A Face Illumined | Page 4

Garden of Eden"............................443
Chapter XLV
: Problems Beyond Art..............................470
Chapter XLVI
: A Resolute Philosopher..........................486
Chapter XLVII
: The Concert Garden Again.......................500

Chapter XLVIII
: Ida's Temptation..............................518
Chapter XLIX
: The Blind God...................................538
Chapter L
: Swept Away.........................................555
Chapter LI
: From Deep Experience..............................569
Chapter LII
: An Illumined Face................................589
Chapter LIII
: A Night's Vigil.................................601
Chapter LIV
: Life and Trust...................................615
Chapter 1.
A Face.

Although the sun was approaching the horizon, its slanting rays found a
young artist still bending over his easel. That his shoulders are broad is
apparent at a glance; that upon them is placed a shapely head, well
thatched with crisp black hair, is also seen at once; that the head is not

an empty one is proved by the picture on the easel, which is sufficiently
advanced to show correct and spirited drawing. A brain that can direct
the hand how to do one thing well, is like a general who has occupied a
strategic point which will give him the victory if he follows up his
advantage.
A knock at the door is not answered at once by the intent and
preoccupied artist, but its sharp and impatient repetition secures the
rather reluctant invitation,
"Come in," and even as he spoke he bent forward to give another
stroke.
"Six o'clock, and working still!" cried the intruder. "You will keep the
paint market active, if you achieve nothing else as an artist."
"Heigho! Ik, is that you?" said he of the palette, good-naturedly; and
rising slowly he gave a lingering look at his work, then turned and
greeted his friend with the quiet cordiality of long and familiar
acquaintance. "What a marplot you are with your idle ways!" he added.
"Sit down here and make yourself useful for once by doing nothing
nothing for ten minutes. I am in just the mood and have just the light
for a bit of work which perhaps I can never do as well again," and the
artist returned promptly to his picture.
In greeting his friend he had revealed that he was above middle height,
that he had full black eyes that were not only good for seeing, but could
also, if he chose, give great emphasis to his words, and at times be even
more expressive. A thick mustache covered his lip, but the rest of his
face was cleanly shaven, and was strong and decided in its outlines
rather than handsome.
"They say a woman's work is never done," remarked Ik Stanton,
dropping into the easiest chair in the studio, "and for this reason, were
there no other, your muse is evidently of the feminine persuasion. I also
admit that she is a lady of great antiquity. Indeed I would place her
nearer to the time when 'Adam delved and Eve span' than to the classic
age."

"My dear Ik," responded the artist, "I am often at a loss to know
whether I love or despise you most. If a little of the whirr of our great
grandam's spinning wheel would only get into your brain the world
might hear from you. You are a man of unbounded stomach and
unbounded heart, and so you have won all there is of me except my
head, and that disapproves of you."
"A fig for the world! what good will it do me or it to have it hear from
me? you ambitious fellows are already making such a din that the poor
old world is half ready for Bedlam; and would go stark mad were it not
for us quiet, easy-going people, who have time for a good dinner and a
snack between meals. You've got a genius that's like a windmill in a
trade wind, always in motion; you are worth more money than I shall
ever have, but you are the greatest drudge in the studio building, and
work as many hours as a house-painter."
"When your brain once gets in motion, Ik, fiction will be its natural
product. You must admit that I have not painted many pictures."
"That is one of the things I complain of; I, your bosom friend and
familiar, your, I might add, guardian angel--I, who have so often saved
your life by quenching the flame of your consuming genius with a
hearty dinner, have been able to obtain one picture only from you, and
as one might draw a tooth. Your pictures are like old maid's
children--they must be so perfect that they can't exist at all. But come,
the ten minutes are up. Here's the programme for the evening--a drive
in the Park and a little dinner at a cool restaurant near Thomas's Garden,
and then the concert. That prince of musical caterers has made a fine
selection for to-night, and, with the cigar stand on one side