occurred to him during the wakeful hours of the night, but which he
had felt he should hardly have courage for. This was that she should
come every day and give him sittings for a new picture he had in mind.
When he suggested it, to his delight she caught eagerly at the idea,
accepting every word he said in absolute good faith, and showing no
disposition to doubt when he told her that every hour would be many
times more valuable so spent than in sewing, as good models were rare
and very well paid. She thanked him with the simplest gratitude, and
when she heard that she would be allowed to bring her child with her she
promised to come the next morning to his studio. The baby, she said, was
better now, and would sleep for hours at a time, and in the afternoon
she could take him on the water as usual. It was evident that there was
no one else who made any demand upon her time--a significant fact to
Noel.
Accordingly, next morning she came, her baby in her arms as usual. She
had made an effort to dress herself attractively, looking upon the
matter in a very businesslike way, and so girlish and charming and
delicately high-bred did she look in her French-made gown of transparent
black, with trimmings of pale green ribbons, and a wide lace hat to
match, that Noel rebelled with all his might against her lugging that
absurdly superfluous baby up those long steps. Still it was necessary to
accept the inevitable, and he set his teeth and said nothing. When she
had laid the sleeping child upon a lounge and turned toward him, her
eyes fastened eagerly upon a great bunch of crimson roses in a blue
china bowl, which Noel had gotten in honor of her coming. She did not,
of course, suspect this, but he saw that here, at least, was a vivid and
spontaneous feeling apart from her child, as she bent above the mass of
rich color.
"Oh, how good they are!" she said. "I seem to want to eat them, and
smell them and look at them all at once."
She held them off and regarded them enjoyingly a moment and then raised
them to her face again, and smelled them with audible little sniffs,
even nibbling the red leaves with her white teeth, as she looked at Noel
over them and smiled. He went, delighted, and brought a basket of
luscious grapes which he held out to her. She took a large bunch, and
holding it by the stem began to pick the grapes off one by one and eat
them enjoyingly. They were pale green in color, and he noted the effect
of her clear pink nails against them and the beautiful curves of the
long fingers that held the stem. He poured out some water in a beautiful
old Venetian goblet and offered it to her. There was a bit of ice in it,
which she tinkled against the side with the delight of a child before
she drank it.
"I am sure I am dreaming, perfectly sure," she said seriously. "I only
hope I won't wake until I have finished this bunch of grapes."
Then she lifted the glass to her mouth, tilting it until she had got the
ice, which she chewed up noisily with her sharp little teeth. Noel felt
a keen delight to see that she was letting herself be gay for a brief
moment, but he seemed to see into the sadness back of it more plainly
than ever.
"Oh, I am very happy," she said, suddenly throwing herself into a chair
where she could see her sleeping child. "My baby is better--a great
deal better; he has smiled twice, and is sleeping so peacefully! Yes,
I am happy!--and yet the other feeling--the one that has been with me
always lately--is here too. It is very strange that one can be at the
same time very happy and also the most miserable woman in the world!
Does this sound like craziness? I am not crazy. There are some
people--did you know it?--who can't go crazy!--who never would, no
matter what happened to them! A doctor told me that, and I believe it.
He says it is constitutional or inherited or something like that--a
physical thing--having a very strong brain that couldn't be upset!"
She rose now, and insisted that the sitting should begin. Noel saw again
the unforgotten outline of her beautiful head, with its rippling dark
hair drawn backward into that low knot behind.
It was in silence that she seated herself, and he began to work. He felt
as if some fair saint were sitting to him, and that the picture would
never come out right without a nimbus round the head. As he went on with
his rapid drawing in charcoal he saw a change settle heavily upon the
face before him. Utter sadness seemed to come there as soon as the lines
relaxed into their natural look.
At last, when he felt he had done enough to entitle her to feel that
she had really rendered service, he threw a cloth over the picture and
declared the sitting ended. She did not, however, ask to look at it, but
went over at once to where the baby lay, and stood looking down upon
him. Noel, who had followed her, stood silently beside her for some
moments. Suddenly she said aloud:
"I am very miserable."
