These mornings in the studio were full of subtleties. Miss Darrow
discovered that Burnett could talk upon many subjects. He had traveled
much in Europe, and could even draw a bold outline for her of the East,
which she had never seen. He talked little of art, and then only when
the subject was introduced by his model. In the rests, which were long,
he led Miss Darrow, often without her being aware of it, down pleasant
lanes of thought, all of which seemed to end abruptly in the garish
sunshine of personality. She did not find it unpleasant; only it seemed
rather surprising the way all formality between them had been banished.
One morning there was a diversion. A clatter on the knocker and Burnett,
frowning, went to the door. Miss Darrow heard a feminine voice and an
exclamation. Burnett went rather hurriedly and stood outside, his hand
upon the door knob. There was a murmur of conversation and a feminine
laugh. She tried not to hear what was said. The hand fidgeted on the
knob, but the murmur of voices continued. Miss Darrow got down from the
throne and moved to the window, adjusting a stray curl as she passed.
She looked away from the mirror, then stopped suddenly and looked again.
When Burnett entered she was sitting in the window-seat, looking out
over the roof-tops. He was profuse in apology. She resumed the pose and
the artist painted silently. "They say there's a pleasure in painting
that only a painter knows," she began.
"Of course."
"Then why do we rest so often? I'm not easily deceived. The fine frenzy
is lacking, Mr. Burnett--isn't it so?"
For reply he held out his paint-smudged hands.
"No--no," she went on. "You're painting timidly with the tips of your
fingers--not in the least like the 'Agatha.' I'm sure you're doing me
early-Victorian."
Burnett stopped painting, looked at his canvas and laughed. "Oh, it's
hardly that," he said.
"Won't you prove it?"
"How?"
"By letting me look." She rose from her chair, got down from the throne
and took a rapid step or two towards the easel. But Burnett's broad
shoulders barred the way.
"Please," she urged.
"I can't, really."
"Why not?" She stood her ground firmly, looking up into his face, but
Burnett did not move or reply.
She settled into the pose again and Burnett went mechanically to
his place before the canvas. Once it seemed as if he were about to
speak--but he thought better of it. He looked down at the mass of color
mingled on the palette. His brush moved slowly on the canvas. At last
it stopped and dropped to his side.
"I can't go on."
She dropped out of the pose. "Are you ill?"
"Oh, no," he laughed. With the setting aside of the brushes and palette,
Burnett seemed to put away the shadow that had been hanging over his
thoughts all the morning. He stood beside her and was looking frankly
into her eyes. She saw something in his that had not been there before,
for she looked away, past the chimneys and apartment houses, past the
clouds, and into the void that was beyond the blue. She had forgotten
his presence, and one of her hands which he held in both of his.
"Perhaps you understand," he said quietly. "Perhaps you know."
The fingers moved slightly, but on the brows a tiny frown was gathering.
He relinquished her hand with a sigh and stood looking rather helplessly
in the direction of the mute and pitiless easel. They were so deep in
thought that neither of them heard the turning of a skeleton key in the
latch and the opening of the door. The Japanese screen for a moment
concealed them from the view of a gentleman who emerged into the
room. Ross Burnett looked up helplessly. It was Mortimer Crabb,
horror-stricken at this violation of his sanctum.
"Ross!" he said, "what on earth----"
Miss Darrow started from her chair, the crimson rushing to her cheeks,
and stood drawing the lace across her shoulders.
Burnett was cool. "Miss Darrow," he asked, "you know Mr. Crabb? He's
studying painting, and--er--sometimes uses this place. Perhaps----"
The words hung on his lips as he realized that Miss Darrow with an
inclination of the head toward the visitor, had vanished into the
dressing-room.
As the door closed words less polite came forth.
But Crabb broke in: "Oh, I say, Ross, you don't mean you've had the
nerve----"
Ross Burnett's brows drew together and his large frame seemed to grow
compact.
"Hush, Mort," he whispered. "You don't understand. You've made an awful
mess of things. Won't you go?"
"But, my dear chap----"
"I'll explain later. But go--please!"
With a glance toward the easel Mortimer Crabb went out.
Ross Burnett closed the door, shot its bolt and put his back against it.
As the clatter of Crabb's boots on the wooden stairs died away on the
lower floor, he gave a sigh, folded his arms and waited.
When Miss Darrow emerged from the dressing-room ready for the street,
she found him there.
"My things are in the portmanteau," she said, icily. "My maid will call
for them. If you will permit me----"
But Burnett did not move.
"Miss Darrow----" he began.
"Will you let me pass?"
"I can't, Miss Darrow--until you hear. I wouldn't have had it happen for
anything in the world."
"I cannot listen. Won't you open the door?"
He bowed his head as though better to receive her reproaches, but he did
not move.
"Oh!" she cried, "how could you!" Her chin was raised, and she glanced
scornfully at him from under her narrowed lids.
