating lines of the tall, slender figure, asshe leaned back that way. Certain unsuspected points emphasizedthemselves so cunningly.

  "I never saw anything finer," declared Richard. "It was worthwaiting for."

  "But you shouldn't have waited," said Margaret, with a gratifiedflush, settling herself into the chair again. "It was understood thatyou were never to let me interfere with your work."

  "You see you have, by being twenty minutes late. I've finishedthat acorn border for Stevens's capitals, and there's nothing more todo for the yard. I am going to make something for myself, and I wantyou to lend me a hand."

  "How can I help you, Richard?" Margaret asked, promptly stoppingthe needle in the hem.

  "I need a paper-weight to keep my sketches from being blown about,and I wish you literally to lend me a hand,--a hand to take a castof."

  "Really?"

  "I think that little white claw would make a very neatpaper-weight," said Richard.

  Margaret gravely rolled up her sleeve to the elbow, andcontemplated the hand and wrist critically.

  "It is like a claw, isn't it. I think you can find somethingbetter than that."

  "No; that is what I want, and nothing else. That, or nopaper-weight for me."

  "Very well, just as you choose. It will be a fright."

  "The other hand, please."

  "I gave you the left because I've a ring on this one."

  "You can take off the ring, I suppose."

  "Of course I can take it off."

  "Well, then, do."

  "Richard," said Margaret severely, "I hope you are not a fidget."

  "A what?"

  "A fuss, then,--a person who always wants everything some otherway, and makes just twice as much trouble as anybody else."

  "No, Margaret, I am not that. I prefer your right hand because theleft is next to the heart, and the evaporation of the water in theplaster turns it as cold as snow. Your arm will be chilled to theshoulder. We don't want to do anything to hurt the good little heart,you know."

  "Certainly not," said Margaret. "There!" and she rested her rightarm on the table, while Richard placed the hand in the desiredposition on a fresh napkin which he had folded for the purpose.

  "Let your hand lie flexible, please. Hold it naturally. Why do youstiffen the fingers so?"

  "I don't; they stiffen themselves, Richard. They know they aregoing to have their photograph taken, and can't look natural. Whoever does?"

  After a minute the fingers relaxed, and settled of their ownaccord into an easy pose. Richard laid his hand softly on her wrist.

  "Don't move now."

  "I'll be as quiet as a mouse," said Margaret giving a sudden queerlittle glance at his face.

  Richard emptied a paper of white powder into a great yellow bowlhalf filled with water and fell to stirring it vigorously, like apastry-cook beating eggs. When the plaster was of the properconsistency he began building it up around the hand, pouring on aspoonful at a time, here and there, carefully. In a minute or two theinert white fingers were completely buried. Margaret made a comicalgrimace.

  "Is it cold?"

  "Ice," said Margaret, shutting her eyes involuntarily.

  "If it is too disagreeable we can give it up," suggested Richard.

  "No, don't touch it!" she cried, waving him back with her freearm. "I don't mind; but it's as cold as so much snow. How curious!What does it?"

  "I suppose a scientific fellow could explain the matter to youeasily enough. When the water evaporates a kind of congealing processsets in,--a sort of atmospheric change, don't you know? The suddenprecipitation of the--the"--

  "You're as good as Tyndall on Heat," said Margaret demurely.

  "Oh, Tyndall is well enough in his way," returned Richard, "but ofcourse he doesn't go into things so deeply as I do."

  "The idea of telling me that 'a congealing process set in,' when Iam nearly frozen to death!" cried Margaret, bowing her head over theimprisoned arm.

  "Your unseemly levity, Margaret, makes it necessary for me todefer my remarks on natural phenomena until some more fittingoccasion."

  "Oh, Richard, don't let an atmospherical change come over_you!"_

  "When you knocked at my door, months ago," said Richard, "I didn'tdream you were such a satirical little piece, or may be you wouldn'thave got in. You stood there as meek as Moses, with your frockreaching only to the tops of your boots. You were a deception,Margaret."

  "I was dreadfully afraid of you, Richard."

  "You are not afraid of me nowadays."

  "Not a bit."

  "You
are showing your true colors. That long dress, too! I believethe train has turned your head."

  "But just now you said you admired it."

  "So I did, and do. It makes you look quite like a woman, though."

  "I want to be a woman. I would like to be as old--as old as Mrs.Methuselah. Was there a Mrs. Methuselah?"

  "I really forget," replied Richard, considering. "But there musthave been. The old gentleman had time enough to have several. Ibelieve, however, that history is rather silent about his domesticaffairs."

  "Well, then," said Margaret, after thinking it over, "I would liketo be as old as the youngest Mrs. Methuselah."

  "That was probably the last one," remarked Richard, with greatprofundity. "She was probably some giddy young thing of seventy oreighty. Those old widowers never take a wife of their own age. Ishouldn't want you to be seventy, Margaret,--or even eighty."

  "On the whole, perhaps, I shouldn't fancy it myself. Do youapprove of persons marrying twice?"

  "N--o, not at the same time."

  "Of course I didn't mean that," said Margaret, with asperity. "Howprovoking you can be!"

  "But they used to,--in the olden time, don't you know?"

  "No, I don't."

  Richard burst out laughing. "Imagine him," he cried,--"imagineMethuselah in his eight or nine hundredth year, dressed in hiscustomary bridal suit, with a sprig of century-plant stuck in hisbutton-hole!"

  "Richard," said Margaret solemnly, "you shouldn't speak jestinglyof a scriptural character."

  At this Richard broke out again. "But gracious me!" he exclaimed,suddenly checking himself. "I am forgetting you all this while!"

  Richard hurriedly reversed the mass of plaster on the table, andreleased Margaret's half-petrified fingers. They were shriveled andcolorless with the cold.

  "There isn't any feeling in it whatever," said Margaret, holdingup her hand helplessly, like a wounded wing.

  Richard took the fingers between his palms, and chafed themsmartly for a moment or two to restore the suspended circulation.

  "There, that will do," said Margaret, withdrawing her hand.

  "Are you all right now?"

  "Yes, thanks;" and then she added, smiling, "I suppose ascientific fellow could explain why my fingers seem to be full of hotpins and needles shooting in every direction."

  "Tyndall's your man--Tyndall on Heat," answered Richard, with alaugh, turning to examine the result of his work. "The mold isperfect, Margaret. You were a good girl to keep so still."

  Richard then proceeded to make the cast, which was soon placed onthe window-ledge to harden in the sun. When the plaster was set, hecautiously chipped off the shell with a chisel, Margaret leaning overhis shoulder to watch the operation,--and there was the little whiteclaw, which ever after took such dainty care of his papers, andultimately became so precious to him as a part of Margaret's veryself that he would not have exchanged it for the Venus of Milo.

  But as yet Richard was far enough from all that.