The Eyes of the World

of the highest pinnacles of its literary favor, and who--through some queer twist in his nature--was so lonely and embittered by his exaltation

e house itself,--a small cottage with a wide porch across the front and on the side to the west,--unpainted for many seasons, was tinted by the brush of the elements, a soft and restful gray.But the artist and his friend, as they approached, exclaimed aloud at the beauty of the scene; for, as if rejoicing in their freedom from restraint, the roses had claimed the dwelling, so neglected by man, as their own. Up every post of the porch they had climbed; over the porch roof, they spread their wealth of color; over the gables, screening the windows with graceful lattice of vine and branch and leaf and bloom; up to the ridge and over the cornice, to the roof of the house itself--even to the top of the chimney they had won their way--and there, as if in an ecstasy of wanton loveliness, flung, a spray of glorious, perfumed beauty high into the air.On the front porch, the men turned to look away over the gentle slope of the orange groves, on the other side of the road, to the towering peaks and high ridges of the mountains--gleaming cold and white in the winter of their altitude. To the northeast, San Bernardino reared his head in lonely majesty--looking directly down upon the foothills and the feeble dwellers in the valley below. Far beyond, and surrounded by the higher ridges and peaks and canyons of the range, San Gorgonio sat enthroned in the skies--the ruler of them all. From the northeast, westward, they viewed the mighty sweep of the main range to Cajon Pass and the San Gabriels, beyond, with San Antonio, Cucamonga, and their sister peaks lifting their heads above their fellows. In the immediate landscape, no house or building was to be seen. The dark-green mass of the orange groves hid every work of man's building between them and the tawny foothills save the gable and chimney of a neighboring cottage on the west."Listen"--said Conrad Lagrange, in a low tone, moved as always by the grandeur and beauty of the scene--"listen! Don't you hear them calling? Don't you feel the mountains sending their message to these poor insects who squirm and wriggle in this bit of muck men call their world? God, man! if only we, in our work, would heed the message of the hills!"The novelist spoke with such intensity of feeling--with such bitter sadness and regret in his voice--that Aaron King could not reply.Turning, the artist unlocked the door, and they entered the cottage.They found the interior of the house well arranged, and not in bad repair. "Just the thing for a bachelor's housekeeping"--was the painter's verdict--"but for a studio--impossible," and there was a touch of regret in his voice."Let's continue our exploration," said the novelist, hopefully. "There's a barn out there." And they went out of the house, and down the drive on the eastern side of the yard.Here, again, they saw the roses in full possession of the place--by man, deserted. From foundation to roof, the building--a small simple structure--was almost hidden under a mass of vines. There was one large room below; with a loft above. The stable was in the rear. Built, evidently, at a later date than the house, the building was in better repair. The walls, so hidden without by the roses, were well sided; the floors were well laid. The big, sliding, main door opened on the drive in front; between it and the corner, to the west, was a small door; and in the western end, a window.Looking curiously from this window, Conrad Lagrange uttered an exclamation, and hurried abruptly from the building. The artist followed.From the end of the barn, and extending, the full width of the building, to the west line of the yard, was a rose garden--such a garden as Aaron King had never seen. On three sides, the little plot was enclosed by a tall hedge of Ragged Robins; above the hedge, on the south and west, was the dark-green wall of the orange grove; on the north, the pepper and eucalyptus trees in the yard, and a view of the distant mountains; and on the east, the vine-hidden end of the barn. Against the southern wall,--and, so, directly opposite the trellised, vine-covered arch of the entrance,--a small, lattice bower, with a rustic table and seats within, was completely covered, as was the barn, by the magically woven tapestry of the flowers. In the corner of the hedge farthest from the entrance they found a narrow gate. Unlike the rest of the premises, the garden was in perfect order--the roses trimmed and cared for; the walks neatly edged and clean; with no weed or sign of untidiness or neglect anywhere.The two men had come upon the spot so suddenly--so unexpectedly--the contrast with the neglected grounds and buildings was so marked--that they looked at each other in silence. The little retreat--so lovely, so hidden by its own beauty from the world, so cared for by careful hands--seemed haunted by an invisible spirit. Very quietly,--almost reverently,--they moved about; talking in low tones, as though half expecting--they knew not what."Some one loves this place," said the novelist, softly, when they stood, again, in the entrance.And the artist answered in the same hushed voice, "I wonder what it means?"When they were again in the barn, Aaron King became eagerly enthusiastic over the possibilities of the big room. "Some rightly toned burlap on the walls and ceiling,"--he pointed out,--"with floor covering and rugs in harmony; there"--rolling back the big door as he spoke--"your north light; some hangings and screens to hide the stairway to the loft, and the stable door; your entrance over here in the corner, nicely out of the way; and the window looking into the garden--it's great man, great!""And," answered Conrad Lagrange, from where he stood in the big front door, "the mountains! Don't forget the mountains. The soft, steady, north light on your canvas, and a message from the mountains to your soul, through the same window, should make it a good place to work, Mr. Painter-man. I suppose over here"--he moved away from the window, and spoke in his mocking way--"over here, you will have a tea-table for the ladies of the circle elect--who will come to, 'oh', and, 'ah', their admiration of the newly discovered genius, and to chatter their misunderstandings of his art. Of course, there will be a page in velvet and gold. By all means, get hold of an oriental kid of some kind--oriental junk is quite the rage this year. You should take advantage of every influence that can contribute to your success, you know. And, whatever you do, don't fail to consult the 'Goddess' about these essentials of your craft. Many a promising genius has been lost to fame, through inviting the wrong people to take tea in his studio. But"--he finished whimsically, looking from the window into the garden--"but what the devil do you suppose the spirit who lives out there will think about it all."* * * * *The days of the two following weeks were busy days for Aaron King. He leased the place in the orange groves, and set men to work making it habitable. The lawn and grounds were trimmed and put in order; the interior of the house was renovated by painter and paper-hanger; and the barn, under the artist's direction, was transformed into an ideal studio. There was a trip to Los Angeles--quite fortunately upon a day when Mrs. Taine must go to the city shopping--for rugs and hangings; and another trip to purchase the tools of the artist's craft. And, at last, there was a Chinese cook and housekeeper to find; with supplies for his kitchen. It was at Conrad Lagrange's suggestion, that, from the first, every one was given strict orders to keep out of the rose garden.Every day, the novelist--accompanied, always, by Czar--walked out that way to see how things were progressing; and often,--if he had not been too busy to notice,--Aaron King might have seen a look of wistfulness in the keen, baffling eyes of the famous man--so world-weary and sad. And, while he did not cease to mock and jeer and offer sarcastic advice to his younger friend, the touch of pathos--that, like a minor chord, was so often heard in his most caustic and cruel speeches--was more pronounced. As for Czar--he always returned to the hotel wi