"Please," he pleaded, quietly. "If you'll only listen----"
She turned and walked towards the window. "Isn't it punishment enough
for it all to end like this," he went on, "without making it seem as
though I were worse than I am? Really, I'm not as bad as I'm painted."
It was an unfortunate phrase. An awkward silence followed it, in which
he was conscious that Miss Darrow had turned suddenly from the window
and was facing the Thing upon the easel, which was now revealed to them
both in all its uncompromising ugliness. From the center of a myriad of
streaks of paint something emerged. Something in dull tones, staring
like a Gorgon from its muddy illusiveness. To Burnett it had been only a
canvas daubed with infelicitous paint. Now from across the room it
seemed to have put on a smug and scurrilous personality and odiously
leered at him from its unlovely background.
"Don't," cried Burnett. "Don't look at the thing like that."
But the girl did not move. She stood before the easel, her head a little
on one side, her eyes upon the canvas.
"It's really not Victorian, is it?" she asked calmly.
"You _must_ listen!" cried Burnett, leaving his post at the door. "I
insist. You know why I did this mad thing. I've told you. I'd do it
again----"
"I've no doubt you will," she put in scornfully. "It doesn't seem to
have been so difficult."
"It was. The hardest thing I've ever done in my life. You gave me the
chance. I took it. I won't regret it. It was selfish--brutal--anything
you like. But I don't regret--nine wonderful mornings, twenty-seven
precious hours--more, I hope, than you've given any man in your life."
He made one rapid stride and took her in his arms. "I love you,
Millicent, dear. I've loved you from the first moment--there in the
picture gallery. Yes, I'd do it again. Every moment I've blessed the
luck that made it possible. Don't turn away from me. You don't hate me.
I know it. You couldn't help feeling a response to a love like mine." He
held her close to him, raising her head at last until her lips were
level with his own. But he did not touch them. She still struggled
faintly, but she would not open her eyes and look at him.
"No, no, you mustn't," was all that she found strength to say.
"You can't deny it. You do--care for me. Look up at me and tell me so."
She would not look at him and at last struggled away and stood, her
cheeks flaming.
"You are masterful!" she stammered. "A girl is not to be won in this
fashion."
"I love you," he said. "And you----"
"I despise you," she gasped. She turned to the mirror, and rearranged
her disordered hair.
"Don't say that. Won't you forgive me?"
She sank on the model stand and buried her face in her hands. "It was
cruel of you--cruel."
The sight of her distress unnerved him and gave him for the first time a
new view of the enormity of his offense. It was her pride that was
wounded. It was the thought of what Mortimer Crabb might think of her
that had wrought the damage. He bent over her, his fingers nearly
touching her, yet restrained by a delicacy and a new tenderness
begotten by the thought that it was he alone who had caused her
unhappiness.
"Forgive me," he whispered. "I'm sorry."
And she only repeated. "What can he think of me? What can he think?"
Burnett straightened, a new thought coming to him. It seemed like an
inspiration--a stroke of genius.
"Of course," he said, calmly, "you're hopelessly compromised. He must
think what he pleases. There's only one thing to do."
She arose and breathlessly asked, "What _can_ I do? How can I----"
"Marry me--at once."
"Oh!"
She spoke the word slowly--wonderingly--as if the idea had never occurred
to her before. He had left the way to the door unguarded, but instead she
walked toward the window, and looked out over the roof-tops. To Burnett
the silence was burdened with meaning, and he broke it timorously.
"Won't you--won't you, Millicent, dear?"
Her voice trembled a little when she replied: "There is one thing more
important than that--than anything else in the world to me."
At her side his eyes questioned mutely.
"And that?" he asked at last.
"My reputation," she whispered.
He stood a second studying her face, for his happiness grew upon him
slowly. But behind the crooked smile which was half-hidden from him, he
caught the dawn of a new light that he understood. He took her in his
arms then, and wondered how it was that he had not kissed her when her
lips had been so close before. But the new wonder that came to them both
made them willing to forget that there had ever been anything else
before.
Later, Ross, unable to credit his good fortune and marveling at the
intricacies of the feminine mind, asked her a question. Her reply caused
him more amazement:
"Poor, foolish, Slovenly Peter! I saw it by accident in the mirror a
week ago."
So it was Mortimer Crabb after all who made the opportunity; for Miss
Darrow smilingly admitted that had it not been for his abrupt entrance
at that precise psychological moment, she should now have been in Aiken
and Ross on the way to the Antipodes. But Patricia was doubly happy; for
had she not circumvented her own husband in opening the studio he had
forsworn, the veritable chamber of Bluebeard which had been bolted
against her? Had she not browsed away among the gods of his youth to her
heart's content and made that sacred apartment the vestibule of Paradise
for at least two discontented mortals whose hearts were now beating as
one?