He took it in silence, as he had taken her former confession of
happiness. Presently she went on:
"I said, a little while ago, that I was happy, and for a moment I seemed
to feel it in spite of all the misery. God knows I don't forget to thank
Him that my baby is better"--her lips trembled--"but what is his dear
life to be? What is mine to be? Always like this? Oh, God help me! My
heart is broken."
He thought she was going to cry, but she did not. She only clasped her
hands hard together and drew in her lower lip, clenching it in her
teeth.
"Perhaps I ought not to speak like this," she said. "I don't know
whether it is very wrong or not. But it is so long since any one was
kind to me or seemed to care."
"It is not wrong," said Noel, "don't think it. Ease your heart by
speaking, if it comforts you. Try to remember what we are to each
other--think of me as your brother."
Thus invited, he hoped she would speak freely, but she caught her lip
again, as if in the effort of self-repression, and shook her head. Noel
was hurt.
"Do you not trust me?" he said.
"I trust you always," she answered. "You are good and kind and true, and
not like other men. Oh, how bad they are! What things they can think of
a woman! The world is dark and evil, and I and my baby are
alone--alone--alone!"
The vehemence of this outburst seemed to recall her to herself and her
surroundings, and by a tremendous effort she managed to attain a manner
and expression of calm. The baby stirred and opened its eyes, and in a
moment everything else was forgotten.
A few moments later, when, with the child in her arms, she was ready to
go, Noel, as he handed her her gloves and pocketbook, slipped something
into the latter.
"I don't know what you will think of the reward of your morning's
labor," he said, in an off-hand way. "To me it seems miserably little,
although you, with your notions, may think it too much. You don't know,
of course, that a model such as the one I've secured this morning is
hard to get, and can always command a good price. You have fairly and
honestly earned it and I hope you will be willing to come again. May I
say to-morrow?"
"If baby is as well as to-day. Oh, how good you are! I hope God will
bless you for being so good to me."
"I hope He would curse me if I were not," said Noel, and then,
restraining his vehemence, he begged her to let him carry the baby
down-stairs for her. This she utterly refused, and it cut him to the
heart to feel that her reason for doing so was not so much to save him
trouble as to prevent his being seen in such a condescending attitude
toward his model. So he had to see her go off alone with her burden. He
rebelled passionately at the sight. Since the baby was--a stubborn fact
in an emaciated form--and Christine could not be happy to have it out of
her sight, the situation should, at any rate, have had the mitigations
which civilization supplies. A picturesque _bonne_, in an effective cap
and apron, should have carried the child for her, and a footman should
have held open the door of a comfortable carriage for her on reaching
the street. Instead of which he had to meet the maddening possibility
that the cabman was careless and insolent and that passers-by in the
street stared at her.
With his hands thrust deep in his trousers' pockets he turned back into
the studio, slamming the door behind him with his elbow, and walking
moodily over to the window, where he stood a long while lost in thought.
The one satisfactory reflection which the situation suggested was that
he had succeeded in making Christine accept, as a natural arrangement,
the fact that when artists employed models they always sent them to and
from the studios in a cab, which it was the artist's business to pay
for.
VIII.
The next day Christine came again, and although she was comforted by the
fact that the baby still seemed better Noel thought he had never seen or
imagined such absolute sadness as both her face and manner showed. The
picture progressed in long spaces of absolute silence, while Christine
sat as immovable as the sleeping child near by. It seemed to Noel, in
spite of his inexperience, that the child lay more in a state of stupor
than sleep, and that its prostration argued the very lowest degree of
vitality, but Christine seemed satisfied when he was asleep and so Noel
made no comment.
During the sitting that day he asked Christine if he would prove himself
a nuisance to either her or her husband if he sometimes called in the
evening. To the first part of the inquiry she replied that she would be
glad to see him, and to the latter, with a sort of hopeless wonder,
that Mr. Dallas would not mind.
