He went home with love's fever in his veins. She had promised to help
him, and surely there was only one way. He wrote her an ardent note,
and an hour later his messenger brought her reply.
"Believe me, I never dreamed of this, and you know what my answer must
be; but I do not need to tell you that whatever sincere and honest
friendship can offer is already yours.
"With deep regret, I am as ever,
"CONSTANCE GREY."
The grim humour of the thing stunned him momentarily and he laughed
harshly. Then he flung himself down in a passion of grief. In the
morning he took pen and paper again, after a night of sleepless
distress.
"You cannot mean what you say. That white womanly soul of yours
must wake to love me some day. You have stood between me and the
depths, and there has been no shame in the life that I offer you,
since you came into it.
"Oh, you perfect thing, you perfect thing, you don't know what you
are to me! Constance, let me come!"
The answer was promptly forthcoming:
"I cannot promise what you ask, but you may come and see me if you
wish."
Pale with expectancy, Hayward was only the ghost of himself when the
servant admitted him. He had waited but a moment when Constance entered
the room wearing the gown in which he had first seen her. He rose to
meet her, but she came and sat down by his side.
"Listen," she said, "and I will tell you how I feel. I am twenty-five
and I have never 'cared.' I do not believe that I ever shall care, for
the love that we read of is almost incomprehensible to me. You cannot
marry such a woman."
His answer was fervent, his words crowded one upon another in a
vehement flood, and his voice was low and hoarse with pent-up
emotion, as he implored her to believe in him, trust him, and be his
wife,--kneeling at her feet and kissing her hands in abject humility.
It was very hard for her to say what she must, but with an effort she
rose and drew away from him.
"I must be true to myself and to you," she said, "and I can say nothing
but the old bitter No."
White and wretched, he went away, leaving her white and wretched behind
him.
For days and weeks thereafter, Hayward painted busily. Jennings went to
see him one afternoon.
"Look here, old fellow," he said, "what's the matter? I know I was
ungentlemanly about the handkerchief, but that's no reason why you
should cut us all this way. Can't you forget about it?"
"Why, Jennings, old boy, I haven't cut anybody."
"No, but you've tired of us, and you can't hide it. Come down the river
with us to-night. The fellows have got a yacht, and we'll have supper
on board with plenty of champagne. Won't you come?"
Hayward was seriously tempted. He knew what "the time" would mean--the
ecstasy of it and the dull penalties which would follow. But that day
by the river came into his memory: a sweet sunlit face, and a woman's
voice saying to him: "When a man's art is true, it is because he
himself is true."
"Jennings," he said, "do I look like a man who would make good company
at a champagne supper? You know what's the matter with me. Why don't
you just sensibly drop me?"
Jennings begged, and mocked, and bullied, all in a good-natured way,
but his friend was firm. When he went out, Hayward locked the studio
door and drew his half finished picture from behind a screen.
"She was right," he said to himself.
Constance sailed. He dreamed of his picture as being hung in the Salon,
and of her seeing it there. By and by it was finished, but the artist's
strength was gone, and his physician ordered him away from his work.
When he returned, restored to health, the picture was placed on
exhibition. Crowds thronged the gallery, columns and pages were written
in its praise, and astonishing prices were offered for it, but the
picture was not for sale. It, too, crossed the water, and the dream
which had comforted him for many months at last came true.
When Constance looked upon Hayward's painting, her heart leaped as
if it would leave her breast. White, radiant, and glorified, it was
she herself who stood in the centre of the canvas. That self-reliant,
fearless pose seemed to radiate infinite calm. Behind her raged the
powers of darkness, utterly helpless to pass the line on which she
stood. Her face seemed to illumine the shadows around her; her figure
was instinct with grace and strength. Below the picture was the name:
_The White Shield_.
The beauty of the conception dawned upon her slowly. Pale and
trembling, she stood there, forgetful of the place, and the throng
around her. At length she knew what she meant to him; that his art at
last rang true because he had loved her enough to be a man for her sake.
She dared not linger before it then, but she came again when the place
was empty, and stood before her lover's work, like one in a dream. The
fiends in the shadow showed her the might of the temptations he had
fought down. She gazed at her own glorified face until her eyes filled
with tears. With a great throb which was almost pain, Constance woke to
the knowledge that she loved him, even as he loved her--well enough to
stand between him and danger till she herself should fall.
The old grey guard, passing through the room, saw her upturned face in
that moment of exaltation. It was the same that he saw in the picture
above, and he quietly went away to wait until Constance came out, her
face flushed and her eyes shining like stars, before he locked the door.
That night the cable trembled with a message to America. It reached
Hayward the next morning as he sat reading the daily paper. The
envelope fluttered unheeding to the floor, and his face grew tender
then radiant as he read the few words which told him that his picture
had rewarded his love.
"Wait," he said to the messenger boy. Hurriedly he wrote the answer:
"Sailing next steamer"--then, utterly oblivious of the additional
expense, he added another word, which must have been very expressive,
for Constance turned crimson when it reached her--perhaps because the
discerning genius who copies cablegrams in typewriting had put the last
word in capitals, thinking that the message came from a Mr. Darling.