equal to his own, she was at last ready to merge them both into his. For the first time in his life Mr. Hamlin found himself bored at the beginning of an affair, actually hesitated, and suddenly disappeared from San Francisco.
He turned up a few days later at Aunt Chloe’s door, with various packages of presents and quite the air of a returning father of a family, to the intense delight of that lady and to Sophy’s proud gratification. For he was lost in a profuse, boyish admiration of her pretty studio, and in wholesome reverence for her art and her astounding progress. They were also amused at his awe and evident alarm at the portraits of two ladies, her latest sitters, that were still on the easels, and, in consideration of his half-assumed, half-real bashfulness, they turned their faces to the wall. Then his quick, observant eye detected a photograph of himself on the mantel.
“What’s that?” he asked suddenly.
Sophy and Aunt Chloe exchanged meaning glances. Sophy had, as a surprise to Jack, just completed a handsome crayon portrait of himself from an old photograph furnished by Hannibal, and the picture was at that moment in the window of her former patron,—the photographer.
“Oh, dat! Miss Sophy jus’ put it dar fo’ de lady sitters to look at to gib ‘em a pleasant ‘spresshion,” said Aunt Chloe, chuckling.
Mr. Hamlin did not laugh, but quietly slipped the photograph into his pocket. Yet, perhaps, it had not been recognized.
Then Sophy proposed to have luncheon in the studio; it was quite “Bohemian” and fashionable, and many artists did it. But to her great surprise Jack gravely objected, preferring the little parlor of Aunt Chloe, the vine-fringed windows, and the heavy respectable furniture. He thought it was profaning the studio, and then—anybody might come in. This unusual circumspection amused them, and was believed to be part of the boyish awe with which Jack regarded the models, the draperies, and the studies on the walls. Certain it was that he was much more at his ease in the parlor, and when he and Sophy were once more alone at their meal, although he ate nothing, he had regained all his old naivete. Presently he leaned forward and placed his hand fraternally on her arm. Sophy looked up with an equally frank smile.
“You know I promised to let bygones be bygones, eh? Well, I intended it, and more,—I intended to make ‘em so. I told you I’d never speak to you again of that man who tried to run you off, and I intended that no one else should. Well, as he was the only one who could talk—that meant him. But the cards are out of my hands; the game’s been played without me. For he’s dead!”
The girl started. Mr. Hamlin’s hand passed caressingly twice or thrice along her sleeve with a peculiar gentleness that seemed to magnetize her.
“Dead,” he repeated slowly. “Shot in San Diego by another man, but not by me. I had him tracked as far as that, and had my eyes on him, but it wasn’t my deal. But there,” he added, giving her magnetized arm a gentle and final tap as if to awaken it, “he’s dead, and so is the whole story. And now we’ll drop it forever.”
The girl’s downcast eyes were fixed on the table. “But there’s my sister,” she murmured.
“Did she know you went with him?” asked Jack.
“No; but she knows I ran away.”
“Well, you ran away from home to study how to be an artist, don’t you see? Some day she’ll find out you ARE ONE; that settles the whole thing.”
They were both quite cheerful again when Aunt Chloe returned to clear the table, especially Jack, who was in the best spirits, with preternaturally bright eyes and a somewhat rare color on his cheeks. Aunt Chloe, who had noticed that his breathing was hurried at times, watched him narrowly, and when later he slipped from the room, followed him into the passage. He was leaning against the wall. In an instant the negress was at his side.
“De Lawdy Gawd, Marse Jack, not AGIN?”
He took his handkerchief, slightly streaked with blood, from his lips and said faintly, “Yes, it came on—on the boat; but I thought the d–d thing was over. Get me out of this, quick, to some hotel, before she knows it. You can tell her I was called away. Say that”—but his breath failed him, and when Aunt Chloe caught him like a child in her strong arms he could make no resistance.
In another hour he was unconscious, with two doctors at his bedside, in the little room that had been occupied by Sophy. It was a sharp attack, but prompt attendance and skillful nursing availed; he rallied the next day, but it would be weeks, the doctors said, before he could be removed in safety. Sophy was transferred to the parlor, but spent most of her time at Jack’s bedside with Aunt Chloe, or in the studio with the door open between it and the bedroom. In spite of his enforced idleness and weakness, it was again a singularly pleasant experience to Jack; it amused him to sometimes see Sophy at her work through the open door, and when sitters came,—for he had insisted on her continuing her duties as before, keeping his invalid presence in the house a secret,—he had all the satisfaction of a mischievous boy in rehearsing to Sophy such of the conversation as could be overheard through the closed door, and speculating on the possible wonder and chagrin of the sitters had they discovered him. Even when he was convalescent and strong enough to be helped into the parlor and garden, he preferred to remain propped up in Sophy’s little bedroom. It was evident, however, that this predilection was connected with no suggestion nor reminiscence of Sophy herself. It was true that he had once asked her if it didn’t make her “feel like home.” The decided negative from Sophy seemed to mildly surprise him. “That’s odd,” he said; “now all these fixings and things,” pointing to the flowers in a vase, the little hanging shelf of books, the knickknacks on the mantel-shelf, and the few feminine ornaments that still remained, “look rather like home to me.”
So the days slipped by, and although Mr. Hamlin was soon able to walk short distances, leaning on Sophy’s arm, in the evening twilight, along the river bank, he was still missed from the haunts of dissipated men. A good many people wondered, and others, chiefly of the more irrepressible sex, were singularly concerned. Apparently one of these, one sultry afternoon, stopped before the shadowed window of a photographer’s; she was a handsome, well-dressed woman, yet bearing a certain countrylike simplicity that was unlike the restless smartness of the more urban promenaders who passed her. Nevertheless she had halted before Mr. Hamlin’s picture, which Sophy had not yet dared to bring home and present to him, and was gazing at it with rapt and breathless attention. Suddenly she shook down her veil and entered the shop. Could the proprietor kindly tell her if that portrait was the work of a local artist?
The proprietor was both proud and pleased to say that IT WAS! It was the work of a Miss Brown, a young girl student; in fact, a mere schoolgirl one might say. He could show her others of her pictures.
Thanks. But could he tell her if this portrait was from life?
No doubt; the young lady had a studio, and he himself had sent her sitters.
And perhaps this was the portrait of one that he had sent her?
No; but she was very popular and becoming quite the fashion. Very probably this gentleman, who, he understood, was quite a public character, had heard of her, and selected her on that account.
The lady’s face flushed slightly. The photographer continued. The picture was not for sale; it was only there on exhibition; in fact it was to be returned to-morrow.
To the sitter?
He couldn’t say. It was to go back to the studio. Perhaps the sitter would be there.
And this studio? Could she have its address?
The man wrote a few lines on his card. Perhaps the lady would be kind enough
