"Nothing like hard work. I've conquered," said Dale to himself one
morning, as he sat toiling away at his big picture, whose minor portions
were standing out definitely round the principal figure, which had been
painted in again and again, but always to be cleaned off in disgust, and
was now merely sketched in charcoal.
He was waiting patiently for the model who was to attend to stand for
that figure--the figure only--for Pacey's idea had taken hold, and,
though he could not dwell upon it without a nervous feeling of dread,
and asking himself whether it was not dangerous ground to take, he had
determined, as he thought, to prove his strength, to endeavour to
idealise the Contessa's features for his Juno. It was the very
countenance he wished to produce, and if he could have caught her
expression and fixed it upon canvas that day when the Conte entered, so
evidently by preconcerted arrangement with Lady Grayson, the picture
would have been perfect.
"It need not be like her," he argued; "it is the expression I want."
He knew that in very few hours he could produce that face with its
scornful eyes, but he always put it off.
After a time, when the trouble there was not so fresh, it would be more
easy--"and the power to paint it as I saw it then have grown faint," he
added in despair, with the consequence that between the desire to paint
a masterpiece, and the temptation to which he had been exposed, the face
of Lady Dellatoria was always before him, sleeping and waking; though
had he made a strong effort to cast out the recollection of those
passionate, yearning eyes, the letters he received from time to time
would have kept the memory fresh.
"At last!" he cried that morning, as steps were heard upon the stairs.
"But she has not a light foot. I remember, though: they told me that
she was a fine, majestic-looking woman."
There was a tap at the door.
"Come in."
Jupiter himself, in the person of Daniel Jaggs, thrust in his noble
head.
"All right, Emperor, come in," said Dale, going on painting, giving
touches to the background of his Olympian scene, with its group of
glowing beauties, who were to be surpassed by the majesty of the
principal figure still to come. "What is it? Don't want you to-day."
"No, sir. I knowed it was a lady day, but I've come with a message from
one."
"Not from Lady--"
He ceased speaking, and his heart beat heavily. Jaggs had been to and
from Portland Place with the canvas. Had she made him her messenger?
"Yes, sir; from Lady Somers Town."
"What?" cried Dale, with a sigh of relief, though, to his agony, he felt
that he longed to hear from the Contessa again.
"Lady Somers Town, sir; that's what Mr. Pacey used to call her. Miss
Vere Montesquieu of the Kaiserinn."
"Miss Vere Montesquieu!" said Dale contemptuously.
"Well, that's what she calls herself, sir. Did you say what was her
real name, sir?"
"No, I didn't, but I thought it. Oh, by the way, Jaggs, I must have
another sitting or two from you. We haven't quite caught the expression
of Jupiter's lips."
"No, sir, we haven't, sir," said the model, looking at the canvas
wistfully. "I know azactly what you want, but it's so hard to put it
on."
"It is, Jaggs."
"You want him to be looking as he would if he was afraid of his missus,
and she'd just found him out at one of his games."
"That's it."
"Well, sir, I'll try again. Perhaps I can manage it next time. I was a
bit on the other night, and I did get it pretty warm when I went home.
I'll try and feel like I did then, next time I'm a settin'."
"Yes, do," said Dale, who kept on with his work. "Ah, that's better.
Well, you were going to say something. Is anything wrong?"
"Well, sir, I'm only a poor model, and it ain't for me to presoom."
"Lookers-on see most of the game, Jaggs. What is it?"
"Well, sir, I was looking at Jupiter's corpus."
"Eh? See something out of drawing?"
"No, sir; your nattomy's all right, of course. Never see it wrong.
You're splendid on 'ticulation, muskle, and flesh. But that's Sam
Spraggs as sat for the body, wasn't it?"
"Yes; I've fitted it to your head."
"Well, sir, not to presoom, do you feel sure as it wouldn't be more
god-like, more Jupitery as you may say, if you let me set, painted that
out, and give the head the proper body. Be more nat'ral like, wouldn't
it?"
