Armstrong Dale did not hear the door close. Picture--the Contessa--
everything was forgotten, and for the time he was back in Boston. For
he had thrown himself into a chair, and torn open the envelope. But he
could not rest like that. He wanted room, and he came back to begin
striding about his studio, reading as he walked.
But it did not seem to him like reading, for the words he scanned took
life and light and tone as he grasped the pure, sweet, trusting words of
the writer, breathing her intense love for the man to whom she had
plighted her troth. And as in imagination he listened to the sweet
breathings of her affection, and revelled in her homely prattle about
those he knew, and her hopeful talk of the future, when he would have
grown famous and returned home to the honours which would be showered
upon him by his people--to the welcome for him in that one true
throbbing heart, his own throbbed, too, heavily, and his eyes grew moist
and dim.
"God bless you, darling!" he cried passionately; "you have saved me when
I was tottering on the brink and ready to fall. The touch of your dear
hand has drawn me back when all was over, as I thought. I will keep
faith with you, Cornel. Forgive me, love! Heaven help me; how could I
be so mad!"
There was a brightness directly after in his eyes, as he carefully
bestowed the letter in his pocket-book and placed it in his breast.
"And they say the day of miracles is past, and that there is no magic in
the world," he cried proudly. "Poor fools! they don't know. Lie there,
little talisman. You are only a scrap of paper stained with ink, but
you are a charm of the strongest magic. Bah! It was all a passing
madness, and I have won. What a silly, weak, morbid state I was in," he
continued, as he stood in front of his picture, and snatched up palette
and brushes. "Why, Cornel darling, you have burned up all the clouds
with the bright sun of your dear love. And I can finish you now, my
good old daub. Jupiter can easily have that hang-dog, cowardly,
found-out look imported into his phiz. I feel as if I can see, and do
it now. The nymphs are as good as anything I have done. I don't always
satisfy myself, but that background is jolly. I've got so much light
and sunshine into it, such a dreamy, golden atmosphere effect, that it
brightens the whole thing, and what a nuisance it is that old Turner
ever lived! If he had never been born, my background would have been
grand. As it is--well, it's only an imitation. No, no; come, old
fellow: say, a good bit of work by an honest student of old Turner's
style. Yes," he continued, drawing back, "I think it will do. Even
dear old Joe praised that; he said it wasn't so bad. Poor old chap! I
wish we were friends again. And as for my Juno, I think I can manage
her. Montesquieu shall come--esquieu--askew--no, not askew; I'll get
her into a noble, dignified position somehow. I hope she has a good
figure. While her face--why, Cornel, my darling, it shall be yours."
He paused to stand thoughtfully before the great canvas, drawn out upon
its easel into the best light cast down from the sky panes above, and
let his mahlstick rest upon the picture just above the blank,
paint-stained portion left for the principal figure.
"Queer way of working," he said with a laugh, "finishing the
surroundings before putting in the mainspring of my theme. That's
hardly fair, though, for I painted my Juno first--ah! how many times,
and rubbed her out. Never mind; she must come strong now to stand out
well in front of these figures. She must--she shall."