The Gnomes of the Saline Mountains: A Fantastic Narrative by Anna Goldmark Gross
The lady, Mrs. Denison, who had just come from a charitable gathering,and was still under the influence of her charitable mood, felthurriedly in her purse for a silver-piece, which she instructed herservant to give the lame man as she ascended the broad steps anddisappeared into the house.
"I am no beggar!" stammered the street-cleaner in broken English,waving off the proffered alms with a trembling hand.
Within the mansion Mr. Denison, in a faultless evening costume, turnedthe diamond sleeve-links in the cuffs he was adjusting as he awaitedhis wife.
Mrs. Denison laid aside her hat and cloak and hastened upstairs togreet him, beginning at once to give him a rather feverish account ofthe doings of the association of which she was president.
Presently another turn was given to the conversation by the entrance ofa tall young man with light blue eyes and a rather inexpressive face.
"I am done with racing for the present!" he cried eagerly, holding outhis hand.
"Thank heaven!" answered Mrs. Denison, fervently.
"Eh, for once, George," said Mr. Denison thoughtfully.
"And do you know why? My favorite won first place--only think howlucky!" The young man's excitement was perceptible in his pantingbreath.
"And how delighted Lucy will be! Here she comes now," said Mrs.Denison, turning to kiss the white forehead of her daughter as sheentered the room.
Lucy, a pale, thoughtful girl, with large, meditative eyes shaded bygold-rimmed glasses, held out her finely-shaped hand to George Elmorewith a forced smile. There was, indeed, very little of the delight ofwhich her mother had spoken to be seen in her face, although the youngman scarcely seemed to notice its absence. Various sports occupied himto such an extent that he never had time to make a study of the girlto whom he was engaged. In addition to his penchant for amusements ofthe most superficial kind, the gift of observation was entirely lackingin his inflated brain. It was generally supposed that he was very muchin love with her, but it was a question whether his affection for hisriding-horse was not of a similar nature.
Any one who did observe the pale face of the young girl more closely,however, could not have failed to notice the light quivering of herfinely-chiselled nostrils, the nervous motion of her red lips.
In spite of the assumed appearance of calm, which proved the power ofher will, it was possible to perceive the existence within her of somedeep emotion.
She was standing by the window, the involuntary witness of the almsgiving when it had occurred. The lame man in the street was no strangerto her; she knew his domestic circumstances only too well, and duringhis stay in the hospital had helped to support his family withoutconfiding the circumstance to her parents. Whether she had omitted tomention it for fear of making herself ridiculous, or from some deepermotive, perhaps she, herself, could not at the present moment havedetermined.
Lucy breathed a sigh of relief when the dinner was announced, and her_fiance_ went away to carry his pleasant news to other friends andacquaintances.
Meanwhile the poor cripple hobbled off to his miserable dwelling.With failing breath he dragged himself over the great distance whichlay between him and the lower part of the city, without once raisinghis eyes from the pavement, suffering and devastating mental tortureshowing in the feverish glow of his sunken eyes.
II.
Martin, the lame man, had been brought from Lyons by Mr. Denison, thesilk manufacturer, apparently under the most favorable conditions. Inthe silk factory in New Jersey he had proven himself a most skillfuldyer. The Denison wares came to be noted for their likeness to theLyonese goods, and in a short time, through their similarity to theimported ones, surpassed all that had hitherto been made on this sideof the ocean. For this reason the goddess, Fortune, added continuallyto the Denison stock of worldly treasures.
But the continued pressure of the long workdays began to call forthloud remonstrances from the workmen in the Denison factory. Martin,generally looked upon as being responsible for the improvement in theproduct, was, consequently, hated as being the indirect cause of thatpressure.
"I'll be damned if I work a day longer for such beggarly wages!" crieda red-headed Irishman one day, bringing his fist down on the dye-tubwith an angry look.
"I can't blame him; he's in the right of it!" answered a second workman.
"A twelve-hour day, and such hard work at that!" cried a third one,leaving his work-bench.
"Right you are!" exclaimed all the others, rolling up their sleevesaggressively.
"If the boss doesn't give us an eight-hour day and higher wages, wequit tomorrow, eh, boys?" cried the angry Irishman, his nose turningfrom red to purple in his excitement.
Martin had been endeavoring, with ever-increasing earnestness, to calmthe excited minds of the workmen, but all that he had been able to sayto this end had been laughed to scorn. The next morning he was the onlyone who appeared at the factory.
At ten o'clock came a deputation of the employees to the office of themanufacturer. Mr. Denison was perfectly willing to agree to a raisein wages, but he would hear nothing of an eight-hour workday, evenat the risk of having to stop work for an indefinite period. Orderswere coming in day by day. The busy season had just opened and theshutting down of the works would have meant a considerable loss to themanufacturer.
Accordingly, Martin received orders to engage new workmen at once andset them going at their different tasks. The strikers no sooner becameaware of this than they began to cast angry glances at Martin.
"Our places to be taken by others?" cried the red-headed Irishman toMartin, in a voice choked with rage, as the latter, weary and worn,prepared to take his way homeward.