Noel went once, and once only. The visit was too painful to himself, and
he felt also to Christine, to be repeated. The hideous barrenness of the
place seemed an outrage to her delicacy and made the refinement of her
beauty seem cruelly out of place. But more than all, when Noel looked on
the untidy negligence and brutal insensibility of the man who was at
liberty to call her wife, and whom she acknowledged as husband, he felt
it unbearable. He was even worse than he remembered him. Formerly he
had, at least, dressed well and kept up the forms of civility. Noel
could imagine that he was now glad to be rid of the trouble. He did not
even care to be particular about his person since he was now in a
position where that bother could be dispensed with.
As soon as Noel began to talk to Christine Dallas filled his pipe and
went off to the table to play solitaire. Noel fancied that the smell of
the rank tobacco, which was unimproved in quality, made the poor girl
sick. It was a relief when Dallas got up after a while, and shoving the
cards together in a heap left the room. Then Noel inquired for the baby.
Somehow he always shrank from speaking of it before Dallas.
"He is asleep up-stairs. Eliza is with him: He is better," said
Christine, "but the doctor says there is no certainty until the hot
weather is over. Oh, it's selfish of me to want him to live," she added,
with a sudden agitation in her voice, "but it isn't that; it isn't life
I want for him--only to keep him with me--to be where he is. If I
could--"
She broke off huskily, and Noel, out of pity for her, got up and walked
to the other end of the little room. When he got back she had recovered,
and said with a smile:
"I am out of patience with myself for being gloomy now. You will think
me such a poor coward. The baby is better and I will try to be bright.
I said in my prayers to God that if He would let my baby get better I
would be happy, and ask for nothing else. But what do you think this
is?" she added, with a change of tone, drawing something from her pocket
and holding it hid in her closed hand.
"I can't imagine," said Noel, full of delight to see that look of
interest and amusement on her face.
"A present for you from me! Isn't that funny? It isn't anything very
valuable and perhaps you won't care for it, but I have a feeling that
I want you to have it. It's the cross of the Legion of Honor, which
belonged to my grandfather. My mother left it to me among some trinkets
of hers, which have all been sold. Don't look sorry about it; you don't
know how little it matters now! This I could never have sold, and
besides it is worth very little really--but I felt I wanted you to have
it. Will you let me give it to you?"
She opened her hand and held it out to him with the cross lying on the
palm. Noel was deeply touched.
"I never really expected to be decorated," he said, "but there is no
possible way in which a decoration could come to me that could give me
such pride and pleasure as this. Take it? I should think so! When I used
to dream of being a painter I thought perhaps I'd have a great picture
in the _Salon_ and get a decoration for it. But I assure you this is
better."
"Oh, what pleasant things you say!" said Christine. "You make me feel
quite happy," and she held out the cross for him to take.
"I want you to fasten it on," said Noel. "I mean always to wear it. Will
you pin it here?"
He turned back his coat and Christine came close to him and complied
with the utmost willingness. The pin was a little blunt or rusted and it
took her several seconds to put it in and fasten it. Their faces were
almost on a level, and Noel's eyes looked closer than they had ever done
before at her youthful loveliness. Hers were bent in complete absorption
upon her task.
When she had fastened the pin she drew backward, still holding open the
coat that she might see the cross in its new position. All the time she
never looked at Noel, but all the time he looked at her.
"Thank you," she said simply.
Noel seemed stricken with silence. His mind was confused, and he did not
know what to say. And Christine, wondering that he did not speak, lifted
her large eyes to his face and looked at him questioningly. Then Noel
remembered himself, and in perfect recollectedness and self-possession
he took her hands and kissed them, first one and then the other.
"You have made me your knight," he said. "Let me never forget it. I am a
knight of the Legion of Honor. I shall carry this cross about me always
to remind me of it. Thank you, and bless you, Christine."
Then he dropped her hands, and they sat down and fell to talking. For
the first time in his recent intercourse with her she was able to speak
of general subjects. There was a momentary lull in her anxiety about
the baby, and in her release from that recent and heavy burden she felt
a rebound from the more remote causes of unhappiness too. So they got
into a talk that was easy and almost bright. They spoke together of
foreign lands familiar to them both, of music and painting, and all the
things from which her present life divided her so completely that, as
Christine said presently, it was like recalling dreams. And then in the
midst of it Dallas came in, with his slovenly dress and horrible pipe,
and Christine, with an awful look of recollectedness, came back to
reality. It was impossible to take this man into a talk like theirs, and
Noel quickly said good-night.
