"Don't say that you will not forgive," she implored tearfully. "At
least I am honest. My object in coming this afternoon was to repay the
money I--I borrowed." And she drew forth an envelope from her pocket
and handed it to me.
"There are notes for six hundred pounds," she added, as I took it and
felt the crisp paper inside.
"How did you obtain it?" I asked, hesitating to receive it.
"I have earned it honestly, every penny," she replied. "Since we
parted, I have become popular in America, and played `lead' in nearly
all the great cities. During the years that have gone I have many, many
times wondered what had become of you, for in your writings I read
plainly how soured and embittered you had become."
"And where is Oranmore?"
"Dead. He contracted typhoid while we were playing in San Francisco,
and it terminated fatally."
"Ethel," I said gravely, taking her hand in mine, "you have fascinated
Dick Carruthers, my friend; and you will treat him as you treated me."
"No, no. I love him," she said in a fierce half-whisper, adding, "Keep
secret the fact that we loved one another, and I swear before Heaven I
will be true to him. If he marries me, he shall never have cause for
regret--never!"
"Suppose I told him? What would he think of you?"
"You will not!" she cried, clinging to me. "You are too honourable for
that. Promise to keep my secret!"
"For the present I will preserve silence," I answered, my heart
softening towards her. "But I cannot promise that I will never tell
him."
"I am going to sit to him as model," she said, after a brief silence.
"What character do you think would best suit me?"
"Well, I should suggest that of Circe--the woman who broke men's
hearts," I replied, mischievously.
"Excellent! I shall be able to assume that character well," she said,
with a grim smile. "I will tell him."
Spring came and went, but I saw very little of Dick. He had received a
commission from one of the illustrated papers to make a series of
sketches of scenery in Scotland, and consequently he was away a good
deal. Whenever he paid flying visits to London, however, he always
looked me up, but, strangely enough, never mentioned Ethel.
Nevertheless, I ascertained that they frequently met.
At the close of a blue summer's day, when the dreamy, golden haze
wrapped the city in a mystic charm, I called at the studio, having heard
that he had returned, and was settling down to work.
When I entered, Dick was standing before his easel, pipe in mouth and
crayon in hand, busily sketching; while on the raised "throne" before
him sat Ethel, radiant and beautiful. A tender smile played about her
lips. It seemed as though a happiness--full, complete, perfectly
satisfying--had taken possession of her, and lifted her out of herself--
out of the world even.
"Welcome, old fellow!" Dick cried, turning to shake hands with me.
"Behold my Circe!" and he waved his hand in the direction of his model.
"Ethel will not sit for any other subject. It hardly does her justice--
does it?"
"It is a strange fancy of mine," she explained, when I had greeted her.
"I'm sure the dress is very becoming--isn't it?" And she waved the
goblet she was holding above her head.
"Your pose is perfect, dear. Please don't alter it," urged the artist;
who, advancing to his easel again, continued the free, rapid outline.
We chatted and laughed together for nearly an hour, until the tints of
pearl and rose had melted imperceptibly into the deep night sky; then
Dick lit the lamps, while Ethel retired into the model's sanctum to
resume her nineteenth century attire.
Presently she reappeared, and we went to dine together at a restaurant
in Piccadilly, afterwards visiting a theatre, and spending a very
pleasant evening.
Poor Dick! I was sorry that he was so infatuated. He was such a
large-hearted, honest fellow, that I felt quite pained when I
anticipated the awakening that must inevitably come sooner or later. He
knew absolutely nothing of her past, and was quite ignorant that she had
been a popular actress.
In the months that followed, I visited the studio almost daily, and
watched the growth of the picture. Dick was putting his whole soul into
the composition, and my knowledge of art--acquired by years of idling in
the ateliers of the Quartier Latin, and dabbling with the colours a
little myself--told me that he was engaged upon what promised to be his
finest work.
The face was a lifelike portrait. The delicate tints of the neck and
arms were reproduced with a skill that betrayed the master hand, and the
reflection in the mirror behind had a wonderfully natural appearance,
while the bright colours enhanced the general effect of gay, reckless
abandon.
The fair model herself was charmed with it. Woman's vanity always
betrays itself over her picture.
One evening, at the time the canvas was receiving its finishing touches,
I returned home from a stroll across Kensington Gardens, and, on going
in, heard some one playing upon my piano, and a sweet soprano voice
singing Trotere's "In Old Madrid." I recognised the clear tones as
those of Ethel.
"Ah, Harold!" she cried, jumping up as I entered the room. "I was
amusing myself until your return. I--I have something to tell you."
"Well, what is it?" I asked, rather surprised.
"Cannot you guess? Dick has asked me to become his wife," she said in a
low tone.
"The thing's impossible!" I cried warmly. "I will not allow it. You
may be friends, but he shall never marry you."
"How cruel you are!" she said, with a touch of sadness. "But, after
all, your apprehensions are groundless. I have refused."
"Refused? Why?"
"For reasons of my own," she replied in a harsh, strained voice. "If--
if he speaks to you, urge him to abandon thoughts of love, and regard me
as a friend only."
"You are at least sensible, Ethel," I said. "It is gratifying to know
that you recognise the impossibility of such an union."
Tears welled in her eyes. She nodded, but did not reply.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A dry, grey day in March. It was "Show Sunday," that institution in the
art world, when the painter opens his studio to his friends and the
public, to show them the picture he is about to send to the Academy.
The exhibition is in many instances but the showing beforehand of the
garlands of victory in a battle which is doomed to be lost, for when the
opening day comes, many of the anxious artists do not have the luck to
see their pictures hung at all. Then insincere admirers smile in their
sleeves at the painter's chagrin. I have always been thankful that the
happy writer of books has no such ordeal to face. He never reads his
new romance to his friends, nor do his well-wishers applaud in advance.
Reviewers have first tilt at "advance copies," and very properly.
From morn till eve on "Show Sunday," Campden Hill is always blocked by
the carriages of the curious, and studios are besieged by fashionable
crowds, whose chatter and laughter mingles pleasantly with the clinking
of tea-cups. On this occasion, as on previous ones, I assisted Dick to
receive his visitors, but unfortunately Ethel had been taken suddenly
unwell, and could not attend.
My anticipations proved correct. "Circe" was voted an unqualified
success. The opinions of critics who dropped in were unanimous that it
was the artist's masterpiece, and that the expression and general
conception were marvellous--a verdict endorsed by gushing society women,
bored club men, and the inane _jeunesse doree_.
A scrap of conversation I overheard in the course of the afternoon,
however, caused me to ponder.
An elderly man, evidently a foreigner, wearing the violet ribbon of the
French Academy in his buttonhole, was standing with a young girl in the
crowd around the easel.
"Why, look, papa! That face!" the girl cried, when her eyes fell upon
the canvas. "It is _her_ portrait! Surely the Signore cannot know!"
"_Dio_!" exclaimed the old man, evidently recognising the features.
"The picture is indeed magnificent; but to think that she should allow
herself to appear in that character! Come away, Zelie; let us go."
I heard no more, for they turned and left. Having acted as
eavesdropper, I could hardly question them. Nevertheless, I was sorely
puzzled.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Look! Read that!"
In surprise I glanced up from my work of romance-weaving on the
following morning, and saw Dick, pale and agitated, standing at my
elbow.
The letter he placed before me was in a woman's hand, and emitted the
faintest breath of violets. A glance was sufficient to recognise that
the sprawly writing was Ethel's.