"The dog of a foreigner is to blame for it all!" said another withthreatening gestures.
This was the beginning. The whole of the brutal crew fell upon Martin,and soon left him lying senseless on the ground. In this state he wascarried home. His wife, an intelligent woman, the daughter of a doctorin Basle, and his four children, wept loudly, as the beloved father wascarried unconscious into the house. The help of a physician was soon athand and after a thorough examination a fracture was discovered in theupper part of the right thigh.
The poor wife tended her unfortunate husband with the entireself-sacrifice of a true woman, keeping up the house as long aspossible with what little money she could painfully scrape together.
The eldest son, a youth of twenty-four, who, having regard tohis manifest talent, had educated himself to be a painter, wasunfortunately unable to find employment just at this time, in spiteof his diligent and anxious search for it. To the serious financialsituation was added the bitter recognition of the fact that thecondition of the beloved sufferer was daily growing worse.
Despair seized the unhappy family. The head of the firm was the onlyperson from whom they might expect help. Accordingly Mrs. Martindecided to go to him as soon as possible, since the factory was to beclosed for an indefinite time.
Shyly and hesitatingly she entered the office. The thought of having toconfess her dire poverty brought a flood of red to her thin face. Noone was in the office but a clerk. To the question as to whether shecould see Mr. Denison he answered with a contemptuous laugh that Mr.Denison had more important business on hand that day, and was visibleto no one. Her urgent entreaty to be allowed to see him if only for amoment was in vain. The clerk rudely showed her the door.
During this conversation, Lucy, the recently betrothed daughter ofthe manufacturer, sat listening in an adjoining room. The continueddisturbances at the factory had caused her so much anxiety that shehad insisted upon accompanying her father to the works, which she hadscarcely visited before since her return from Germany. She had studiedfor two years at a school in Leipzig, and through the intellectualtreasures of German literature and art she had become conversant withnobler pleasures than those which proved so attractive to Mr. Elmore,her _fiance_. Her aspirations for high and beautiful ideals found richsatisfaction in the finer and more artistic pursuits.
She was sitt
Her large, meditative eyes seemed shadowed today by a deep melancholy.However she tried to fix her thoughts on George Elmore, the companionof her childhood, to whom, at her parents' wish she had engagedherself, today she found it impossible. Always there arose from thedepths of her memory the face of a shy, gentle youth with light,curling hair and deep searching eyes, and the vision made her tremble.
Chance had made them acquainted at the Art School. She had been trying,unsuccessfully, to reproduce the luminous expression of a saint. Herneighbor, watching her conflict with her difficult task, showed, inhis shy fashion, his willingness to be of use to her. With a fewstrokes of his brush he succeeded in catching the desired expression,and at the same time gave her in a hesitating voice an explanation ofthe picture, and its purpose. He spoke of the light effects which heconsidered an erroneous conception on the part of the painter, whilethe next picture, belonging in part to the school of Rembrandt, reacheda happier effect from the depths of the shadows in one place and theheightening of the light in another.
From that time on they worked for hours side by side, he explaining thelights and shadows of each picture with such fullness of comprehension,such a thorough knowledge of history, literature, and art, as to make adeep impression on her mind. Her two years' sojourn in Germany had notbeen able to efface these art-school recollections. She did not knowhis name, to say nothing of his social position and still--she couldnot forget--even now she thought of him--even now his picture thrustitself between her and her _fiance_.
Involuntarily she sprang to her feet to escape those torturingthoughts. Her attention was caught by the sound of low sobbing. Shewas able to observe through a crack in the partition the distressof poor Mrs. Martin, as the clerk refused her admittance into themanufacturer's private office.
Broken with discouragement and suffering, Mrs. Martin had scarcelyclosed the door behind her when Lucy entered the office.
"Who is that sobbing woman?" she asked hastily of the clerk.
"That woman? She is the wife of the former foreman, whom--thestrikers--handled somewhat roughly," he answered, hesitatingly,dropping his malicious eyes.
"She wished to speak to papa, didn't she? Why didn't you let her in?"she demanded, frowning.
"Because I had strict orders not to let anyone in today," he repliedshortly, suppressing his rebellious feelings.
"Then I must hurry after the poor woman and ask her if there isanything I can do for her," murmured Lucy with quick decision, takingup her hat and cape from an adjoining room.
"I suppose the distinguished Mr. Martin's last dollar's gone," sneeredthe clerk after her in an Irish accent.
III.
Lucy hastened after Mrs. Martin, who was still visible in the distance.As the deeply tried woman closed the door of her modest dwelling, alight step made her turn and open it again. She gazed with surpriseinto the face of the elegantly-gowned girl with the gold-rimmed glasses.
"Does Mr. Martin live here?" the girl inquired in a doubtful voice.
"Yes. Will you be so good as to walk in?" answered the astonishedwoman. And then with a glance into the room--"Eugene, a lady!" shecalled to her son.
