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its turn. We old operators, go by order and systemā€”no helter-skelter business with us. Whatā€™s the next thing on the docket? The carrying on of the materializationā€”the bringing it down to date. I will begin on that at once. I thinkā€”

ā€œLook here, Rossmore. You didnā€™t lock It in. A hundred to one it has escaped!ā€

ā€œCalm yourself, as to that; donā€™t give yourself any uneasiness.ā€

ā€œBut why shouldnā€™t it escape?ā€

ā€œLet it, if it wants to? What of it?ā€

ā€œWell, I should consider it a pretty serious calamity.ā€

ā€œWhy, my dear boy, once in my power, always in my power. It may go and come freely. I can produce it here whenever I want it, just by the exercise of my will.ā€

ā€œWell, I am truly glad to hear that, I do assure you.ā€

ā€œYes, I shall give it all the painting it wants to do, and we and the family will make it as comfortable and contented as we can. No occasion to restrain its movements. I hope to persuade it to remain pretty quiet, though, because a materialization which is in a state of arrested development must of necessity be pretty soft and flabby and substanceless, andā€”erā€”by the way, I wonder where It comes from?ā€

ā€œHow? What do you mean?ā€

The earl pointed significantlyā€”and interrogatively toward the sky. Hawkins started; then settled into deep reflection; finally shook his head sorrowfully and pointed downwards.

ā€œWhat makes you think so, Washington?ā€

ā€œWell, I hardly know, but really you can see, yourself, that he doesnā€™t seem to be pining for his last place.ā€

ā€œItā€™s well thought! Soundly deduced. Weā€™ve done that Thing a favor. But I believe I will pump it a little, in a quiet way, and find out if we are right.ā€

ā€œHow long is it going to take to finish him off and fetch him down to date, Colonel?ā€

ā€œI wish I knew, but I donā€™t. I am clear knocked out by this new detailā€” this unforeseen necessity of working a subject down gradually from his condition of ancestor to his ultimate result as posterity. But Iā€™ll make him hump himself, anyway.ā€

ā€œRossmore!ā€

ā€œYes, dear. Weā€™re in the laboratory. Comeā€”Hawkins is here. Mind, now Hawkinsā€”heā€™s a sound, living, human being to all the familyā€”donā€™t forget that. Here she comes.ā€

ā€œKeep your seats, Iā€™m not coming in. I just wanted to ask, who is it thatā€™s painting down there?ā€

ā€œThat? Oh, thatā€™s a young artist; young Englishman, named Tracy; very promisingā€”favorite pupil of Hans Christian Andersen or one of the other old mastersā€”Andersen Iā€™m pretty sure it is; heā€™s going to half-sole some of our old Italian masterpieces. Been talking to him?ā€

ā€œWell, only a word. I stumbled right in on him without expecting anybody was there. I tried to be polite to him; offered him a snackā€ā€”(Sellers delivered a large wink to Hawkins from behind his hand), ā€œbut he declined, and said he wasnā€™t hungryā€ (another sarcastic wink); ā€œso I brought some applesā€ (doublewink), ā€œand he ate a couple ofā€”ā€

ā€œWhat!ā€ and the colonel sprang some yards toward the ceiling and came down quaking with astonishment.

Lady Rossmore was smitten dumb with amazement. She gazed at the sheepish relic of Cherokee Strip, then at her husband, and then at the guest again. Finally she said:

ā€œWhat is the matter with you, Mulberry?ā€

He did not answer immediately. His back was turned; he was bending over his chair, feeling the seat of it. But he answered next moment, and said:

ā€œAh, there it is; it was a tack.ā€

The lady contemplated him doubtfully a moment, then said, pretty snappishly:

ā€œAll that for a tack! Praise goodness it wasnā€™t a shingle nail, it would have landed you in the Milky Way. I do hate to have my nerves shook up so.ā€ And she turned on her heel and went her way.

As soon as she was safely out, the Colonel said, in a suppressed voice:

ā€œComeā€”we must see for ourselves. It must be a mistake.ā€

They hurried softly down and peeped in. Sellers whispered, in a sort of despairā€”

It is eating! What a grisly spectacle! Hawkins itā€™s horrible! Take me awayā€”I canā€™t standā€”

They tottered back to the laboratory.

 

CHAPTER XX.

Tracy made slow progress with his work, for his mind wandered a good deal. Many things were puzzling him. Finally a light burst upon him all of a suddenā€”seemed to, at any rateā€”and he said to himself, ā€œIā€™ve got the clew at lastā€”this manā€™s mind is off its balance; I donā€™t know how much, but itā€™s off a point or two, sure; off enough to explain this mess of perplexities, anyway. These dreadful chromos which he takes for old masters; these villainous portraitsā€”which to his frantic mind represent Rossmores; the hatchments; the pompous name of this ramshackle old cribā€” Rossmore Towers; and that odd assertion of his, that I was expected. How could I be expected? that is, Lord Berkeley. He knows by the papers that that person was burned up in the New Gadsby. Why, hang it, he really doesnā€™t know who he was expecting; for his talk showed that he was not expecting an Englishman, or yet an artist, yet I answer his requirements notwithstanding. He seems sufficiently satisfied with me. Yes, he is a little off; in fact I am afraid he is a good deal off, poor old gentleman. But heā€™s interestingā€”all people in about his condition are, I suppose. I hope heā€™ll like my work; I would like to come every day and study him. And when I write my fatherā€”ah, that hurts! I mustnā€™t get on that subject; it isnā€™t good for my spirits. Somebody comingā€”I must get to work. Itā€™s the old gentleman again. He looks bothered. Maybe my clothes are suspicious; and they areā€”for an artist. If my conscience would allow me to make a change, but that is out of the question. I wonder what heā€™s making those passes in the air for, with his hands. I seem to be the object of them. Can he be trying to mesmerize me? I donā€™t quite like it. Thereā€™s something uncanny about it.ā€

