The Sunday Bee
MAGAZINE SECTION
C" VOL. 52 NO. 12.
OMAHA, SUNDAY MORNING, SEPTEMBER t 3, 1922.
TIVE CENTS
The Painter of Ghosts
By Hudson Strode
"It Isn't a Red Boy," Said the Ibsen
. Lady, Shaking Her Head: "It
Is Only His Ghost That
SitsJorMe." '
WHEN Commander Maxon gave mc a letter to liii
wife at CarmeUby-the-8ca asking her to be nice
to tne I little dreamed that I would (tumble upon
something at strange and terrible and fascinating
as any fiction I have read. And yet at tlir end it did not
leave the expected "bad taste in the mouth." It wai more
like a tiny glass of strong Swedish aqua vite white, burn
iug, bitter, which leaves the mouth and throat tingling with
subtle stinging sensations but clean.
That was the second time that Mrs. Maxon had asked
me to dine at her new dove-colored studio with the vivid
green roof where the lived eight months of the year and
worked with her canvas and oils.
Just at 6 I stepped up to the hammercd-brass gong that
hung outside the studio door and gave it a resounding tap
witli the leather stick. Mrs. Maxon herself Ut me in. She
was dressed in a dull orange-colored smock, aid wore
about hrr neck a long,
heavy, finely-woven gold
chain with two enormous
tonaci on separate strings
of gold cord drawn
through an even larger
third topaz and dropping
pendant-like .to the waist.
It was an unusual am'
beautiful bauble.
We sat down in the
two large wicker chairs
nearest the big stone fire
place, where an eucalyptus
log lay across the flat
black andirons over a fire
of burning pine cones. An
ashtray had been placed
on the wicker tabouret be
side me and some cigarets.
I took out my ivory
cigaret holder designed
with the imperial dragon.
It seemed to go with the
room with the rare Chi
nese embroideries on apri
cot and cerulean satins,
the wood carvings cen
turies old, the blue pot
tery vases filled with gold
en poppies and mariposa
lilies. I began to smoke
and, after a few minutes'
talk of this and that, I
expressed admiration for
the topaz necklace.
"I seldom wear it," said
Mrs. Maxon, letting her
finger tips slip along the
gold cord. "Tonight L
more or less thought I
should for a special rea
son. It is a gift." She
paused for the barest mo
ment. "I wonder if you
would be interested in the
story of the lady who
gave me thisf he
weighed the two topazes
lightly in her palm.
"Tremendously," I an
swered. Mrs. Maxon walked
over to a table covered with gold brocade and took from a
black lacquer box a sheathed dagger. She placed it in my
hand andat down.
"Rather grewsomely, that belongs to the story, too,"
she said.
The case and handle of the dagger were of dark red
lefther and bound with fine silver wire. I felt the edge
and point of the steel.
"It is quite deadly," I said, and smiled at her.
Her brow wrinkled slightly. . "Well, perhaps not so
deadly, after all," she said. "Still" She paused.
"Do go on," I said, and laid the dagger beside the ash
tray.
Mrs. Maxon looked into the glowing pine cones for a
moment thoughtfully. Then she told the story. ,
. It seems the woman called herself Valerie Gray. She
had come into Carmel very quietly and had taken rooms
at the little Seaside inn. Her maid accompanied her, an
oldish woman, a Russian, who spoke not a word of English.
At this time Mrs. Maxon was spending a few weeks at the
inn during the building of her studio. That was how
the came to know her.
It was not until the third evening after Mrs. Gray's
arrival that she made her appearance downstairs. Shortly
before the dinner hour there were grouped about Mrs.
Maxon in the hotel parlor a dozen or so of the guests,
listening to some of her humorous adventures in bargain
ing with Chinese tradesmen in the San Francfsco bazaars.
