Ten Beautiful Years

“ TEN beautiful years.” He dropped his head on her desk and whispered the words over and over. There could never be any more years with her, and the light and joy were gone from his life.

“ We have been so happy ! There’s nothing to regret. We have had ten beautiful years.”

That was her last message. He could see her now, and hear her faintly whisper the tender words. Something of the comfort she meant to give stole into his heart as he remembered them. At least, he could be glad for the past, — glad beyond all that she had nothing to regret.

Thank God, she never dreamed how his jealousy of her success had once nearly ruined their lives. The blood burned hot in his cheeks as the memory of that wretched time came back to him. How could he have been so contemptibly weak ? The thought carried him from the desolate horrors of the present back to the beginning of their married life. Slowly their years together passed before his inner sight.

The picture of their first two years was full of the light of perfect happiness. No two, he felt, had ever been more truly wedded. It was then, too, that her paintings gained their first decided recognition. Though the same years brought him nothing but failure, he had felt only pride and delight in her success. He would have lingered tenderly over this part of their life, but something hurried him on to the next year. He dropped his illustrative work entirely that year, and devoted all his time to painting. It was a wise change, too, he had felt, for by spring his work clearly showed a great gain in strength and charm. Secretly, he had almost agreed with Margaret that one of his pictures must take the Society prize. But it was the same old story. At the end of the season they all came back to him, unsold, unprized. But all of Margaret’s pictures had sold, and one received honorable mention. And he had realized that the next year’s expenses must be paid by her.

The memory of that hour swept over him with a horrible vividness. The only comfort that came to him now was the knowledge that he had kept his feelings from her. She never knew why he was so glad just then to make a visit to their old uncle. In the quiet of the country he struggled with himself till he was able to come back, sane. The following months were crowded with work and happiness. He was sure she had never remembered that she was the breadwinner that year. Those days were full of light and rosy color; but his thoughts soon drew him away from them to the next spring.

All his pictures that season had been well received and fairly well hung; not nearly so well, however, as Margaret’s. It seemed as if hanging committees, for once, had suddenly developed unexpected discrimination. They gave her steadily lighted places, neither too high nor too low, her perspectives taken into account in a most miraculous way. And Margaret had sold ; more than all, Margaret had taken a first prize, and once again a third prize.

Here his mental picture became grim and distorted. Could he ever forget how, for one dreadful hour, he had forgotten to make jubilee with her?

He had been awarded no prize, and not one of his glowing canvases had been sold. Then, bitter chagrin and a terrible doubt of his own ability so racked him that he grew afraid to let her see his face. With a fishing-trip for excuse, he had again left her till he could regain his self-command. Three days later, he was so sore and smarting that even now he did not care to speculate upon what might have been the end. It was in the midst of his despair that a blessed letter came. In it the trustees of a well-known art museum offered him a thousand dollars for his picture exhibited that year.

When he took Margaret into his arms again, she did not suspect that his first thought was one of thankfulness for an escape from possible shipwreck. She was only wildly happy over his success.

“ You ’re known now! ” she cried gleefully. ” You won’t have stupid men and stupider pictures climbing over you any more. You’ve begun to win, and you 'll keep right on.”

What a glorious year that next was! — a year of noble work flooded with the sunshine of happy love. Sitting before her desk, where she would sit no more, he felt more deeply than ever all the joy of those months. What a busy pair, too, they had been ! And when spring came, how well their pictures appeared ! What did she say about his Easter Morning just before it was boxed ? He seemed to hear the very tones of the dear voice.

“ Rob, I think you have found your forte. But it is n’t in such dream-subjects as this. It’s down there in the left-hand corner. If you can’t paint better sheep and cows and brooks and skies than any man we have, I 'll sell my Mother and Child for a dollar. Rob, you 're an animal-landscapist, and we never knew it before ! ”

Then she danced a Highland fling before him, till he caught her in his arms, and promised, to please her, that his next composition should have nothing in it but sheep and cows and brooks and skies.

Once more his big frames started on their wandering way, with her little ones beside them. He remembered he had hoped much that time, and when the season’s last exhibit was nearly over, with all his pictures still unsold, the old wretched thoughts again pressed upon him. It had taken more effort than he cared to remember to show Margaret only joy at her successes ; but she had not seen his trouble, he was certain ; and the very last day of the last exhibit, his big Easter Morning was bought by their own art museum.

After that he began his “ animalscrapes,”as Margaret called them ; and she was right, as she always was. He had taken prizes and sold, till now everv canvas he sent out was sure to find a purchaser. At last he had been able to do all for her that he had longed to do. Best of all, she had never suspected his sore bitterness before his success came.

Thank God, she could say truly, “ Ten beautiful years.”Forever these words would comfort and console him. That he had been true to his trust, that he had not even in his despair tortured her, was exceeding sweet to him now.

Yes, he was glad, unspeakably glad, he said to himself, as he once more began to look over her letters and papers. Yet, just for a minute, he felt himself insanely longing that she might have guessed his trouble.

