"Yes," said Dale to himself again, "Art is my mistress. I have betrayed
one, fought clear of the web of another, and now I am free to keep true
to the only one I love."
And all through that visit of the Italian, he worked on with a strange
eagerness, till, at what seemed to be the end of an hour at most, his
model made a sudden movement.
"I beg your pardon," he said, "I ought to have told you to rest more
often. Stanca?" For he recalled a word meaning fatigued or wearied.
"Si--si," she said quickly, and pointed to the clock on the mantelpiece,
when, to Dale's astonishment, he saw that the two hours had elapsed, and
that his model had quickly resumed her cloak. Then, without a word, she
crossed to the door of the inner room, and about a quarter of an hour
later emerged, to find him standing back studying his morning's work.
"Grazie," he cried, and then pointed to the roughly sketched in figure.
"Bravo!" he added, smiling.
She bent her head in a quiet, dignified manner, and raking up another
Italian word or two, Armstrong said--
"A rivederia--au revoir."
"Ah, monsieur speaks French!" she cried in that tongue, but with a very
peculiar accent.
"Yes, badly," he replied, also in French. "That is good; now we can get
on better. Can you come to-morrow at the same time?"
"I am at monsieur's service."
"Then I shall expect you. Thank you for your patient attention.
Another time, pray rest when you are fatigued."
She bowed in a stately manner, and pointed to the door which he had
locked, and as soon as it was unfastened, passed out without turning her
head.
Dale stood working at his sketch for another hour, and then turned it to
the wall, to light his pipe and begin thinking about his model now that
he had ceased work.
It was quite mysterious her insisting upon keeping her face covered.
Why was it? Had she some terrible disfigurement, or was it from
modesty? Possibly. Her manner was perfect. She was evidently
miserably poor, and seemed eager to gain money to support her father--he
had quite grasped that--and the poor creature being compelled to stoop
to this way of earning a livelihood, she naturally desired to remain
incognito. Well, it was creditable, he thought; but the first idea came
back. She was evidently a woman gifted by nature with an exquisite
form, and at the same time, by accident or disease, her countenance was
so marked that she was afraid of her clients being repelled, and
declining to engage her.
"Ah, well, signora, the mysterious Italienne, I will respect your desire
to remain incog. It is nothing to me," said Dale, half aloud, as he
sent a cloud of blue vapour upward. "I may congratulate myself, though,
on my good fortune in finding such a model."
He sat back in his chair, dwelling upon the figure, and then went twice
over to his canvas, to compare his work with the figure in his
imagination, and returned to his seat more than satisfied.
Then he put work aside, and began thinking of home, and the sweet sad
face he could always picture, with its eyes gazing reproachfully at him.
"Yes," he said, with a sigh; "poor darling! It was fate. I was not
worthy of her. When the misery and disappointment have died away--
Heaven bless her!--she will love and be the wife of a better man,
unless--unless some day she forgives me--some day when I have told her
all."
The next morning he was all in readiness and expectant. The light was
good for painting, and his mind was more at rest, for there was no
letter from the Contessa. But for a few moments he was angry with
himself on finding that he felt a kind of pique at the readiness with
which she had given up writing her reproaches. But that passed off, and
as the time was near for the coming of the model, he drew the easel
forward to see whether, after the night's rest, he felt as satisfied
with his work as he did the previous day. But he hardly glanced at the
figure, for the eyes were gazing at him in a terribly life-like way,
full of scorn and reproach; and as he met them, literally fascinated by
the work to which his imagination lent so much reality, he shuddered and
asked himself whether he had after all been able to free himself from
the glamour--dragged himself loose from the spell of the Circe who had
so suddenly altered the even course of his life.
He was still contemplating the face, and wondering whether others would
look upon it with the fascination it exercised upon him, when
Keren-Happuch came up to announce the arrival of his model, who entered
directly after, to look at him sharply through her thick veil.
He uttered a low sigh full of satisfaction, for her coming was most
welcome. It would force his attention to his work.
"Good morning," he said gravely and distinctly, in French. "You are
very punctual."
She bowed distantly, and then her attention seemed to be caught by the
face upon the canvas, and she drew near to stand gazing at it
attentively.
She turned to him sharply. "The lady who sat for that: why did she not
stay for you to finish the portrait?"
Dale started, half wondering, half annoyed by his model's imperious
manner.
"It is great!" she said. Then in a quick, eager tone: "The lady you
love?"
He was so startled by the suddenness of the question, that he replied as
quickly--
"No, no. It is not from a model. It is imagination."
"Ah!" she said, and she looked at the picture more closely. "You
thought of her and painted. You are very able, monsieur, but I like it
not. It makes me to shiver, I know not why. It makes me afraid to
look."
"Then don't look," said Dale, in an annoyed tone. "You will cover it,
please, monsieur. The face is so angry; it gives me dread."
"Pish!" ejaculated Dale. "Very well, though. Get ready, please. I
want to do a long morning's work."
"Monsieur will pay me," she said, holding out her hand in its
well-mended glove.
He took out a couple of half-crowns, which she almost snatched, and
then, without a word, pointed to the door almost imperiously.
He nodded shortly, and went to fasten it, while she glided into the
inner room, and in a wonderfully short space of time returned ready,
took her place upon the dais, dropped the cloak, and he began to paint.
"Monsieur has not covered the dreadful head," she said hoarsely.
Without a word he took a square of brown paper, gummed it, and covered
the face; then in perfect silence he went on painting, deeply interested
in his work as his sketch took softer form and grew rapidly beneath his
brush.
But the work did not progress so fast as on the previous day: he was
painting well, but the black head, so incongruous and weird of aspect,
posed upon the beautiful female form he was transferring to canvas,
irritated him, and as he looked at his model from time to time, he could
see that a pair of piercing eyes were watching him.
Half-an-hour had passed, when there was a low, weary sigh.
"We will rest a little," he said quietly, and pointing to a chair and
the screen, he devoted himself to an unimportant part of the work for
some ten minutes, but to be brought back to his model by her words--
"I am waiting, monsieur."
He started and resumed his work, remembering to pause for his patient
model to rest twice over, and then to continue, and grow so excited over
his efforts--painting so rapidly--that when he heard another weary sigh
he glanced at the clock, and found that he had kept his model quite a
quarter of an hour over her time.
"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," he said. "You must be very weary."
"Yes, very weary," she said sadly, as she moved towards the door,
glancing over her right shoulder at the picture. "It is better now. I
can look at your work; the dreadful face makes me too much alarmed."
"A strange sitting," he said. "Two veiled faces." There was a quick
look through the thick veil, but she walked on into the room, and in due
time passed him on her way, bowed distantly, and went out, leaving Dale
motionless by his canvas, gazing after her at the door, and conjuring up
in his mind the figure he had so lately had before him.
He recovered himself with a start, and raised one hand to his forehead.