There was a peal of laughter as she finished a particularly
funny incident. Then the laughter died suddenly and every
eye was drawn to the top of the staircase, where the strange
woman stood about to descend. She was Ritwned in
emerald velvet with bodice cut low. She came down some
10 steps and hesitated, and then walked back up. Evidently
he had forgotten something. Fully two yards of court
train swept behind her and disappeared in the upper corri
ilur, . A thrill of surprise rait through the group gathered
alnv.il Mrs, Maxon. Wh.it they had ju.l seen j quite
i,tf r nt Iroiw what they had expected, From a desvrip
ii!in of the lady that had been given by a man and woman
xUin im hrr when she first arrived, rnurtUd about the chin
u tmnltv roUxed chiffon, there n onlv a .ue mipres
t.m i.f 4d eyes and very white tn four ethers in the
t 4 ) til t(.d thaduwy g'.iii ' ft her, , marin sti
She stopped, startled at the
there had passed what he took for her in the woods the
night before; at any rate, she had the white skin and sad
eyes. Two others had seen her clad in a black cape on the
beach late the first night of her arrival, walking on the wet
sand close to the water. A young Princeton undergradu
ate returning at 3 that very morning from a dance at Del
Monte had seen hrr at an upper window with her face
pressed against the pane, and an oil light burning in the
room. F.ach one retold his experience in subdurd tones.
Again the conversation died abruptly as the lady in
emerald velvet appeared at the head of the stairs. This time
she held a blue leather book in her slim white left hand.
As she came down the steps the fingers of her other hand
held up the front of the long skirt out of the way of
.pointed silver slippers with vermilion heels. The woman
held hrr head high, and the dark brown hair was parted
in the middle and coiled low on the bark of her netk. There
were traces of gray in the brown of her hair, and there
were lurking blue shadows about her eyes that looked dark
and far away, with a light burning deep. Hrr skin was
transparent white, like ivory wax. There was no color
in her check, but across the lips there was a stain of vivid
scarlet. A most distinctive feature was the right eyebrow,
which arched decidedly higher than the left.
apparition, and then realized
At the foot of the stairs she glanced toward the group,
and her eyes met Mrs. Maxon's, and almost seemed at
tracted. It was only for a flash, but there was something
peculiarly fatalistic in the attitude of that moment She
walked to the window at the far end of the room and
looked out over the rose bushes, heavy with white roses,
to the sea. , A big gold sun was merging' into the mercury
colored ocean.
"Is she foreign?" asked a youngish married woman.
"Yes, I should say so," answered the marine artist. "But
of indefinite nationality."
The Princeton student declared a corking mystery.
"More a realistic tragedy," put in the man who had met
her in the woods.
Mrs. Maxon's eyes grew very bright. "I know," she
said. "She's like a lady from Ibsen."
"Good," said the Princeton undergraduate. "But which
one?"
Mrs. Maxon paused. "Sort of a composite, I should
say," she answered 'slowly. "Something of several Rita,
Hedda, Nora even Mrs. Alving and certainly a possible
Rebecca West. Yet she looks distinctly individual."
"You have forgotten one," said the Princeton man.
"The Lady from the Sea."
"Yes, the Lady from the Sea. There is a strange long
ing in her eyes."
"And fear," put in another.'
"Yes fear," Mrs. Maxon admitted, "But I am sorry
I spoke. It isn't kind to dissect her."
"She would like you, Mrs. Maxon," the student said,
"Did you notice how she looked at you?"
"Nonsense," answered Mrs. Maxon, "I am far too
frivolous for her."
Un a blue and gold afternoon five days later Mrs.
Maxon, with her canvas and supply ol materials before
hrr, sat painting a quaint Carmel flower garden with beds
of marigold and great chimera of purple htosiems. Sud
denly a shadow fell upon her and across the canvas as she
daubed soma deep green into the foliage. She turned, and
the Ih.sn lady's vale Uce was close to tiers. She started
hack, and the lady said, "I beg yur pardon, I came too
close, t have been watching you fr some time, The re
firfMfih'lioq is charming,"
lUr voice was very 1r.w and had a subtle, illuKe sort
that she was staring into the distracted eyea of the Ibsen lady,
of inflection not exactly foreign more English and
rather wistful.
"I am glad you like the picture," said the artist cor
dially. "I am Mrs. Maxon."
"I have wanted to meet you. I have noticed you at the
inn. You are so bright; and when the people are with you
they always look happy. You may call me Mrs. Gray.
