"Why not?" he said. "Too soft, sweet, and gentle-looking? Cornel,
darling, it shall be an expiation of a fault, and some day in the future
you shall stand before it and gaze in your own true face as I have
painted you--made grand, crushing, majestic, full of scorn and contempt,
as it would have been, had you stood face to face with me, awaking to
the fact that I was utterly lost, unworthy of your love. I can--I
will--paint that face, and that day, darling, when you turn to me with
those questioning eyes, and tell me you could not have looked like this,
you shall know the truth."
The inspiration was there, and with wonderful skill and rapidity he
began to sketch in the face glowing before him in his imagination. No
model could have given him the power to paint in so swiftly those
lineaments, which began to live upon the canvas as the hours went on.
For he was lost to everything but the task before him, and he grew
flushed and excited as the noble frowning brow threatened, and then by a
few deft touches those wonderful liquid eyes began to blaze with
passionate scorn. The ruddy, beautifully curved lips were parted,
revealing the glistening teeth; and at last, how long after he could not
tell, he shrank away from the great canvas, to gaze at the features he
had limned, trembling, awe-stricken, knowing that his work was masterly,
but asking himself whether the painting was his, or some occult
spiritual deed of which he had been the mere animal mechanism, worked by
the powers of evil to blast him for ever.
His lips were parched, his tongue and throat felt dry with the fever
which burned within him, as he stood trying to gather the courage to
seize a cloth and wipe out the face that gazed at him and made him
shrink in his despair.
He dragged his eyes from the canvas, and looked wildly round the great
studio, where all was silent as the grave. The bright light had passed
away; and he knew that it must be about sunset, for all was cold and
grey, save the shadows in the corners of the room, and they were black.
Everything was growing dim and misty, save the face upon his canvas, and
that stood out with its scornful, fierce anger, though, through it all,
so wonderful had been the inspiration beneath whose influence he had
worked, there was an intense look of passionate love and forgiveness;
the eyes, while scornfully condemning and upbraiding, seemed to say, "I
love you still, for you are and always will be mine."
"Cornel!" he groaned. "Heaven help me! and I have fought so hard. Ah!"
he cried, with a sigh of relief, for there were hurried footsteps on the
stairs, and the fancied dimness of the studio seemed to pass away as
little, meagre Keren-Happuch gave one sharp tap on the door, and then
ran in, to stop short, looking wonderingly at the artist's ghastly,
troubled face.
"Oh, Mr. Dale, sir, you do work too hard," she cried reproachfully.
Then, in an eager whisper, "It's all right, sir. The model's come. I
told her she was too late for to-day, but she said she'd see you all the
same."
"Where is she?" said Armstrong, in a voice which startled him.
"In the 'all, sir. I made her wait while I come to know if you'd see
her. She's got on a thick wail, but sech a figger, sir. She'll do."
"Send her up," said Dale, "but tell her I cannot be trifled with like
this."
"Yes, sir. I'll tell her you're in a horful rage 'cause she didn't come
this morning."
Dale hardly heard the words, but turned away as the girl left the room,
to stand gazing at the face which had so magically sprung from the end
of his brush; and he still stood gazing dreamily at the canvas when the
door was once more opened, there was the rustling of a dress, and
Keren-Happuch's voice was heard, saying snappishly--
"There's Mr. Dale."
Then the door was shut, and muttering, "Stuck-up, orty minx," the girl
went down to her own region.
Dale did not stir, but still stood gazing at the canvas, fascinated by
his work. But his lips moved, and he spoke half-angrily, but in a weary
voice.
"I had given you up, Miss Montesquieu. I want you for this figure, but
if you cannot keep faith with me--yes," he said, as his visitor stepped
toward him, drawing off her veil--"for this."
He turned sharply then, as if influenced in some unaccountable way, and
started back in horror and despair.
"Valentina!"
"Armstrong!" came in a low, passionate moan, as she flung herself upon
his breast--"at last, at last!"
The palette and brushes dropped from his hands--he was but man--and she
uttered a low sigh of content as his arms closed round her soft yielding
form, and his lips joined hers in a long, passionate, clinging kiss.
Then reason mastered once more, and he thrust her from him.
"No, no," he gasped; "for God's sake, go! Why have you come?"
"A cold welcome," she said, smiling. "I come to beg that you will grant
his prayer."
"I do not understand you."
"My husband wrote begging you to reconsider your determination, and come
to finish my portrait."
"Impossible! He did not write."
She pointed to the unopened letter lying upon a table, with the florid
crest plainly showing.
"I had not opened it," he said. "I thought--"
"That it was from me. How cruel men can be! He asks you to come back."
"At your persuasion?" cried Dale fiercely.
"Yes, at my persuasion, and you will come. You must--you shall." She
clung closer to him. "Armstrong," she whispered, "I cannot live without
you. You have drawn me to you; I could bear it no longer;" and she held
to him once more in spite of his repellent hands.
"It is madness--your husband--your--your title--your fair fame as a
woman."
"Empty words to me now," she said in a low, thrilling whisper. "I could
not stay. You are my world--everything to me now."
"Woman, I tell you again, this is madness--your husband?"
"With Lady Grayson, I believe. What does it matter? I am here--with
you. Armstrong, am I to go on my knees to you? I will--you have
humbled me so. Why are you so cruel, when you love me too?"
"I--love you--no!"
She laughed softly as, in spite of his shrinking, her arms enfolded him
once more, and her words came in a low sweet murmur to his ear.
"Yes; you love me--as wildly and passionately as I love you. I knew
it--I could feel it, though you would not answer my appeals. Look," she
whispered, "it is as I felt; you are always thinking of me. I am ever
in your thoughts. But am I as beautiful as that? Yes: to you. But
look from the picture to my eyes. They could not gaze so fiercely and
scornfully as that. Now, tell me that you do not love me, and I was not
in your thoughts."
She pointed to the features, glowing--almost speaking, from the canvas--
her faithful portrait, full of the angry majesty he had sought to
convey.
Alas! poor Cornel. Not a lineament was hers.
Armstrong groaned.
"Heaven help me!" he muttered. "Is it fate?"
His hands repulsed her no longer, and he stood holding her at arm's
length, gazing into the eyes which fascinated, lost to everything but
her influence over him, till with a hasty gesture, full of anger, she
shrank away and sought her veil from the floor.
"Some one!" she whispered fiercely, for there was a step upon the stair.
"The Conte," cried Dale, startled at the interruption.
"Hide me, quick! That room," cried the Contessa; and she took a step
toward it as she veiled her face. "No," she cried, turning proudly, and
resisting an inclination to step behind the great canvas close to which
she stood, "Let him see me. His faithlessness has divorced us, and
given me to the man I love. You will protect me. Kill him if you wish.
I am not afraid."
This in a hasty whisper as the steps came nearer, and Valentina's eyes
glistened through her veil as she saw the artist draw himself up, and
take a step forward to meet the intruder.
"Better that it should be so at once," she whispered. "Let him come."
The door was thrown quickly open as she spoke.