"No. What's the matter with that?--the composition of a more muscular
man with your head is, I think, excellent."
"But it ain't nat'ral like, sir. You see, Sam's too fat."
"Oh no, Jaggs. He only looks as if Hebe and Ganymede had poured him out
good potions of a prime vintage, and as if the honey of Hybla often
melted in his mouth."
"Well, sir, you knows best. Maria Budd says--"
"Who?"
"Miss Montesquieu, sir. She's old Budd's--the Somers Town
greengrocer's--gal."
"Humph! Idiot! Well, what message has she sent? Not coming again?"
"No, sir. She's very sorry, sir; but she's got an engagement to early
dinner at Brighton to-day, and won't only be back in time to take her
place in the chorus to-night."
"Confound the woman! I shall never get the figure done. Do you know of
any one else, Jaggs?"
"No, sir; and I'm afraid that you won't after all be satisfied with
her."
"All, well, you needn't wait. Seen Mr. Pacey lately?"
"Yes, sir. Looks very ill, he do. Good morning, sir."
"Good morning."
"Beg pardon, sir; but my missus--"
"There, there, I don't want to hear a long string of your inventions,
Jaggs. How much do you want?"
"Oh, thankye, sir. If you could manage to let me have five shillings on
account.--Thankye, sir. You are a gentleman."
"The Emperor" departed, winking to himself as if he had something on his
mind; and Dale threw down brushes and palette, sat back with his hands
clasped behind his head, gazing at the blank place in his great canvas,
till by slow degrees it was filled, and in all her majestic angry beauty
Juno stood there, with her attendants shrinking and looking on, while
she seemed to be flashing at her lord lightnings more terrible than
those he held in his hand.
The face, the wondrous figure, in all its glow of mature womanhood, were
there; and then the eyes seemed to turn upon Dale a look of love and
appeal to him to think upon her piteous state, vowed to love and honour
such a man as that.
Armstrong shuddered and wrenched his eyes away, wondering at the power
of his vivid imagination, which had conjured up before him the Contessa
in all the pride of her womanly beauty; and strive how he might to think
of her only in connection with his picture, as he felt that he could
produce her exactly there, and make the group a triumph of his work, he
knew that his thoughts were of another cast, and that, in spite of all,
this woman had inspired him with a passion that enthralled his very
soul.
He started up, for the maid entered with a letter, and he fancied that
she seemed to read his thoughts, as he took it and threw it carelessly
on the table.
He did not look at the address. There was the Conte's florid crest,
face upward, and it lay there ready to be burned as soon as he left his
seat, for the matches were over the fireless grate.
Keren-Happuch had reached the door.
"'Tain't scented up like some on 'em," she said to herself; and then she
turned to look wistfully at the artist, whose eyes were fixed upon
vacancy, for he was reading the letter in imagination. He knew every
word of sorrowful reproach it would contain, for the letters were little
varied. She would tell him of her solitary state, beg him to reconsider
his decision, and ask him whether, in spite of the world and its laws,
it was not a man's duty to take compassion upon the woman who loved him
with all her heart. Yes: he could read it all.
"Must get away," he said to himself. "Why not go back home, and seek
for safety behind the armour of her innocency? My poor darling, I want
to be true to you, but I am sorely tempted now. It cannot be love; only
a vile, degrading passion from which I must flee, for I am--Heaven
knows, how weak."
"Ain't yer well, sir?" said Keren-Happuch, in commiserating tones.
He started, not knowing that the girl was there.
"Well? Oh yes, Miranda, quite well."
"No, you ain't, sir, I know; and it ain't because you smokes too much,
nor comes home all tipsy like some artisses does, for I never let you in
when you wasn't just what you are now, the nicest gent we ever had
here."
"Why, you wicked little flatterer, what does this mean?" cried Dale
merrily.
"No, sir, and that won't do," said the girl. "I'm little, but I'm
precious old, and I've seen and knows a deal. You ain't well, sir!"