I wonder tf you would talk to me sometimes? I am rather
lonely, I think you might cheer me. For over a week I
have spoken to no one but my maid, and I grow rather
tired of Russian. Would you talk to me?"
"Why, 1 should be delighted," answered Mrs. Maxon,
gathering up her tiling.
"I think I can promise not to bore you," said the lady,
"I have traveled a hit. I paint little." Then she hesi
tated before she added, "You will be interesting because
I am sure you never a-k questions and that is a rare
quality,"
Mrs. Maxon understood. She did. not need to reply.
Delighted with the rare beauty of the chain with three
topazes that Mrs. Gray was wearing, she said, "What a
lovely chain!"
"I seldom wear it," answered its owner. "It was given
me by a woman whose life I saved indirectly. Hut it't
a commonplace story of no interest. Shall we walk to.
ward the sea?"
- - a blue leather-bound vol
ume of Hindu poems. She said it had been given her by
a very dear friend, the anniversary of whose birthday had
occasioned her dressing in emerald velvet a week before.
It was just a fancy of hers, she said,
z The two women sat down on a davenport in the parlor
facing the west window. As they turned the leaves in the
book of verse suddenly the blond head of the little boy of
6 was thrust over the back of the davenport between the
faces of the two women, and the child said cheerily,
"Hello!"
Mrs. Gray caught her breath. Then as she looked at
the blond hair and smiling face of the boy her pupils di
lated and she screamed in his face. Without a word she
rushed upstairs.
Mrs. Maxon did not attempt to follow her. She found
a bright yellow rubber ball and gave it to the child to play
with.
Some time during the next morning Mrs. Gray asked
Mrs. Maxon to come to her apartment and look at an oil
portrait that she had just finished.
In the center of the floor there stood two easels, side
by side. On the canvases were the paintings of two blond
youths slightly under 20. At first glance they looked like
twins, but ene portrait had been done a year ago; the other
had not been varnished.
"Here he was 18," Valerie Gray explained, touching the
older canvas. "And today he is 19. See, the fresh look of
innocence is still unsullied," She sighed. "But I am half
afraid to do him next year. Ugly shadows will perhaps
creep into his face and the corners of his mouth will begin
to curve down cruelly, and his eyelids may take on that
puffy droop of sensuality,"
Mrs. Maxon did not ask any questions. She was ex
amining the picture closely, "It is a beautiful face," she
said.
"There la one physical defect."
"You mean the height of the arch of the right eyebrow,"
Mrs, Maxon answered promptly. "That makes bmt more
interesting." She made no further comment,
"I am really hopeless with oils," said Mra, Gray, get
ting a new light on the later painting, "Hut I can't be ex
pected tn do good work, for I rinl only one portrait a
year," She moved over lo a bnu, low shelf under the win.
dow. "When I was a mere girl i won meiUts for roy mina
Hires. I studied at Vienna under t!enot famous man it
That night as she
made reafly to retire Mrs.
Maxon began to flunk
things over. This Valerie
Gray was unquestionably
a gentlewoman of high
culture. She had appar
ently lived at the ends of
the world South Africa,
New Zealand, the Argen.
tine. She spoke of certain
childhood impressions of
the elephants and the
temple hells and the vari
colored turbans of India.
A few sentences dropped
here and there suggested
a deep and sincere love of
the really great in poetry
aiid drama.
Ilut there was one inci
dent of the afternoon's
stroll on the beach that
filled Mrs Maxon's mind
with imaginings. Two lit
tle boys in dripping bath
ing suits, sons of a friend
of hers, had rushed up out
of the sea to the two
women on the bearh with
some inconsequential rhih'
like greetings, Mrs. Gr-y
acted most oddly. She ,
shuddered, closed her eyes,
and moved off quickly.
"Send them away!" she
begged. "Send them
away!" When Mrs. Max
on joined Iier she was on
the verge of tears and
trembling violently.
The next afternoon
Mrs. " Maxon thought of
the episode again when
she saw arrive at the inn
with his parents a hand
some, bright-looking blond
bov of 6 a friendly little
lad, accustomed to making;
new chums.
After dinner that night
Mrs. Gray had brought
down to show Mrs. Maxon
