The Black Bag | Page 3

time."
"You're going home--" A shadow clouded Brentwick's clear eyes.
"To fight it out, shoulder to shoulder with my brethren in adversity."
The cloud lifted. "That is the spirit!" declared the elder man. "For the moment I did you the injustice to believe that you were running away. But now I understand. Forgive me.... Pardon, too, the stupidity which I must lay at the door of my advancing years; to me the thought of you as a Parisian fixture has become such a commonplace, Philip, that the news of the disaster hardly stirred me. Now I remember that you are a Californian!"
"I was born in San Francisco," affirmed Kirkwood a bit sadly. "My father and mother were buried there ..."
"And your fortune--?"
"I inherited my father's interest in the firm of Kirkwood & Vanderlip; when I came over to study painting, I left everything in Vanderlip's hands. The business afforded me a handsome living."
"You have heard from Mr. Vanderlip?"
"Fifteen minutes ago." Kirkwood took a cable-form, still damp, from his pocket, and handed it to his guest. Unfolding it, the latter read:
"_Kirkwood, Pless, London. Stay where you are no good coming back everything gone no insurance letter follows vanderlip_."
"When I got the news in Paris," Kirkwood volunteered, "I tried the banks; they refused to honor my drafts. I had a little money in hand,--enough to see me home,--so closed the studio and came across. I'm booked on the Minneapolis, sailing from Tilbury at daybreak; the boat-train leaves at eleven-thirty. I had hoped you might be able to dine with me and see me off."
In silence Brentwick returned the cable message. Then, with a thoughtful look, "You are sure this is wise?" he queried.
"It's the only thing I can see."
"But your partner says--"
"Naturally he thinks that by this time I should have learned to paint well enough to support myself for a few months, until he can get things running again. Perhaps I might." Brentwick supported the presumption with a decided gesture. "But have I a right to leave Vanderlip to fight it out alone? For Vanderlip has a wife and kiddies to support; I--"
"Your genius!"
"My ability, such as it is--and that only. It can wait.... No; this means simply that I must come down from the clouds, plant my feet on solid earth, and get to work."
"The sentiment is sound," admitted Brentwick, "the practice of it, folly. Have you stopped to think what part a rising young portrait-painter can contribute toward the rebuilding of a devastated city?"
"The painting can wait," reiterated Kirkwood. "I can work like other men."
"You can do yourself and your genius grave injustice. And I fear me you will, dear boy. It's in keeping with your heritage of American obstinacy. Now if it were a question of money--"
"Mr. Brentwick!" Kirkwood protested vehemently. "I've ample for my present needs," he added.
"Of course," conceded Brentwick with a sigh. "I didn't really hope you would avail yourself of our friendship. Now there's my home in Aspen Villas.... You have seen it?"
"In your absence this afternoon your estimable butler, with commendable discretion, kept me without the doors," laughed the young man.
"It's a comfortable home. You would not consent to share it with me until--?"
"You are more than good; but honestly, I must sail to-night. I wanted only this chance to see you before I left. You'll dine with me, won't you?"
"If you would stay in London, Philip, we would dine together not once but many times; as it is, I myself am booked for Munich, to be gone a week, on business. I have many affairs needing attention between now and the nine-ten train from Victoria. If you will be my guest at Aspen Villas--"
"Please!" begged Kirkwood, with a little laugh of pleasure because of the other's insistence. "I only wish I could. Another day--"
"Oh, you will make your million in a year, and return scandalously independent. It's in your American blood." Frail white fingers tapped an arm of the chair as their owner stared gravely into the fire. "I confess I envy you," he observed.
"The opportunity to make a million in a year?" chuckled Kirkwood.
"No. I envy you your Romance."
"The Romance of a Poor Young Man went out of fashion years ago.... No, my dear friend; my Romance died a natural death half an hour since."
"There spoke Youth--blind, enviable Youth!... On the contrary, you are but turning the leaves of the first chapter of your Romance, Philip."
"Romance is dead," contended the young man stubbornly.
"Long live the King!" Brentwick laughed quietly, still attentive to the fire. "Myself when young," he said softly, "did seek Romance, but never knew it till its day was done. I'm quite sure that is a poor paraphrase of something I have read. In age, one's sight is sharpened--to see Romance in another's life, at least. I say I envy you. You