THE PORTRAIT.
Sprague was seated before his easel arranging his palette for the
morning's work. The unfinished portrait of Agnes Murdock looked down
upon him with eyes of living beauty. Occasionally the artist would
bestow a deft touch upon the glowing canvas and would retire to a
distance to note with a critical eye the new effect. Then he would
consult his watch in nervous impatience; and, going to the window, he
would glance anxiously up and down the street. Once or twice the rumble
of wheels caused him to look up in glad expectancy, which gradually
gave way to gloomy discontent as the noise died away in the distance.
At length hope seemed to depart altogether from the young man's breast.
He threw down his brushes, gave up all pretence of work and drifted off
into a brown study. His eyes, fixed upon those of the portrait, had
a troubled look in them;--so troubled, that it was clearly out of all
proportion to the professional disappointment of a painter kept waiting
for a fair subject.
So absorbed did he become in his gloomy meditations, that, when at last
a carriage stopped before the house, the artist did not hear it. But
when, presently, a gentle tap sounded upon the door of the studio, he
sprang to his feet, as if he had received an electric shock.
Perhaps he had; for it was followed by a rapid current of delicious
thrills tingling through every nerve and effecting in his whole being
a sudden and marvelous transformation. At once the furrowed brow was
smooth; the drooping lips were wreathed in smiles; the troubled look
gave way to one of glad welcome.
For she had come at last. There she stood, with laughing brown eyes and
glowing cheeks, when Sprague threw open the door. Alas, as usual, she
was accompanied by her maid. Never mind; was it not enough to have her
there at all, to bask in the sunshine of her smile, to look into the
dangerous depths of those soul-stirring eyes, to listen to the rippling
of her silvery voice?
"I fear I am a little late, Mr. Sprague; I am so sorry to have kept you
waiting. But you see this is how it was----"
What mattered it to him now how it was? Was she not there? An eternity
of suspense and misery would have been wiped out by that single
entrancing fact. Her words beat upon his ear like rapturous melody; he
drank them in, hardly conscious of their meaning.
Agnes Murdock, followed by her maid, proceeded at once to the
dressing-room set apart for the use of the artist's models. When
she returned, dressed for the sitting, she assumed under Sprague's
directions the pose of the portrait, while the artist critically
arranged her draperies and adjusted the shades and screens.
The maid had remained in the dressing-room.
"And so these are positively the last final touches, are they, Mr.
Sprague?" asked the young girl mischievously, after a few minutes. "You
artists seem to be quite as uncertain about your farewell appearances
as any famous actress or singer."
The artist looked up quickly as the girl spoke. An expression of pain
crossed his features.
"Yes, Miss Murdock," he answered gravely. "I shall not have to trouble
you to pose again."
Miss Murdock's attention was attracted by the melancholy note in his
voice. She observed him from the corner of her eyes in kindly curiosity.
The artist fell into a moody silence. For a while he worked with
feverish activity at the portrait; and then, gradually falling into
a fit of melancholy abstraction, he sat, with poised brush, gazing
intently at the beautiful girl before him. His task forgotten, he was
apparently unconscious that he was taking advantage of his privileged
position to stare at his fair subject. Agnes felt his burning glance
and was embarrassed by it; but, womanlike, she retained control of
herself, outwardly, at all events, as she uttered some commonplace
remark, which broke the spell and brought the artist to his senses with
a sharp consciousness of his rudeness. He replied to the young girl's
question in a low, changed voice, and then relapsed into a gloomy
silence. After an awkward interval he asked suddenly:
"Are you so very glad, Miss Murdock, that our sittings are almost
over?"
"Why, no, Mr. Sprague," replied Agnes; "I did not mean that. Of course
I shall be glad when the portrait is finished, because I wish to have
it home and to let my friends see it. But I should be indeed ungrateful
if I begrudged my poor little time and trouble, when yours have been so
lavishly and so ungrudgingly spent."
