"Yes,she did right.I've nothing to complain of.""That's all I wanted to know,"said Dryfoos;but apparently he had not finished,and he did not go,though the silence that Beaton now kept gave him a chance to do so.He began a series of questions which had no relation to the matter in hand,though they were strictly personal to Beaton."What countryman are you?"he asked,after a moment.
"What countryman?"Beaton frowned back at him.
"Yes,are you an American by birth?"
"Yes;I was born in Syracuse."
"Protestant?"
"My father is a Scotch Seceder."
"What business is your father in?"
Beaton faltered and blushed;then he answered:
"He's in the monument business,as he calls it.He's a tombstone cutter."Now that he was launched,Beaton saw no reason for not declaring,"My father's always been a poor man,and worked with his own hands for his living."He had too slight esteem socially for Dryfoos to conceal a fact from him that he might have wished to blink with others.
"Well,that's right,"said Dryfoos."I used to farm it myself.I've got a good pile of money together,now.At first it didn't come easy;but now it's got started it pours in and pours in;it seems like there was no end to it.I've got well on to three million;but it couldn't keep me from losin'my son.It can't buy me back a minute of his life;not all the money in the world can do it!"He grieved this out as if to himself rather than to Beaton,who,scarcely ventured to say,"I know--I am very sorry--""How did you come,"Dryfoos interrupted,"to take up paintin'?""Well,I don't know,"said Beaton,a little scornfully."You don't.
take a thing of that kind up,I fancy.I always wanted to paint.""Father try to stop you?"
"No.It wouldn't have been of any use.Why--""My son,he wanted to be a preacher,and I did stop him or I thought Idid.But I reckon he was a preacher,all the same,every minute of his life.As you say,it ain't any use to try to stop a thing like that.
I reckon if a child has got any particular bent,it was given to it;and it's goin'against the grain,it's goin'against the law,to try to bend it some other way.There's lots of good business men,Mr.Beaton,twenty of 'em to every good preacher?""I imagine more than twenty,"said Beaton,amused and touched through his curiosity as to what the old man was driving at by the quaint simplicity of his speculations.
"Father ever come to the city?"
"No;he never has the time;and my mother's an invalid.""Oh!Brothers and sisters?"
"Yes;we're a large family."
"I lost two little fellers--twins,"said Dryfoos,sadly."But we hain't ever had but just the five.Ever take portraits?""Yes,"said Beaton,meeting this zigzag in the queries as seriously as the rest."I don't think I am good at it."Dryfoos got to his feet."I wish you'd paint a likeness of my son.
You've seen him plenty of times.We won't fight about the price,don't you be afraid of that."Beaton was astonished,and in a mistaken way he was disgusted.He saw that Dryfoos was trying to undo Mrs.Mandel's work practically,and get him to come again to his house;that he now conceived of the offence given him as condoned,and wished to restore the former situation.He knew that he was attempting this for Christine's sake,but he was not the man to imagine that Dryfoos was trying not only to tolerate him,but to like him;and,in fact,Dryfoos was not wholly conscious himself of this end.What they both understood was that Dryfoos was endeavoring to get at Beaton through Conrad's memory;but with one this was its dedication to a purpose of self sacrifice,and with the other a vulgar and shameless use of it.
"I couldn't do it,"said Beaton."I couldn't think of attempting it.""Why not?"Dryfoos persisted."We got some photographs of him;he didn't like to sit very well;but his mother got him to;and you know how he looked.""I couldn't do it--I couldn't.I can't even consider it.I'm very sorry.I would,if it were possible.But it isn't possible.""I reckon if you see the photographs once""It isn't that,Mr.Dryfoos.But I'm not in the way of that kind of thing any more.""I'd give any price you've a mind to name--""Oh,it isn't the money!"cried Beaton,beginning to lose control of himself.
The old man did not notice him.He sat with his head fallen forward,and his chin resting on his folded hands.Thinking of the portrait,he saw Conrad's face before him,reproachful,astonished,but all gentle as it looked when Conrad caught his hand that day after he struck him;he heard him say,"Father!"and the sweat gathered on his forehead."Oh,my God!"he groaned."No;there ain't anything I can do now."Beaton did not know whether Dryfoos was speaking to him or not.He started toward him."Are you ill?""No,there ain't anything the matter,"said the old man."But I guess I'll lay down on your settee a minute."He tottered with Beaton's help to the aesthetic couch covered with a tiger-skin,on which Beaton had once thought of painting a Cleopatra;but he could never get the right model.As the old man stretched himself out on it,pale and suffering,he did not look much like a Cleopatra,but Beaton was struck with his effectiveness,and the likeness between him and his daughter;she would make a very good Cleopatra in some ways.All the time,while these thoughts passed through his mind,he was afraid Dryfoos would die.
The old man fetched his breath in gasps,which presently smoothed and lengthened into his normal breathing.Beaton got him a glass of wine,and after tasting it he sat up.
