"Dear Dick,--_I regret to tell you that circumstances preclude me from
ever meeting you again. I am going far away, where you cannot find
me. It was foolish for us to have loved, therefore forget me. That
you may meet some one far worthier than myself, and that `Circe' may
bring you fame and fortune, is the most sincere hope of your models_.
"Ethel."
"I warned you against your infatuation, old fellow," I said seriously.
"But I couldn't help it. I--I loved her," he answered in a hoarse,
trembling voice.
"Forget her," I argued. "She is worthless and vain; why make yourself
miserable?"
"Ah, you are right!" he said, as if suddenly impressed by the force of
my arguments, while his face assumed a hard, determined expression.
"She is Circe indeed, and she had her foot upon my neck. But it is all
over," he added bitterly. "I shall think no more of her."
Then he wished me an abrupt farewell, and left, apparently in order to
conceal his emotion.
That evening I called at Dick's house, but was informed by his
housekeeper that he had packed his bag and departed, stating that he
would not return for at least a month, perhaps longer. When I entered
the studio, gloomy in the twilight, I was astonished to find that the
"Circe" had been removed from the easel, and that it was standing in a
corner with its face to the wall.
Something prompted me to turn it, and when I did so, I discovered to my
dismay that in his frenzy of mad despair he had taken a brushful of
black paint and drawn it across the face, making a great, ugly,
disfiguring daub over the forehead and eyebrows, utterly ruining the
features, and producing a curiously forbidding effect.
The colour was not dry, therefore I was enabled to remove the greater
portion of it with a silk handkerchief, but I saw with regret that the
tints of the forehead had been irretrievably ruined, rendering the
picture valueless.
The days went by. The limit for sending in to the Academy was
approaching; but Dick did not write, and I could only wonder vaguely
where he was wandering. It was a great pity, I thought, that such a
fine work should not be exhibited. Yet the wilful obliteration had
utterly spoiled it.
While sitting in his studio musing one day, it suddenly occurred to me
that if the flaw upon the forehead could be hidden, it might, after all,
be sent for the inspection of the hanging committee.
Taking it up, I examined it minutely in the light. The idea of placing
a half-mask upon the face suggested itself, and without delay I
proceeded to carry it into effect. The little skill with the brush that
I possess enabled me to paint in the half-lights upon the black silk,
and the laughing eyes being fortunately intact, I allowed them to peer
through the apertures.
The effect produced was startling, and none could have been more
astonished at the result of my daubing than myself. The mask seemed to
increase the reckless _diablerie_ of its wearer, and enhance the
fairness of the complexion, while it added an air of mystery not at all
unpleasing to the eye.
A few days later, I dispatched it to the Academy, and waited patiently
for the opening day, when I experienced the mingled surprise and
satisfaction of seeing it hung "upon the line."
The "Masked Circe" was pronounced one of the pictures of the year.
Thousands admired it. The papers were full of laudatory notices; but
the man who painted it, unaware of the fame he had suddenly achieved,
was hiding his sorrow somewhere in the Vosges. A stray copy of an
English newspaper containing a notice of his work, which Dick picked up
in a hotel, however, caused him to return.
He burst into my room unceremoniously one morning, still attired in his
travelling ulster. I saw that he was haggard-eyed and wild-looking.
From his conversation, I knew that time had not healed the wound in his
heart.
"I shall never be able to thank you sufficiently, old chap, for touching
up my daub. It seems that the public admire _her_ as much as I have
done. I--I shall find her some day; then she will return to me."
"Still thinking of her?" I observed reproachfully.
"Yes; always, always," he replied, shaking his head sorrowfully. "I--I
cannot forget."
Dick's popularity steadily increased; lucrative commissions poured in
upon him, and he settled down to such hard, methodical work, that I
began to think he had forgotten the woman who had enmeshed him.
With beaming face he came to me one summer's morning and announced that,
although the committee of the Chantrey Bequest had offered to purchase
the "Masked Circe," he had just received a letter from the Count di
Sestri, the well-known Anglo-Italian millionaire and art patron, saying
that he desired to buy it, and asking him to go down to Oxted Park, his
seat in Surrey, to arrange the price.
"I am going to-day," he said. "You masked her, and it is only fair that
you should have a word in the bargain. You must come too."
At first I hesitated, but at length acquiesced.
That evening the Count received us in the library of his country
mansion, and congratulated Dick warmly upon his masterpiece. It was
evident that he meant to secure it at any cost, therefore the price was
soon arranged; and before we had been there half an hour, my companion
had a cheque for four figures in his pocket.
We were about to make our adieux, but the Count would not hear of it.
"Dinner will be ready almost immediately," he said. "You must stay. We
are quite _en famille_, you know. Only my wife and I."
A few moments later the door opened, and there was the rustle of a
silken train.
"Ah, here's the Countess!" exclaimed the millionaire, stepping forward
to introduce us.
We turned, and saw a pale, beautiful woman, attired in a handsome
dinner-gown.
"Ethel! You?" we both cried in amazement.
"Dick!" she gasped. "You--you have found me!"
She reeled backwards, and before we could save her, fell senseless to
the floor.
A few words of excuse and explanation, and we left the Count, who,
kneeling beside his wife and endeavouring to resuscitate her, was
completely mystified at the strange recognition. Dick, almost beside
himself with grief at discovering his idol already married, returned at
once to London, while I remained at an inn at Oxted in order to glean
some further information.
Inquiries showed that the Count had met her while travelling in America,
and had married her. Since that time they had apparently lived happily,
and not a breath of scandal had besmirched her fair name. The reason
she always refused us her address was now clear; and it was evident
that, while in residence at her London house in Park Lane, she had been
in the habit of paying us visits unknown to her husband, assuming the
character of an unmarried and flighty _Bohemienne_.
On the following day I called at the Park to inquire after the
Countess's health.
The footman looked pale and grave when I asked after her ladyship.
"I much regret to inform you, sir, that my mistress is dead," he said.
"Dead?" I cried. "Impossible!"
"Yes, sir. Her maid discovered her in her boudoir late last night, and
found that she had taken an overdose of morphia. We sent for the
doctor, but before his arrival life was extinct. The Count is insane
with grief, more especially because the maid discovered that her
ladyship had left a letter to some man she calls Dick, telling him that
she loved him, and could live no longer."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dick rarely smiles, and is invariably gloomy and sad, poor fellow. The
Count, ignorant of the truth, has hung his latest purchase in the
private gallery of his great palace in Rome, little dreaming that the
"Masked Circe" is actually the picture of his dead wife.