Softly, sadly, with poignant clearness, the music lifted into the night—­low and pleadingly at first; then stronger and more vibrant with feeling, as though sweetly insistent in its call; swelling next in volume and passion, as though in warning of some threatening evil; ringing with loving fear; sobbing, wailing, moaning, in anguish; clearly, gloriously, triumphant, at last; then sinking into solemn, reverent benediction—­losing itself, finally, in the darkness, even as it had come.

The two men, so fashioned by nature to receive such music, listened with emotions they could not have put into words.  For the moment, the music to them was the voice of the guarding, calling, warning spirit of the mountains that, in their calm, majestic strength, were so far removed from the petty passions and longings of the baser world at their feet—­it was the voice of the loving intimacy, the sweet purity, and the sacred beauty of the spirit of the garden.  It was as though the things of which Conrad Lagrange had just spoken so reverently had cried aloud to them, out of the night, in confirmation of his words.

Chapter VII

Mrs. Taine in Quaker Gray

Aaron King seemed loth to begin his work on the portrait of Mrs. Taine.  Day after day, without apparent reason, he put it off—­spending the hours in wandering aimlessly about the place, idling on the porch, or doing nothing in his studio.  He would start from the house to the building at the end of the rose garden, as though moved by some clearly defined purpose—­and then, for an hour or more, would dawdle among the things of his craft, with irresolute mind—­turning over his sketches and drawings with uncertain hands, as though searching for something he knew was not there; toying with his paints and brushes; or sitting before his empty easel, looking away through the big window to the distant mountains.  He seemed incapable of fixing his mind upon the task to which he attached so much importance.  Several times, Mrs. Taine called, but he begged her to be patient; and she, with pretended awe of the moods of genius, waited.

Conrad Lagrange jeered and mocked, offered sneering advice or sarcastic compliment; and, under it all, was keenly watchful and sympathetic—­ understanding better than the artist himself, perhaps, the secret of the painter’s hesitation.  Every day,—­sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon or evening unseen musician, in the orange grove wrought for them melodie that, whether grave or gay, always carried, somehow, the feeling that had so moved them in the mysterious darkness of that first evening.