An hour later Julian Goetze was standing alone in his studio. The sketch
fresh from his brush was before him, and beneath it, resting upon the
floor, was another somewhat farther advanced.
He had painted until the light had begun to grow yellow and dim, then he
had reluctantly told his sitter that he could do no more for that day.
"And when shall I come again?" she had asked.
He would have said, "Come to-morrow," had he dared; but remembering
other engagements, and knowing that the work could not be continued so
soon, he had hesitated before replying.
"I can go on with the picture in two or three days; come as soon after
that as--as you wish," he said, softly.
Their eyes met for a moment; the delicate color deepened in her cheeks,
her lips murmured a half inaudible word of adieu, and she was gone.
Julian left alone had flung himself into a large chair that stood near
the window, and looked out upon the little garden beyond. It was June.
The days were long and the sun was still touching the tops of the locust
trees. He was away from the bustle of the city, and an atmosphere of
peace almost like that of the country was about him. All at once he
covered his face with his hands, pressing his fingers hard into his
eyes.
"I love her, I love her," he groaned; "she is an angel from heaven, and
I--oh, my God! if she knew she would hate me."
He rose and stood before the face on the easel; then, as if suddenly
recollecting, he approached the canvas that was turned face to the wall,
and which once before that day had claimed his attention, and, facing it
nervously about, placed it beneath the other.
It was the portrait of a woman. Like the one above her, she was fair and
beautiful; but here all resemblance apparently ceased. Nothing could be
more widely different than the characters that had stamped themselves
upon the faces of these two.
The picture on the floor was that of a woman whose age might be anywhere
from twenty-five to thirty-five; a woman of the great world of fashion,
of folly, of intrigue, perhaps of vice. Her dress was a rich ball
costume, exposing the white flesh of her beautiful arms, her perfect
shoulders, and her pearly tinted throat and bosom. Like the other, her
face was oval in shape, but seemed less perfect in its contour. There
was a certain lack of delicacy and softness about the outline that
suggested the fierce chase after the sham pleasures of the great social
world.
The rest of the features were in harmony with this idea. The beautiful
mouth was hard and cruel. The lips and cheeks were bright as if
artificially tinted, or flushed with wine. The eyes were bold and the
pupils seemed expanded as with belladonna. The nostrils of the finely
shaped nose were full and sensual. Her luxuriant brown hair, singularly
like that of the portrait above her in color, she wore in the late
French mode, combed back from her high, broad forehead and twisted into
a massive device at the top. Her eyebrows were unnaturally dark. An
artificial air pervaded the entire picture--one felt that she had an
artificial soul. A perfect prototype of Folly's feverish and heartless
world.
As the artist stood gazing from one to the other, the curious vexed and
puzzled expression that had come into his face once before that day
returned. He approached closely to the work as if to examine it more
minutely. As he bent low over the face on the easel he heard the street
door open. He started guiltily, and hastily turned both pictures to the
wall. A moment later a tall, fair-haired man of about his own age
entered without knocking. It was Harry Lawton, the artist's most
intimate friend.
"Julian, old boy, how goes it?" he said, cheerily.
"Pretty well, Harry; come in."
"Yes, I should do that any way. I don't seem to be any too welcome,
however."
"Nonsense, Harry, of course you are welcome; I am very glad, in fact, to
see you, just now.
"Well, that's better; although I must say your face doesn't indicate
excessive joy."
"Sit down; not there--here by the door; I want to show you something."
"Oh, some new and wonderful work of your transcendent genius, I suppose.
By the way, how is the picture for the Salon getting along?"
"Tediously, Harry; I seem to have lost the spirit of the thing."
"Found too much spirit of another kind, perhaps."
"No, not that. I have been a model of abstinence of late."
"And the heavens do not fall?
"No--yes--that is--let your tongue rest for a moment, please, and use
your eyes."
While the artist had been speaking he had taken the large screen from
before the window and moved his easel into a stronger light. Upon it he
now placed the two portraits in their former position. The effect upon
the other was vigorous and immediate.
"Heavens! Julian, where did you get that angel and that dev--I beg
pardon, that extraordinary pair of beauties? Oh, I see!--why, of course!
a new idea for the Salon. A modern Guinevere and Elaine; Siren and
Saint; Sense and Innocence. I congratulate you, old boy; they are
wonderful"--
"Please be quiet for a moment, Harry; they are not for the Salon. They
are two sitters of mine. The one beneath has been here twice--the first
time about a week ago; the second time day before yesterday. The other
came for the first time to-day."
"And they are real, live women, then?"