IX.
The next day and the next Christine went to the studio, and the sittings
passed in almost total silence. It had become more than ever impossible
for them to speak to each other, and they both realized it. Then came
a day on which Noel waited in vain for Christine. When morning and
afternoon were passed and he got no tidings he could bear the suspense
no longer, and went to the house to inquire. Old Eliza, the negro
servant, opened the door for him and told him the baby was dying. His
heart grew cold within him. What would Christine do? How could she bear
it? He asked if the doctor had been, and was told he was now up-stairs.
He inquired for Dallas. "Gone to walk," Eliza said with contempt, and
then added that "He might as well be one place as another, as he didn't
do no good nowhar."
Noel saw the doctor, an elderly, capable, decided man, who, as he soon
found, took in the whole situation and sympathized with Christine as
heartily as he excoriated her husband. Noel said he was an old friend of
Christine's, who was anxious to do all that was possible for her, and
had the satisfaction of seeing that he had inspired Dr. Belford with
confidence in him. He soon saw that it was unnecessary to ask the good
physician to see that her wants and those of the child were supplied, as
his own sympathies were thoroughly enlisted, so he could only beg to be
notified of anything he could possibly do, and go sadly away.
When Noel came, early next morning, a scant bit of black drapery, tied
with a white ribbon, told him that the thing had happened which deprived
Christine of all she loved on earth. The desire of her eyes was taken
from her and her house was left unto her desolate.
Eliza opened the door, and he came inside the hall and asked her a few
questions. The baby had died about midnight, the woman said. Dr. Belford
had stayed until it was over. The child was now prepared for burial,
the mother having done everything herself, seeming perfectly calm. She
would not eat, however, and was lying on the bed by the baby. He did not
need to inquire for the father, for at the end of the hall was the
dining-room, where he could see Dallas, with his back turned, seated at
the table, evidently making a hearty breakfast, the smell of which smote
offensively the visitor's nostrils. Noel felt he must get away, and yet
the thought of Christine, lying up-stairs alone by her little dead baby,
seemed to pull him by his very heartstrings.
He put some money into Eliza's hand, telling her to use it as she
thought necessary, and then went away. He next sought Dr. Belford and
sent a message to Christine, which he felt would fall as coldly as upon
the ear of a marble statue, and then he went to a florist's and sent her
a great heap of pure white flowers, which he thought she might care to
put about the baby. This done he felt helpless, impotent and miserable.
The next morning he went with Dr. Belford and helped to lower into the
earth the treasure of Christine's heart. There were but four persons
present, the mother, the clergyman, the physician and himself. Dallas
had slipped from the house early in the morning, telling Eliza he would
not be back, deliberately shirking the unpleasantness of the occasion.
He had never shown any love for the child, but a funeral was, in itself,
a painful thing, and he ran away from it. This, at least, was the
explanation given by Dr. Belford. Noel felt that the kind old doctor was
the being who could best help Christine now, since he had been with her
through the worst of her trial. So it was he who sat beside Christine as
they drove through the crowded city streets, with the little white
coffin on the seat opposite. Noel went in another carriage with the
clergyman, to whom he told something of Christine's history, begging him
to go see her and try to give her comfort, which he promised to do. It
seemed a bitter thing to him that both these men seemed to have some
place and position beside Christine--and he none! He looked at her
during the short service, which tortured his heart with pain for her,
but behind her thick veil her face was quite invisible, and her figure
was still and cold as marble. He longed unspeakably to try to comfort
her, but he felt he could not take one step until she gave some sign
that she wanted him. He knew that Dr. Belford had told her that he
wished to speak with her as soon as she could bear it, and now he must
wait--no matter how long--until she signified her wish to have him come.
She had sent him a message of thanks by Dr. Belford, and said she would
see him when she could. With that he had to be content. He felt it
useless to deny the plain fact that grief had crowded every thought of
him out of her heart now.
Every day he sent her flowers--although he felt assured that they all
found their way to the cemetery--and every day he went to Dr. Belford to
find out how she was. The report was always the same--calm,
uncomplaining, hopeless!