An inner door opened and Eugene Martin appeared. They stood speechless,gazing in confusion at each other, while white and red chased eachother over both of their faces. It was perfectly obvious that theywere not strangers to each other; indeed, they had often painted sideby side at the Art School. It was the same shy, gentle youth with thedark speaking eyes who had occupied more of her thoughts than wouldhave been considered advisable for an engaged girl. Nevertheless shestruggled to conceal her excitement, and to appear calmly in thecharacter of the purpose which had brought her. But how could sheoffer alms to this family? No, it would no longer be possible; hersensibilities revolted at this thought, and for the moment she wishedeven to conceal her name from them.
"I wished to have a picture of my--" she was about to say, "of my_fiance_," without really thinking of him in the least, but a flame ofred overspread her face and the word died upon her lips. "--of myself,"she substituted. "And I wish it done in oils," she went on in a firmertone.
Eugene conducted the visitor to the scrupulously clean, though modest,little parlor. In order to reach it they were obliged to pass throughthe room where his father lay ill, the wild fancies of fever playingantics in his brain. Lucy threw a glance of deep sympathy at thesufferer, visibly moved at the sight of his hollow, ashen face.
The great interest she displayed and the anxious inquiries she madeabout his father's illness, filled Eugene's heart with gratitude. Hecould have knelt before this being from another sphere, to whom he hadscarcely dared to raise his eyes, and thank her in that humble way ofhis for the warm sympathy she bestowed on his sick father.
"I have seen some of your paintings, and--I am quite sure that myportrait will be a success--" began Lucy, stammering again, as shelooked at the sketches displayed about the room.
"I should, of course, do my best--to--keep your good opinion of mycapability," answered Eugene, with downcast eyes and a hesitatingtongue.
Lucy had taken up a portfolio and was turning over its contents, simplyto avoid having to meet his glances. She was afraid he might read whatwas passing in her mind.
"But whether I should be able to satisfy a lady who has so muchartistic knowledge--I hardly know," he admitted modestly, "for of lateI have not been able to do much except this landscape."
He indicated a picture which hung at the other end of the room,wondering at the flush which had overspread Lucy's face as she bentover the portfolio, her blood tingling to her finger's ends.
She put down the treacherous portfolio hastily. The exposition ofthe secret hidden within its covers made her tremble. One of her owndrawings, which she had probably thrown away, suddenly met her eyes. Ithad been enriched by a border of blue forget-me-nots, and as she drewit forth from one of the side pockets she saw, underneath it, writtenin Eugene's hand, the single word: "Unforgetable."
Her heart beat loudly; still she retained self-command enough to ask inan indifferent tone, when he would be ready to begin the sketch for theportrait, at the same time examining the picture to which he had drawnher attention.
"I should like to know, also, what your price is to be for theexecution of the picture," she said, raising her eyes timidly.
He would have been glad to avoid any mentioning of the question ofmoney, but when she insisted, in a hesitating voice, he named a smallamount.
"I believe it is customary to pay half in advance," Lucy went on withan embarrassed smile, handing a fifty-dollar note to the confusedEugene, in spite of his shy protest that he was not in the least hurryabout it.
After the day and hour had been fixed for the first sketch of theportrait, Lucy returned to the factory deeply gratified that shehad found a way to help the poor woman in her distress. Her father,immersed in business, had scarcely noticed her absence. She would haveliked to tell him something of the poverty and illness of his oldforeman, but an indefinable feeling of shyness kept her silent. Thefactory was closed on the same day.
Poor Martin's condition grew visibly worse. On the doctor'srecommendation, he was transferred to the neighboring hospital, and theafflicted family reconciled themselves to the inevitable. Although thepoor wife had tended him day and night with never-varying devotion, shecould not but admit that she was not in a position to give him all thatwas required by the physician's directions.
Eugene, now the only support of the family, was obliged, in defaultof anything better, to take to retouching pictures for photographers.This ill-paid mechanical labor was beginning to have an injuriouseffect upon his imagination. The day-dreams which had filled his wholesoul, anticipating his going to t
Lucy's meteoric appearance, however, had filled the darkened spiritof the young man with a cheering light. With fiery eagerness he begansketching the dear face which he had never been able to forget. Thelaboring mechanic disappeared, and the artist, once more awakened, felthis genius glow again with the desire to create. This girl, the verysight of whom made him tremble with joy, must not be allowed to loseher faith in his talent--his artistic capacity. In her eyes he wishedto be that, which his dreams had promised he should be--a real artist,even if he were obliged to strain his powers to the very limit of theunattainable.
At the appointed hours Lucy came, bringing, like Schiller's 'Maidenfrom a foreign shore,' valuable gifts for his mother, with fruits andtoys for the children. To Eugene, however, she brought the most fatalgift--a ray of that unsurpassable bitter-sweet pain which men calllove, and which often ends only with life. After she had left the houseall trace of her vanished; none of them knew whence she came or whithershe went.
With each sitting Eugene grew into a condition of more blissfulintoxication, although Lucy, in her refined unapproachableness, gavehim not the slightest excuse for such a feeling. Only once he felt herthoughtful eyes resting upon him with an expression which sent theblood coursing madly through his veins.