Lucy hastened after Mrs. Martin, who was still visible in the distance.
As the deeply tried woman closed the door of her modest dwelling, a
light step made her turn and open it again. She gazed with surprise
into the face of the elegantly-gowned girl with the gold-rimmed glasses.
"Does Mr. Martin live here?" the girl inquired in a doubtful voice.
"Yes. Will you be so good as to walk in?" answered the astonished
woman. And then with a glance into the room--"Eugene, a lady!" she
called to her son.
An inner door opened and Eugene Martin appeared. They stood speechless,
gazing in confusion at each other, while white and red chased each
other over both of their faces. It was perfectly obvious that they
were not strangers to each other; indeed, they had often painted side
by side at the Art School. It was the same shy, gentle youth with the
dark speaking eyes who had occupied more of her thoughts than would
have been considered advisable for an engaged girl. Nevertheless she
struggled to conceal her excitement, and to appear calmly in the
character of the purpose which had brought her. But how could she
offer alms to this family? No, it would no longer be possible; her
sensibilities revolted at this thought, and for the moment she wished
even to conceal her name from them.
"I wished to have a picture of my--" she was about to say, "of my
_fiance_," without really thinking of him in the least, but a flame of
red overspread her face and the word died upon her lips. "--of myself,"
she substituted. "And I wish it done in oils," she went on in a firmer
tone.
Eugene conducted the visitor to the scrupulously clean, though modest,
little parlor. In order to reach it they were obliged to pass through
the room where his father lay ill, the wild fancies of fever playing
antics in his brain. Lucy threw a glance of deep sympathy at the
sufferer, visibly moved at the sight of his hollow, ashen face.
The great interest she displayed and the anxious inquiries she made
about his father's illness, filled Eugene's heart with gratitude. He
could have knelt before this being from another sphere, to whom he had
scarcely dared to raise his eyes, and thank her in that humble way of
his for the warm sympathy she bestowed on his sick father.
"I have seen some of your paintings, and--I am quite sure that my
portrait will be a success--" began Lucy, stammering again, as she
looked at the sketches displayed about the room.
"I should, of course, do my best--to--keep your good opinion of my
capability," answered Eugene, with downcast eyes and a hesitating
tongue.
Lucy had taken up a portfolio and was turning over its contents, simply
to avoid having to meet his glances. She was afraid he might read what
was passing in her mind.
"But whether I should be able to satisfy a lady who has so much
artistic knowledge--I hardly know," he admitted modestly, "for of late
I have not been able to do much except this landscape."
He indicated a picture which hung at the other end of the room,
wondering at the flush which had overspread Lucy's face as she bent
over the portfolio, her blood tingling to her finger's ends.
She put down the treacherous portfolio hastily. The exposition of
the secret hidden within its covers made her tremble. One of her own
drawings, which she had probably thrown away, suddenly met her eyes. It
had been enriched by a border of blue forget-me-nots, and as she drew
it forth from one of the side pockets she saw, underneath it, written
in Eugene's hand, the single word: "Unforgetable."
Her heart beat loudly; still she retained self-command enough to ask in
an indifferent tone, when he would be ready to begin the sketch for the
portrait, at the same time examining the picture to which he had drawn
her attention.
"I should like to know, also, what your price is to be for the
execution of the picture," she said, raising her eyes timidly.
He would have been glad to avoid any mentioning of the question of
money, but when she insisted, in a hesitating voice, he named a small
amount.
"I believe it is customary to pay half in advance," Lucy went on with
an embarrassed smile, handing a fifty-dollar note to the confused
Eugene, in spite of his shy protest that he was not in the least hurry
about it.
After the day and hour had been fixed for the first sketch of the
portrait, Lucy returned to the factory deeply gratified that she
had found a way to help the poor woman in her distress. Her father,
immersed in business, had scarcely noticed her absence. She would have
liked to tell him something of the poverty and illness of his old
foreman, but an indefinable feeling of shyness kept her silent. The
factory was closed on the same day.
Poor Martin's condition grew visibly worse. On the doctor's
recommendation, he was transferred to the neighboring hospital, and the
afflicted family reconciled themselves to the inevitable. Although the
poor wife had tended him day and night with never-varying devotion, she
could not but admit that she was not in a position to give him all that
was required by the physician's directions.
Eugene, now the only support of the family, was obliged, in default
of anything better, to take to retouching pictures for photographers.
This ill-paid mechanical labor was beginning to have an injurious
effect upon his imagination. The day-dreams which had filled his whole
soul, anticipating his going to the Eternal City, to receive there the
artist's consecration by studying the great masterpieces, he now saw
vanishing into comfortless vacuity, replaced by nothing better than the
dreamy monotony of earning his daily bread by hard and uninteresting
work.
Lucy's meteoric appearance, however, had filled the darkened spirit
of the young man with a cheering light. With fiery eagerness he began
sketching the dear face which he had never been able to forget. The
laboring mechanic disappeared, and the artist, once more awakened, felt
his genius glow again with the desire to create. This girl, the very
sight of whom made him tremble with joy, must not be allowed to lose
her faith in his talent--his artistic capacity. In her eyes he wished
to be that, which his dreams had promised he should be--a real artist,
even if he were obliged to strain his powers to the very limit of the
unattainable.
At the appointed hours Lucy came, bringing, like Schiller's 'Maiden
from a foreign shore,' valuable gifts for his mother, with fruits and
toys for the children. To Eugene, however, she brought the most fatal
gift--a ray of that unsurpassable bitter-sweet pain which men call
love, and which often ends only with life. After she had left the house
all trace of her vanished; none of them knew whence she came or whither
she went.
With each sitting Eugene grew into a condition of more blissful
intoxication, although Lucy, in her refined unapproachableness, gave
him not the slightest excuse for such a feeling. Only once he felt her
thoughtful eyes resting upon him with an expression which sent the
blood coursing madly through his veins.