"Nonsense, girl! I'm quite well. There, run away."
"No, sir, there ain't no need; she's out. There's no one at home but me
and puss. I can talk to you to-day without her knowing and shouting
after me. She 'ates me talking to the lodgers.--I knows you ain't
well."
"What rubbish, my girl! I'm well enough."
"Oh no; you ain't, sir. I don't mean poorly, and wants physic, but ill
with wherritin', same as I feels sometimes when I gets it extry from
missus. I know what's the matter; you've got what Mr. Branton had when
he spent six months over his 'cademy picture as was lovely, and they
sent it back. He said it was the blues. That's what you've got,
because you can't get on with yours, which is too lovely to be sent
back. I know what a bother you've had to get a model for the middle
there, and it worries you."
"Well, yes, Miranda, my girl, I'll confess it does."
"I knowed it," she cried, clapping her hands; "and just because you're
bothered, none of the gents don't seem to come and see you now. Mr.
Leerondee ain't been, and Mr. Pacey don't seem to come anigh you.
Sometimes I feel glad, because he teases me so, and allus says things I
don't understand. But I don't mind: I wish he'd come now and cheer you
up."
"Oh, I shall be all right, Mirandy, my little lassie, as soon--"
"Yes, that you will, sir, because you must get it done, you know. It is
lovely."
"Think so?" said Dale, who felt amused by the poor, thin, smutty little
object's interest in his welfare.
"Think so! Oh, there ain't no thinking about it. I heard Mr. Pacey
tell Mr. Leerondee that it was the best thing he ever see o' yours. I
do want you to get it done, sir. It seems such a pity for that big bit
in the middle not to be painted."
"Yes, girl; but it must wait."
"Mr. Dale, sir, you won't think anything, will you?"
"Eh? What about?"
"'Cause of what I'm going to say, sir," she said bashfully. "I do want
you to get that picture well hung, sir, and make your fortune, and get
to be a RúA."
"Thank you. What were you going to say?"
"Only, sir, as I wouldn't for any one else; no, not if it was for the
Prince o' Wales, or the Dook o' Edinburgh hisself, but I would for you."
"I don't understand you," said Dale, wondering at the girl's manner.
"I meant, sir, as sooner--sooner--than you shouldn't get that picture
done and painted proper, I'd come and stand for that there figure
myself." Dale wanted to burst out laughing at the idea of the poor,
ill-nurtured, grubby little creature becoming his model for the mature,
graceful Juno; but there was so much genuine desire to help him, so much
naive innocency in the poor little drudge's words, that he contained
himself, and before he could think of how to refuse without hurting her
feelings, there was a resonant double knock and ring at the front door.
"Why, if it ain't the postman again," cried the girl. "He was here just
now. I know: it's one o' them mail letters, as they calls 'em, from
foreign abroad."
Keren-Happuch was right, for she came panting up directly with a thin
paper envelope in her hand, branded "Boston, UúSúA."
"For you, sir," she said; and she looked at him wistfully, as in an
emotional way he snatched the letter from her hand and pressed it to his
lips.
"Salvation!" he muttered, as he turned away to go to the inner room.
"God bless you, darling! You are with me once again. I never wanted
you worse."
"It's from his sweetheart over acrost the seas," said Keren-Happuch, as
she spread her dirty apron on the balustrade, so as not to soil the
mahogany with her hand as she leaned upon it to go down, sadly. "And
he's in love, too; that's what's the matter with him. Puss, puss,
puss!"
There was a soft mew, and a dirty-white cat trotted up to meet her, and
leaped up to climb to her thin shoulders, and then rub its head
affectionately against her head, to the disarrangement of her dirty cap.
"Ah! don't stick your claws through my thin clothes.--Yes," she mused,
"he's in love. Wonder what people feel like who are in love, and
whether anybody 'll ever love me. Don't suppose any one ever will: I'm
such a poor-looking sort o' thing. But it don't matter. You like me,
don't you, puss? And them as is in love don't seem to be very happy
after all."