THE IMAGE OF BEAUTIFUL SIN.
In his fashionable apartments, Willard Frost walked back and forth
in his loose dressing-gown. Rustling about the room, his softly
slippered feet making no noise on the floor, he moved like a refined
tiger--looked like “some enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked
sort, in story, whose periodical change into tiger from man was either
just going off or just coming on.”
A good opportunity for consideration, surrounded by the advantages of
solitude. He moved from end to end of his voluptuous room, looking now
and again at a picture which hung just above a Persian couch, covered
with a half dozen embroidered pillows.
What unmanageable thoughts ran riot in his head, as he surveyed the
superb image and thought that only one thing was wanting--the breath of
life--for which he had waited through all these months.
For two heavy hours he walked and thought; now he would heave a long,
low sigh, then hold his breath again.
When at last he dropped down upon his soft bed, he lay and wondered if
the world would go his way--the way of his love for a woman.
* * * * * *
Cherokee met Willard Frost on Broadway the next morning--he had started
to see her.
“Let me go back with you and we will lunch together--what do you say?”
he proposed.
“Very well, for I am positively worn out to begin with the day, and a
rest with you will refresh me,” she said sweetly.
They took the first car down town and went to a café for lunch. Willard
laughed mischievously as he glanced down the wine list on the menu card.
“What will you have to-day?”
“What I usually take,” she answered, in the same playful mood.
“I received that perplexing note of yours, but don’t quite interpret
it,” he began, taking it from his pocket and reading:
‘DEAR MR. FROST:
I am anxious to sit for the picture at once. Of course you will
never speak of it. Don’t let anyone know it.
Yours, in confidence,
CHEROKEE.’
“It is very plain,” she pouted. “Don’t you remember I had told you I was
going to have my portrait made for Mrs. Stanhope on her birthday. That
doesn’t come just yet, in fact it is three months off, but you know
we are going to ‘Frisco’ for the winter, and there isn’t much time to
lose; I have been busy two months making preparations.”
“What! Are you going, too? I was thinking a foolish thought,” he
sighed. “I was thinking maybe you would remain here while they were
away.”
“Not for anything; I have been planning and looking forward to this
trip a whole year.” She seemed perfectly elated at the thought.
“There is nothing to induce you to remain?”
“Nothing,” she answered, with emphasis.
“I have an aunt with whom you could stay, and we could learn much of
each other. Do stay,” he insisted.
“I must go, though I shall not forget you in the ‘winter of our
content.’”
“That’s very kind, I am sure, but I have set my heart on seeing you
during the entire season, for Milburn, poor boy, is so hard at work he
will not intrude upon my time often. Besides, he is getting careless
of late--doesn’t want society. The fact is, I believe he is profoundly
discouraged. This work of art is a slow and tedious one. But he keeps
on at it, except when he has been drinking too heavily.”
“Drinking! Mr. Frost, you surely are misinformed; Robert never drinks.”
Her manner was dignified, though she did not seem affected, for she was
too certain there was some mistake.
“I hope I have been,” he said, simply.
He saw at once that she would not believe him. For love to her meant
perfect trust; faith in the beloved against all earth or heaven.
Whoever dared to traduce him would be consumed in the lightning of her
luminous scorn, yet win for him, her lover, a tenderer devotion.
“So you are going to ‘Frisco,’ and I cannot see you for three long
months? Well, I must explain something,” he began. “It is rather
serious, it didn’t start out so, but is getting very serious. I got
your note about the money more than a week ago--” His voice trembled,
broke down, then mastering himself, he went on, “I could not meet the
demand. Ah, if I could only get the model I wanted, I could paint a
picture whose loveliness none but the blind could dispute--a picture
that would bring more than three times the amount I owe you.”
He watched the girl eagerly, the while soft sensations and vague
desires thrilled him.
Wasn’t it a wonder that something did not tell him, “It is monstrous,
inhuman to thus prey upon the credulity of an impulsive, over sensitive
nature.” Not when it is learned that whatever of heart, conscience,
manliness, courage, reverence, charity, nature had endowed him at his
birth, had been swallowed up in that one quality--selfishness.
“I wish I could help you,” Cherokee said timidly, “for I need the
money. All I had has gone for my winter wardrobe.”
“Then I will tell you how to help us both. The model I want is
yourself.” He spoke bravely now.
“Me?”
“Yes, if you will let me, I can do us both justice, and you will be
counted the dream of all New York.”
She listened to his speech like the bird that flutters around the
dazzling serpent; she was fascinated by this dangerous man, and neither
able nor honestly willing to escape.
“Besides, I will make your portrait for Mrs. Stanhope free of charge,”
was the artist’s afterthought.
“I could not accept so much from you,” she answered, promptly.
“I offered it by way of rewarding your own generosity, but come, say
you will pose for me anyhow.”
She regarded him frankly and without embarrassment.
“I will if it is perfectly proper for me to do so. Surely, though, you
would not ask me to do it if it were wrong.”
“Not for the world,” he replied magnanimously. “It is entirely proper,
many a lady comes there alone. ‘In art there is no sex, you know.’”
“But I am not prepared now, how should I be dressed?”
“In a drapery, and I have all that is necessary. Say you will go,” he
pleaded.
She hesitated a moment.
“Well, I will,” was the unfortunate answer.
Within an hour, master and model entered the studio.
“Now, first of all,” observed the master, “you must lay aside all
reserve or foolish timidity, remembering the purity of art, and have
but one thought--the completion of it. In that room to your right you
will find everything that is needed, and over the couch is a study by
which you may be guided in draping yourself.”
As the door closed behind Cherokee, Willard Frost caught a glimpse of a
beautiful figure, “The Nymph of the Stream.” He listened for a couple
of minutes or more, expecting or fearing she would be shocked at
first, but as there was no such evidence he had no further misgivings.
A thousand beautiful visions floated voluptuously through the thirsting
silence. They flushed him as in the wakening strength of wine. And his
body, like the sapless bough of some long-wintered tree, suddenly felt
all pulses thrilling.
His hot lips murmured, “Victory is mine. Aye, life is beautiful, and
earth is fair.”
Then the door opened and the model entered. She did not speak but stood
straight and silent, her hands hanging at her side with her palms
loosely open--the very abandonment of pathetic helplessness.
The master drew nearer and put out his hands. “Cherokee,” he said.
But he was suddenly awed by a firm “Stop there! I have always tried to
be pure-minded, high-souled, sinless, but all this did not shield me
from insult,” she cried, with a look of self-pitying horror.
[Illustration: “But he was suddenly awed by a firm ‘Stop there!’” Page
50.]
He drew back, and his temper mounted to white heat, but he managed to
preserve his suave composure.
“My dear girl, you misunderstand me; art makes its own plea for pardon.
You are not angry, are you?”
She looked straight at him, her bosom rose and fell with her quick
breathing, and there was such an eloquent scorn in her face that he
winced under it, as though struck by a scourge.
“You are not worth my anger; one must have something to be angry with,
and you are nothing--neither man, nor beast, for men are brave and
beasts tell no lies. Out of my way, coward!”
And she stood waiting for him to obey, her whole frame vibrating
with indignation like a harp struck too roughly. The air of absolute
authority with which she spoke, stung him even through his hypocrisy
and arrogance. He bit his lips and attempted to speak again, but she
was gone from the studio.
Every step of her way she saw a serpent crawl back and forth across her
hurried path, and she mused to herself: “Let him keep the money, my
virtue is worth more to me than all that glitters or is gold.”