The Call of the Cumberlands

Toward the end of that year, Samson undertook his portrait of Adrienne

Lescott. The work was nearing completion, but it had been agreed that

the girl herself was not to have a peep at the canvas until the painter

was ready to unveil it in a finished condition. Often as she posed,

Wilfred Horton idled in the studio with them, and often George Lescott

came to criticize, and left without criticizing. The girl was impatient

for the day when she, too, was to see the picture, concerning which the

three men maintained so profound a secrecy. She knew that Samson was a

painter who analyzed with his brush, and that his picture would show

her not only features and expression, but the man's estimate of herself.

"Do you know," he said one day, coming out from behind his easel and

studying her, through half-closed eyes, "I never really began to know

you until now? Analyzing you--studying you in this fashion, not by your

words, but by your expression, your pose, the very unconscious essence

of your personality--these things are illuminating."

"Can I smile," she queried obediently, "or do I have to keep my face

straight?"

"You may smile for two minutes," he generously conceded, "and I'm

going to come over and sit on the floor at your feet, and watch you do

it."

"And under the X-ray scrutiny of this profound analysis," she laughed,

"do you like me?"

"Wait and see," was his non-committal rejoinder.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke. He sat there gazing up, and

she gazing down. Though neither of them said it, both were thinking of

the changes that had taken place since, in this same room, they had

first met. The man knew that many of the changes in himself were due to

her, and she began to wonder vaguely if he had not also been

responsible for certain differences in her.

He felt for her, besides a deep friendship--such a deep friendship

that it might perhaps be even more--a measureless gratitude. She had

been loyal, and had turned and shaped with her deft hand and brain the

rough clay of his crude personality into something that was beginning

to show finish and design. Perhaps, she liked him the better because of

certain obstinate qualities which, even to her persuasive influence,

remained unaltered. But, if she liked him the better for these things,

she yet felt that her dominion over him was not complete.

Now, as they sat there alone in the studio, a shaft of sunlight from

the skylight fell on his squarely blocked chin, and he tossed his head,

throwing back the long lock from his forehead. It was as though he was

emphasizing with that characteristic gesture one of the things in which

he had not yielded to her modeling. The long hair still fell low around

his head. Just now, he was roughly dressed and paint-stained, but

usually he presented the inconspicuous appearance of the well-groomed

man--except for that long hair. It was not so much as a matter of

personal appearance but as a reminder of the old roughness that she

resented this. She had often suggested a visit to the barber, but to no

avail.