"Yes. I was in hopes you might recognize one or both of them."
The other shook his head, and gazed from one to the other in silence.
"Do you see any--any resemblance between them?" asked the artist, after
a pause.
"Resemblance! Good Lord, no! Why? Are they related in any way?"
"Not that I am aware of; in fact, I am quite sure they are not. She told
me she had no relatives."
"Um--and which do you refer to as she?"
"Oh, the upper one, of course."
"Well, I don't see any 'of course' about it. She was here to-day for
the first time. I don't see why she should begin by exchanging family
confidences. All things considered, I should have thought it more than
likely you referred to the other. However, I suppose you are familiar
with her family history, too."
"Don't be sarcastic, Harry. I know nothing of either of them; at least
not in that way. The one who came first gave her name as Evelin March.
She came in suddenly, one morning last week, and asked for a sitting.
She had on a light wrap, which she laid off and stood before me as you
see her. During the sitting she was inclined to be lively and talkative.
Her voice is just a trifle harsh, but she is a remarkably brilliant
talker and a very fascinating woman. I had not met the other, then, and
foolishly allowed myself to say some rather silly things to her. When
she came again I did more. You know what a rash fool I am, Harry. Well,
I made love to her, off-hand. She stirred me up terribly for some
reason. Of course, there was nothing of real love in what I felt for
her; it was a brief madness of the head. You know about what I would say
under the circumstances."
"Oh, perfectly. You swore that her eyes were as are lights in a midnight
desert; that her tints would rival the roseate pearl of a June sunset;
that her smiles would be your only diet henceforth and forever; that her
frown would be as terrible as the day of judgment. And now what has the
other one to do with it?"
"Lawton, you will think I am crazy, and I am, perhaps--but I love her;
and more than that, I believe she loves me. No word of it has passed
between us, but--we understand."
"Oh, we do, eh? We--we understand," imitated Lawton. "Well, this is
exceedingly interesting, I must say, although quite the thing to be
expected from one of your temperament. How very fortunate you are in the
choice of subjects, too."
"What do you mean, Harry?"
"Well, I should judge you might divide up your affections on those two
without any serious confliction of sentiments."
"You are mistaken, though; I do not care for Evelin March at all, now. I
am sorry I ever met her. I shall stop this foolish flirtation with her,
at once."
"Quite likely. And when does Evelin come again?"
"To-morrow, perhaps."
"So; well, I'll just drop in to-morrow evening for the latest. Evelin
seems to be a trifle outclassed just at present."
"Harry, you are unkind. I tell you I love that innocent girl on the
easel there and mean to marry her."
"Oh, of course; I haven't the least doubt of it. And now, what about the
resemblance?"
"Why, look! do you see their hair? The shade of each is exactly the
same--the same silkiness and glow through it; it is very peculiar. And
notice the ear; the outline and formation of each is identical. You may
not have noticed these things as I have, but it is very rare that the
ear is anatomically the same in two people. There is a similarity, too,
about the oval of the face, although less marked and not unusual; and
there is a faint suggestion of something else, which I feel but cannot
locate. I noticed these things, and they struck me at once as being a
tie of kinship. I hinted, in a miserably awkward manner, as to relatives
who might be having their portraits painted. It was then she told me
that she had no relatives, and I believe started to tell me she had no
friends, but she hesitated and was near bursting into tears. From that
moment I loved her; I shall love her always."
"Charming, Julian. And yet I fancy she is not wholly alone in the world.
A beautiful and affluent maiden is not calculated to be friendless; and
you will admit that one who is able to gratify a passing impulse for one
of Julian Paul Goetze's justly celebrated portraits is not likely to be
destitute. Still, I will allow that there are cases, even among the
wealthy, that are not entirely undeserving of sympathy; and, if I may
judge from this incipient work of your magic brush, I think I should be
willing to lavish any amount of that article on its original. However,
you haven't told me her name as yet; I trust it is not disappointing."
"I do not even know it myself. She gave me her card; I laid it down and
haven't thought of it since."
"Well, really, if your love is no greater than your curiosity, your case
does not present any very alarming features, as yet."
The artist had approached a small table in the center of the room, from
which he now picked up a slip of white pasteboard and held it to the
light, then he started a little and was silent.
"Well?" said his friend, inquiringly; "is it Mary Mullally or Nancy
Muggins?"
The artist turned to the table again and selected another card, somewhat
larger, from a little silver tray; then he returned to Lawton and held
them before him, one above the other, like the pictures. On the lower
one, written in a bold, dashing hand, were the words: