Fred's more correct eye, for instance, would be invaluable to Jack Bedford, the ex-sign-painter, who was struggling with the profile of the Gladiator; or Margaret, who could detect at a glance the faintest departure from the lines of the original, would shorten a curve on Oliver's drawing, or he in turn would advise her about the depth of a shadow or the spot for a high light.
As the nights went by and Oliver studied her the closer, the New England girl became all the more inexplicable to him. She was, he could not but admit, like no other woman he had ever met; certainly not in his present surroundings. She really seemed to belong to some fabled race--one of the Amazons, or Rhine maidens, or Norse queens for whom knights couched their lances. It was useless to compare her to any one of the girls about Kennedy Square, for she had nothing in common with any one of them. Was it because she was unhappy among her own people that she had thus exiled herself from her home, or had some love-affair blighted her life?
Or could it be, as Fred had suggested, that she was willing to undergo all these discomforts and privations simply for love of her art? As this possible solution of the vexing problem became established in his mind, with the vision of Margaret herself before him, the blood mounted to his cheeks and an uncontrollable thrill of enthusiasm swept over him.
He could forgive her anything if this last motive had really controlled and shaped her life.
Had he seen the more closely and with prophetic vision, he would have discerned, in this Norse queen with the golden hair, the mother of a long line of daughters, who, in the days to follow, would hang their triumphant shields beside those of their brothers, winning equal recognition in salon and gallery and conferring equal honor on their country.
But Oliver's vision was no keener than that of anyone else about him. It was only the turn of Margaret's head that caught the young student's eye and the wealth of her brown-gold hair. With the future he had no concern.
What attracted him most of all in this woman who had violated all the known traditions of Kennedy Square, was a certain fearlessness of manner--an independence, a perfect ingenuousness, and a ******* from any desire to interest the students in herself.
When she looked at any one of them, it was never from under drooping eyelids, as Sue would have done, nor with that coquettish, alluring glance to which he had always been accustomed. She looked straight at them with unflinching eyes that said, "I can trust you, and WILL." He had never seen exactly that look except in the portrait of his uncle's grandmother by Sir Peter Lely--the picture he had always loved.
Strange to say, too, the eyes of the portrait were Margaret's eyes, and so was the color of the hair.
No vexed problems entered Margaret's head regarding the very engaging young gentleman who sat behind HER stool. He merely represented to her another student--that was all; the little band was small enough, and she was glad to see the new ones come. She noticed, it is true, certain unmistakable differences--a peculiar, soft cadence in his voice as the words slipped from his lips without their final g's; a certain deference to herself--standing until she regained her seat, an attention which she attributed at first to embarrassment over his new surroundings and to his desire to please. She noticed, too, a certain grace in his movements--a grace that attracted her, especially in the way with which he used his hands, and in the way in which he threw his head up when he laughed; but even these differences ceased to interest her after the first night of their meeting.
But it did not occur to her that he came from any different stock than the others about her, or that his blood might or might not be a shade bluer than her own. What had really impressed her more than anything else--and this only flashed into her mind while she was looking in the glass one night at her own--were his big white teeth, white as grains of corn, and the cleanliness of his hands and nails. She liked these things about him. Some of the fingers that rested on her drawing-board were often more like clothes-pins than fingers, and shocked her not a little; some, too, were stained with acids, and one or more with printer's ink that no soap could remove.
Before the evening was over Oliver became one of the class-room appointments--a young man who sat one stool behind her and was doing fairly well with his first attempt, and who would some day be able to make a creditable drawing if he had patience and application.
At the beginning of the second week a new student appeared--or rather an old one, who had been laid up at home with a cold. When Oliver arrived he found him in Margaret's seat, his easel standing where hers had been. He had a full-length drawing of the Milo--evidently the work of days--nearly finished on his board. Oliver was himself a little ahead of time--ahead of either Margaret or Fred, and had noticed the new-comer when he entered, the room being nearly empty. Jack Bedford was already at work.
"Horn," Jack cried, and beckoned to Oliver--"see the beggar in Miss Grant's seat. Won't there be a jolly row when she comes in?"
Margaret entered a moment later, her portfolio under her arm, and stood taking in the situation.
Then she walked straight to her former seat, and said, in a firm but kindly tone:
"This is my place, sir. I've been at work here for a week. You see my drawing is nearly done."
The young man looked up. He toiled all day in a lithographer's shop, and these precious nights in the loft were his only glimpses of happiness. He sat without his coat, his shirt-sleeves liberally smeared with the color-stains of his trade.
"Well, it's my place, too. I sat here a week before I was taken sick," he said, in a slightly indignant tone, looking into Margaret's face in astonishment.