The colonel muttered to himself, ā€œIt has an effect on him, I can see it myself. Thatā€™s enough for one time, I reckon. Heā€™s not very solid, yet, I suppose, and I might disintegrate him. Iā€™ll just put a sly question or two at him, now, and see if I can find out what his condition is, and where heā€™s from.ā€

He approached and said affably:

ā€œDonā€™t let me disturb you, Mr. Tracy; I only want to take a little glimpse of your work. Ah, thatā€™s fineā€”thatā€™s very fine indeed. You are doing it elegantly. My daughter will be charmed with this. May I sit down by you?ā€

ā€œOh, do; I shall be glad.ā€

ā€œIt wonā€™t disturb you? I mean, wonā€™t dissipate your inspirations?ā€

Tracy laughed and said they were not ethereal enough to be very easily discommoded.

The colonel asked a number of cautious and well-considered questionsā€” questions which seemed pretty odd and flighty to Tracyā€”but the answers conveyed the information desired, apparently, for the colonel said to himself, with mixed pride and gratification:

ā€œItā€™s a good job as far as Iā€™ve got, with it. Heā€™s solid. Solid and going to last, solid as the real thing.ā€

ā€œItā€™s wonderfulā€”wonderful. I believe I couldā€”petrify him.ā€ After a little he asked, warily ā€œDo you prefer being here, orā€”or there?ā€

ā€œThere? Where?ā€

ā€œWhyā€”erā€”where youā€™ve been?ā€

Tracyā€™s thought flew to his boarding-house, and he answered with decision.

ā€œOh, here, much!ā€

The colonel was startled, and said to himself, ā€œThereā€™s no uncertain ring about that. It indicates where heā€™s been to, poor fellow. Well, I am satisfied, now. Iā€™m glad I got him out.ā€

He sat thinking, and thinking, and watching the brush go. At length he said to himself, ā€œYes, it certainly seems to account for the failure of my endeavors in poor Berkeleyā€™s case. He went in the other direction. Well, itā€™s all right. Heā€™s better off.ā€

Sally Sellers entered from the street, now, looking her divinest, and the artist was introduced to her. It was a violent case of mutual love at first sight, though neither party was entirely aware of the fact, perhaps. The Englishman made this irrelevant remark to himself, ā€œPerhaps he is not insane, after all.ā€ Sally sat down, and showed an interest in Tracyā€™s work which greatly pleased him, and a benevolent forgiveness of it which convinced him that the girlā€™s nature was cast in a large mould. Sellers was anxious to report his discoveries to Hawkins; so he took his leave, saying that if the two ā€œyoung devotees of the colored Museā€ thought they could manage without him, he would go and look after his affairs. The artist said to himself, ā€œI think he is a little eccentric, perhaps, but that is all.ā€ He reproached himself for having injuriously judged a man without giving him any fair chance to show what he really was.

Of course the stranger was very soon at his ease and chatting along comfortably. The average American girl possesses the valuable qualities of naturalness, honesty, and inoffensive straightforwardness; she is nearly barren of troublesome conventions and artificialities, consequently her presence and her ways are unembarrassing, and one is acquainted with her and on the pleasantest terms with her before he knows how it came about. This new acquaintanceshipā€”friendship, indeedā€” progressed swiftly; and the unusual swiftness of it, and the thoroughness of it are sufficiently evidenced and established by one noteworthy factā€” that within the first half hour both parties had ceased to be conscious of Tracyā€™s clothes. Later this consciousness was re-awakened; it was then apparent to Gwendolen that she was almost reconciled to them, and it was apparent to Tracy that he wasnā€™t. The re-awakening was brought about by Gwendolenā€™s inviting the artist to stay to dinner. He had to decline, because he wanted to live, nowā€”that is, now that there was something to live forā€”and he could not survive in those clothes at a gentlemanā€™s table. He thought he knew that. But he went away happy, for he saw that Gwendolen was disappointed.

And whither did he go? He went straight to a slopshop and bought as neat and reasonably well-fitting a suit of clothes as an Englishman could be persuaded to wear. He saidā€”to himself, but at his conscienceā€”ā€œI know itā€™s wrong; but it would be wrong not to do it; and two wrongs do not make a right.ā€

This satisfied him, and made his heart light. Perhaps it will also satisfy the readerā€”if he can make out what it means.

The old people were troubled about Gwendolen at dinner, because she was so distraught and silent. If they had noticed, they would have found that she was sufficiently alert and interested whenever the talk stumbled upon the artist and his work; but they didnā€™t notice, and so the chat would swap around to some other subject, and then somebody would presently be privately worrying about Gwendolen again, and wondering if she were not well, or if something had gone wrong in the millinery line. Her mother offered her various reputable patent medicines, and tonics with iron and other hardware in them, and her father even proposed to send out for wine, relentless prohibitionist and head of the order in the District of Columbia as he was, but these kindnesses were all declinedā€” thankfully, but with decision. At bedtime, when the family were breaking up for the night, she privately looted one of the brushes, saying to herself, ā€œItā€™s the one he has used, the most.ā€

The next morning Tracy went forth wearing his new suit, and equipped with a pink in his buttonholeā€”a daily attention from Puss. His whole soul was full of Gwendolen Sellers, and this condition was an inspiration, art-wise. All the morning his brush pawed nimbly away at the canvases, almost without his awarityā€”awarity, in this sense being the sense of

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