For the next hour he tried to forget everything but the papers that he must arrange. Her scrappy memoranda, hasty marginal notes on bills and receipts, her curious collection of useless odds and ends, kept choking him and sending sharp stings into his heart; but he worked on, till all was in order except the last drawer. That held a fat leather book which he saw was a sort of journal. One day she made only brief jottings of subjects for pictures; the next she told in comical sentences of a row with a grocer. Further on she went into a little rhapsody over a beautiful day in the country that they had taken together. One night she wrote of a religious discussion with a certain minister who was troubled about her soul. Robert laughed and almost cried at the way she tripped the worthy parson, and then contritely showed him how far she really was from the heretic he thought her. Once she described a man’s face, — a face that, though idealized beyond his belief, he did not need her concluding words, “ the man I love,” to know was his own. A little further on came the following entries : —

“ May 20. Rob’s pictures have come back, unsold. What are people thinking of ? And why did that stupid jury give me an honorable mention, and ignore him? This is the third year that he has n’t sold a canvas. It breaks my heart. I know he will succeed sooner or later, but it is n’t the easiest thing for one who seems to be making only failures to keep his own courage up. If only he had the little money I have ! Or else, if he could sell instead of me !

“ May 21. Rob is going to uncle Ben’s for a few days’ rest. I know what is the real matter. He’s discouraged ; and he’s thinking of the remarks that certain of our relatives will make about his failures. They never shall have the chance to make them. I ’ll get a new gown to-morrow, and tell them that Rob’s last picture bought it. I wish I could comfort him.

“ June 1. Rob is back, and all right again, thank Heaven, and he’s the bravest man I know. He has gone to work without any fuss, and is as cheery as a bobolink. If I could only make him understand how big and splendid and fine he is to me, I don’t believe he’d worry about art committees or stupid people who don’t know good pictures.”

So she had guessed ! The little book dropped from his hand. And she had no reproaches for him ; she even thought him brave and splendid. Somehow this knowledge comforted him unspeakably, and he turned to the next pages with a warm glow. There was very little written for nearly a year; then, under date of March 20, he read: —

“ All the canvases are out of the house. Rob’s Earth and Heaven is stunning. But it is n’t the kind of picture that appeals to the public, nor, I’m afraid, to prize committees either. I wonder if it is a part of nineteenth-century decadence,—this fashion in art? Where do we end, when painters themselves fail to appreciate good work unless when it is their ‘ kind ’ ?

“ If Rob should n’t get any recognition this year, I don’t know what I shall do. He must! No one can go on forever without encouragement. If he only could once get a prize or be bought by a prominent somebody, he 'd be all right. The herd always follows a leader.

“ April 5. We are all hung. Rob’s Earth and Heaven is n’t in a very good light, while my Moonshine is fairly foisted into conspicuous notice by the extraordinary care in placing. Why I should be so favored, and the real genius of Rob so little appreciated, I can’t comprehend. I only wish I could be hanging committee and prize committee and general public, all in one, for just one day !

“ April 30. Two of my daubs have sold, and one has taken a prize. It breaks my heart; I wish I had n’t sent any at all. There is one more chance for Rob. If he is n’t mentioned then, I shall want to go away and hide. And he is as brave as ever. Would n’t I rave if I were he ! It is so abominably unfair.

“ May 25. Everything is over. Rob did n’t sell, did n’t get a prize, did n’t get anything. I never shall forget his face when he first knew it. If I could only have comforted him ! But I am sure he would rather have me never suspect his soreness. He is going off fishing for a day or two. Fishing! My brave boy ! He thinks he will get over the hurt before he comes back to me. What’s a wife good for if she can’t help at such times as this ? But I seem so powerless.

“ May 30. It’s done ! I ’m glad now that Rob insisted I should keep entire control of the little money I have. It was easy, once thought of, to sell a bond, and have the broker himself send the amount to the museum with the understanding that it should buy Rob’s picture. No one except that unimportant broker knows a thing about it. As for giving up the bond, it does n’t make any difference. I ’ll scrimp in housekeeping. Besides, once Rob is recognized so publicly, he 'll be gaining shekels for himself.”

Once more the book slipped from the man’s hands, and his head dropped into them, while big sobs shook his whole body.

“ My wife ! ” he whispered brokenly, “ my wife ! ”

After a while, with the tears still on his cheeks, he again opened the little volume at a date a year later.

“ May 25. Only one more day, and Rob has won nothing, while I, wretched catchpenny, have sold and got prizes in abundance. How could they praise my trash, and slight such work as Rob’s ? He shall not be so disappointed. I ’ll sell another bond and present it to the museum. The broker can manage it for me, and nobody will ever know. I only wish I dared take more of the money. But there is so little, and housekeeping does cost so much. If our respected relatives knew how we do manage, they would have a high opinion of our domestic economy. This thousand dollars must be spent for a better studio for Rob. He will need the room if he goes in for animals. Guess we '11 build a double one right behind the house.”

A year after this came the following:

“June 15. Hurrah! Hurrah! Rob’s triumph has come ! He got prizes, and has sold everything and has orders ahead. Is n’t that glorious ! I always knew he would finally win, but the waiting seemed so long.

“ I’ve been almost wishing I might tell him about the last two years. But he is a man, and I’m afraid it might hurt his pride, even if he has at last succeeded. I never realized till those years of apparent failure how strong he is, or how I — worship him ! And I felt so ashamed of the stupid people who praised me instead of him that I could n’t bear to take their money. I had no business with it. Besides, I knew if he once got his name before the public the rest would follow. I’m so happy and thankful ! I should like to tell him all about it, and how I love — love him — love him.”

The fire burned low in the grate ; the shadows crept out of the corners, and slipped across the floor, and huddled about the man who sat, with bowed head, clasping the little book. Out of the stillness came the message that would abide with him so long as he must live: “ There’s nothing to regret. We have had ten beautiful years.”

Mary Knight Potter.