"These sittings have been a source of so much pleasure to me,"
continued Sprague thoughtfully, "that I have selfishly overlooked the
fact that they could only be an annoyance and a bore to you. I fear I
have needlessly prolonged them."
"But indeed, Mr. Sprague, I assure you it has been anything but a bore
to me to pose. I am sure I shall miss the pleasant morning hours I have
spent here."
"They have been the happiest hours of my life," said Sprague earnestly
in a low voice, "and now they are nearly gone----forever."
Agnes started slightly, blushed, and riveted her gaze upon the dainty
white hands which lay clasped together in her lap. Her bosom rose and
fell in quickened undulations.
"Why forever, Mr. Sprague?" she asked softly; "do you think of leaving
New York?"
"No," he replied quickly; "it is you who are about to desert this
studio, which for a short time has been brightened by your presence----"
"Well," interrupted Agnes, "since you are not going to leave New York,
I hope you will continue to call on us."
"I suppose I shall continue to call on your reception days, if that is
what you mean," said Sprague somewhat disconsolately.
"Now that," laughed Agnes, "is not in line with the polite things you
have been saying."
"I did not mean to say anything rude, Miss Murdock, but a call on your
reception day is a call on your guests. Surrounded as you are on such
occasions, one has barely a chance to catch a glimpse of you, much less
to speak with you."
"We are always glad to see our friends at other times than on our
reception days."
"Do you really mean it?" asked the artist eagerly. "May I call on you
sometimes when the crowd is not there?"
"We shall be happy to have you call at any time, Mr. Sprague."
Sprague thought he detected a slight emphasis on the pronoun.
"But it is not _we_ I wish to call on. It is _you_, Miss Murdock."
Once more the young girl's expressive eyes fixed their gaze upon
the delicate hands in her lap, and once more there was a scarcely
perceptible flutter beneath the lace which lay upon her white throat.
The artist sat with intent eyes fixed upon her.
"Of course I shall be pleased to have you call at any time, Mr.
Sprague," she said after a brief instant.
What more could any sane man expect a modest girl to say? It is not so
much the words spoken as the manner of their utterance that conveys
meaning. But it is a truism that a lover is not a sane man. Sprague was
not yet satisfied. He was about to speak again, when a knock sounded
upon the door.
It was the hall-boy with a letter.
"Miss Murdock?" he inquired, glancing in the direction of the young
girl.
"For me?" exclaimed Agnes, surprised.
"Yes, Miss; a gentleman left it for you."
Agnes took the letter, inspected it curiously for an instant; then,
excusing herself, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the note
which it contained.
At once a deep flush suffused her face, and an expression of annoyance
passed over her features. She glanced up hastily at Sprague, who was
apparently hard at work upon the background of the picture.
The hall-boy was waiting expectantly.
"There is no answer," said Agnes quietly.
And as the stern mandates of fashion either forbid a woman to wear a
pocket, or else decree that it shall be located in some practically
inaccessible position, the young girl dropped the letter and its
envelope into her lap and resumed the pose.
Sprague tried to renew the conversation where it had been interrupted;
but his efforts were in vain. Both he and Agnes were preoccupied during
the balance of the sitting.
When at last the time came for Miss Murdock to leave, Sprague
accompanied her to her carriage. After watching it until it disappeared
around the corner, he returned moodily to the studio.
As he entered the room, his eyes fixed in a vacant stare upon the
floor, he caught sight of something white--a sheet of paper--resting
there. Mechanically he pushed it to one side with his foot.
The sunshine seemed to have gone with Agnes Murdock. A gloom had fallen
upon the place and its occupant. The artist tried to work; but he was
restless and depressed. At length he threw down his brushes; and rising
from the easel, he put on his hat and coat and started out for a walk,
in the hope that exercise would drive away the blue devils whose grip
he felt tightening upon his heartstrings.
Meeting some friends in the course of his aimless wanderings, he was
persuaded to spend the rest of the day in their company, and returned
to his bachelor quarters late in the evening, tired enough physically
to obtain that healthful sleep which is the boon of strong youth.