He longed to feel that Christine thought of him with some degree of
comfort, but there was absolutely no foundation for such a hope. He had
always felt a certain impatient scorn of the unfortunate, and to him
totally uninteresting baby, whom Christine had loved with such idolatry,
but now he found himself formulating a passionate wish that he could get
back the child's life for her at the sacrifice of his own. He almost
felt that he could consent to it.
X.
About two weeks after the death of the baby Dr. Belford called upon
Noel. It was absolutely necessary, he said, to do something to rouse
Christine from her state of hopeless lethargy. He had accordingly laid
his plans to do this. He had discovered, through Eliza, that all the
money furnished for the support of the establishment for some time past
had come from Christine, and that Dallas even applied to his wife for
money for tobacco and car-fares, pretending he went out looking for
work.
"As far as I can understand," said Dr. Belford, "the creature has no
strong vices--he is too bloodless and inane for them. Even when he had
money it doesn't appear that he gambled, and I don't believe he drinks.
He is simply wanting in principle, feeling and everything. Eliza says
he has scarcely spoken to his wife, or she to him, since the baby died.
Indeed she never speaks a word to any one beyond what is strictly
necessary. This state of things cannot go on. I told Eliza yesterday to
go and ask her for money, which she did. On the heels of it I went to
her and told her you wanted to begin a new picture and could find no
model so suitable as herself. I asked her if she would agree. She told
me then that Eliza had come to her for money to carry on the house, and
that she felt she must, in some way, earn it, as she would not owe
tradespeople, who could not afford to lose by her. So she asked me to
tell you she would begin the sittings to-morrow."
"What a friend you are, Doctor, to her and to me!" said Noel, grasping
his companion's hand.
The doctor held his hand in a resolute pressure as he looked at him
keenly and said:
"I think I know my man. At all events I'm going to trust you. I haven't
much belief in saints, but unless you're a double-dyed scoundrel you
will never betray this trust."
Noel answered nothing. The two men grasped hands a second longer and
then, each satisfied with each, they parted.
When Christine came the next morning the pity that Noel felt for her
almost overcame him. It was evident that the sight of the place brought
up the saddest memories, and she appeared at the door empty-armed,
instead of weighted down by her helpless little burden. The look on her
face, as she threw back her veil, was almost more than he could bear.
By a mute little gesture she seemed to implore him not to speak of what
filled the minds of both, and he obeyed her. She gave him both her
hands. He felt like falling on his knees before her, and controlled
himself only by a strong effort. It seemed inhuman not to do something
to help her, but what could he do?
"I'm so sorry for you," was all he could say.
"Don't speak. Don't make me speak. You know I thank you for everything.
I can't talk."
Then, loosing his hands, she walked off to a window and stood looking
out, while Noel chose a different canvas and busied himself with
preparations for work. Presently she came and placed herself calmly, and
Noel began to draw. Occasionally he said some little thing, and she
assented, but they both soon felt that silence was the only thing. There
was no suggestion of tears in her eyes, but their look was the sadder
for that. When the sitting was ended Noel tried to make her take a glass
of wine or some fruit, but she turned from them almost with distaste. As
she was leaving, however, she asked if she might have the roses on the
table. When Noel eagerly said yes she took the great bunch in her hand
and went off--he well knew where!
After that she came daily, and the picture progressed, but she, the
beautiful model, remained unchanged in her hopeless apathy and misery.
One day at the close of the sitting Noel, as usual, went from the studio
to his law-office. The season was dull and his partner was out of town,
so it devolved on him to read and attend to the mail. He had read half
through the little pile of letters which he found awaiting his attention
when he took up one bearing the name and address of a law firm in a
Western town, with whom he and his partner had, from time to time,
transacted business. He opened it abstractedly and began to run over the
contents rather listlessly, when a name caught his eye that arrested his
attention. The lawyers proposed to his partner and himself to cooperate
with them in a case of bigamy. They had worked it up satisfactorily,
they said, their client being the first wife of a man said to be now
living with a second one in the city of Noel's residence. The man's name
was Robert Dallas.