Chapter XL

Facing the Truth

As Brian Oakley had predicted, the disappearance of James Rutlidge occupied columns in the newspapers, from coast to coast.  In every article he was headlined as “A Distinguished Citizen;” “A Famous Critic;” “A Prominent Figure in the World of Art;” “One of the Greatest Living Authorities;” “Leader in the Modern School;” “Of Powerful Influence Upon the Artistic Production of the Age.”  The story of the unknown mountain girl’s abduction and escape was a news item of a single day; but the disappearance of James Rutlidge kept the press busy for weeks.  It may be dismissed here with the simple statement that the mystery has never been solved.

Of the unknown man who had taken Sibyl away into the mountains, and who had escaped, the world has never heard.  Of the convict who died but did not die in the hills, the world knows nothing.  That is, the world knows nothing of the man in this connection.  But Aaron and Sibyl, some years later, knew what became of Henry Marston—­which does not, at all, belong to this story.

Upon his return with Conrad Lagrange to their home in the orange groves, Aaron King plunged into his work with a purpose very different from the motive that had prompted him when first he took up his brushes in the studio that looked out upon the mountains and the rose garden.

Day after day, as he gave himself to his great picture,—­“The Feast of Materialism,”—­he knew the joy of the worker who, in his art, surrenders himself to a noble purpose—­a joy that is very different from the light, passing pleasure that comes from the mere exercise of technical skill.  The artist did not, now, need to drive himself to his task, as the begging musician on the street corner forces himself to play to the passing crowd, for the pennies that are dropped in his tin cup.  Rather was he driven by the conviction of a great truth, and by the realization of its woeful need in the world, to such adequate expression as his mastery of the tools of his craft would permit He was not, now, the slave of his technical knowledge; striving to produce a something that should be merely technically good.  He was a master, compelling the medium of his art to serve him; as he, in turn, was compelled to serve the truth that had mastered him.

Sometimes, with Conrad Lagrange, he went for an evening hour to the little house next door.  Sometimes Sibyl and Myra Willard would drop in at the studio, in the afternoon.  The girl never, now, came alone.  But every day, as the artist worked, the music of her violin came to him, out of the orange grove, with its message from the hills.  And the painter at his easel, reading aright the message, worked and waited; knowing surely that when she was ready she would come.

Letters from Mrs. Taine were frequent.  Aaron King, reading them—­nearly always under the quizzing eyes of Conrad Lagrange, whose custom it was to bring the daily mail—­carefully tore them into little pieces and dropped them into the waste basket, without comment.