“Didn’t you slip this under the wrong door last night?” I asked
calmly.
“There!” growled Gogo, and throwing down his tools faced about
furiously.
De Crespigny’s face went mottled, and he began to shake all over. Then
suddenly he rallied, and flamed on me, stuttering.
“Wha-what right have you to ask? I may address whom I like, without
requesting your leave. My-my lady shall be informed what spies she’s
got in her house.”
“You ass!” roared Gogo.
“From me--yes,” I said. “I’m going straight to tell her.”
Gogo stumped fiercely, and put himself between me and the door. His
master collapsed like a pricked bladder.
“You’ll ruin yourself,” he gasped, between tears and bullying. “If you
ruin me, you come down too--don’t forget that.”
“O, in a noble cause!” I said mockingly: “to open the eyes of my
mistress and my friend.”
He stamped about in a little impotent frenzy, then came and almost
prostrated himself before me.
“I--I thought you’d forsaken me,” he cried; “I swear I did, Di;
and--and I was as miserable as a dog, and wanted sympathy, I did, in
this cursed strait-laced nunnery. Don’t tell on me--don’t; and I’ll go
on with your picture here and now.”
In a fever of trepidation, he hurried from me, calling on me not to
go, and fetched the canvas from the press and brought it to me.
“See,” he said, “you little injured innocent--yes, you was quite right
to be hurt; but--but it’s you I love, Di--it really is--and”--
The canvas fell from his hand. He stood, gaping, as if in the first
shock of a stroke. And I turned; and there was madam standing in our
midst, every atom of colour gone from her face.
There are some situations, my Alcide, that can only be ended brutally.
I don’t know what deadly instinct drove me to the portrait; but to it
I ran, and turned it with the easel about. Then, I declare, I felt as
if I had committed murder. The wretch, with what fatal purpose I could
not tell, had done nothing less than mutilate his own inspiration. In
place of the lovely roses of yesterday was the worn, haggard woman of
to-day, and the harp in her lap was a tangle of broken strings.
I felt for her. Looking in her face, I almost repented my part. There
was a dreadful smile on it, as she went very quiet and breathless, and
lifted the “Una” from the ground.
“It is very pretty,” she said, “but hardly proper to a child of the
Good Shepherd.”
Then I hated her as I had never done before, and rejoiced in her
downfall.
“I was looking for you, Diana,” she said, in her straitened tones,
“and heard your voice here. Will you come with me, please?”
And so she went out, deigning not one look at that insult of her own
face, nor one word to the hangdog perpetrator of it. She went out, as
cold as ice, and I saw Gogo, standing by the door, droop his head as
she passed. Tingling with the joy of battle, I followed her. I knew
that my long martyrdom was nearing its end.
Outside in the hall she turned to me, quite stiff--I wondered how her
limp corsets could support so much dignity--and bade me retire to my
room till she should send for me.
“And if it is to find you on your knees,” she said, “why, by so much
will the duty I have to perform be made the easier.”
Well, to do her justice, I believe that her heart was as near broken
as one can be.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I answered. “Do you want to flog me? ’Twould
scarce improve your case, I think, with Mr. de Crespigny.”
I ran up lightly, humming to myself. I heard her give a little gasp,
and then go on her way to the parlour. Nobody came near me while I
waited, until, in a little while, a servant knocked, to summon me. I
went down at once, as jaunty as you please. Father Pope was with her,
I saw, as I entered the room.
“I wonder how much of the truth she has told him?” I thought.
She was seated, perfectly colourless, while her companion stood,
lowering and uneasy, by a table hard by. She bent a little forward,
drawing her breath, I fancied, with difficulty, and addressed me at
once.
“You have asked pardon of God, I hope?”