The Signature of All Things

came closer and sat beside him, right on the grass, tucking her skirts beneath her legs.
    “I shall confess something to you, Mr. Pike,” she said. “Sometimes I fear that my labors in these moss beds are of no use or value whatsoever. Sometimes I wish I had something more sparkling to offer the world, something more magnificent—like your orchid paintings, I suppose. I am diligent and disciplined, but I do not possess a distinctive genius.”
    “So you are industrious, but not original?”
    “Yes!” Alma said. “Exactly that! Precisely.”
    “Bah!” he said. “You do not convince me. I wonder why you would even try to convince yourself of something so foolish.”
    “You are kind, Mr. Pike. You have made an old lady feel quite attended to this afternoon. But I am aware of the truth of my own life. My work in these moss fields excites nobody but the cows and the crows who watch me at it all day.”
    “Cows and crows are excellent judges of genius, Miss Whittaker. Take my word for it—I have been painting exclusively for their amusement now for many years on end.”
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    T hat evening, George Hawkes joined them for dinner at White Acre. This would be the first time George had met Ambrose Pike in person, and he was terribly excited about it—or as excited as a solemn old fellow like George could ever become.
    “It is my honor to know you, sir,” George said, with a smile. “Your work has brought me the most undeviating pleasure.”
    Alma was touched by George’s sincerity. She knew what her friend could not say to the artist—that this past year had been one of acute suffering within the Hawkes household, and that Ambrose Pike’s orchids had freed George, fleetingly, from the snares of darkness.
    “I offer you my unfeigned thanks for your encouragement,” Mr. Pike replied. “Unfortunately, my thanks are the only compensation I can make at the moment, but they are sincere.”
    As for Henry Whittaker, he was in a foul mood that night. Alma could see it from ten paces away, and she keenly wished that her father were not joining them for dinner. She had neglected to warn her guest about herfather’s curt nature, and now she regretted it. Poor Mr. Pike would be thrown at the wolf without any preparation, and the wolf was, quite clearly, both hungry and incensed. She also regretted that neither she nor George Hawkes had thought to bring one of the extraordinary orchid paintings to show her father, which meant that Henry had no sense of who this Ambrose Pike was, other than an orchid-chaser and an artist—neither of which was a category of person he tended to admire.
    Not surprisingly, the dinner began poorly.
    “Who is this individual again?” her father asked, looking straight at his new guest.
    “This is Mr. Ambrose Pike,” Alma said. “As I told you earlier, he is a naturalist and a painter, whom George has recently discovered. He makes the most exquisite renditions of orchids I have ever seen, Father.”
    “You draw orchids?” Henry demanded of Mr. Pike, in the same tone in which another man might say, “You rob widows?”
    “Well, I attempt to, sir.”
    “Everybody attempts to draw orchids,” Henry said. “Nothing new about that.”
    “You raise a fair point, sir.”
    “What is so special about your orchids?”
    Mr. Pike contemplated the question. “I could not say,” he admitted. “I don’t know whether anything is special about them, sir—other than that painting orchids is all I do. It is all I have done now for nearly twenty years.”
    “Well, that is an absurd employment.”
    “I disagree, Mr. Whittaker,” the artist said, unperturbed. “But only because I would not call it an employment at all.”
    “How do you make a living?”
    “Again, you raise a fair point. But as you can probably see by my mode of dress, it is arguable whether I make a living at all.”
    “I would not advertise that fact as an attribute, young man.”
    “Believe me, sir—I do not.”
    Henry peered at him, taking in the worn suit and the unkempt beard. “What happened, then?” he demanded. “Why are you so poor? Did you squander a fortune like a rake?”
    “Father—” Alma attempted.
    “Sadly, no,” said Mr. Pike, seemingly unoffended. “There was never any fortune in my family to be squandered.”
    “What does your father do for a living?”
    “Currently, he resides across the divide of death. But prior to that, he was a minister in Framingham, Massachusetts.”
    “Why are you