Winifred described the designs on the divan so vividly that I could
almost see them. But what interested me was the painter, not his
surroundings; and she now seemed to grow weary of talking about
herself.
'Did he,' I said, 'did he say anything about--about painters'
models?'
'Yes,' she said, 'Mr. D'Arcy took me to an easel and showed me a
picture. It was only the half-length of a woman; but it was a tragedy
rendered fully by the expression on one woman's face.
'"I had no idea," I said, "that any picture of a single face could do
such work as that. Was this painted from a model?"
'"Yes," he said, with a smile, which was evidently at my ignorance of
art. "It was painted from life."
'There were four other half-lengths in the room, all of them very
beautiful.
'"Two of these," he said, "are copies; the originals have been sold.
The other two need still a few touches to make them complete."
'"And they were all painted from life?" I said.
'"Yes," he said. "Why do you repeat that question?"
'"Because," I said, "although they are all so wonderful and so
beautiful in colour, I can see a great difference between them--I can
scarcely say what the difference is. They are evidently all painted
by the same artist, but painted in different moods of the artist's
mind."
'"Ah," he said, "I am much interested. Let me see you classify them
according to your view. There are, as you see, two brunettes and two
blondes."
'"Yes," I said, "between this grand brunette, to use your own
expression, holding a pomegranate in her hand and the other brunette
whose beautiful eyes are glistening and laughing over the fruit she
is holding up, there is the same difference that there is between the
blonde's face under the apple blossoms and the other blonde's face of
the figure that is listening to music. In both faces the difference
seems to be that of the soul."
'"The two faces," said he, "in which you see what you call soul are
painted from two dear friends of mine--ladies of high intelligence
and great accomplishments, who occasionally honour me by giving me
sittings--the other two are painted from two of the finest hired
models to be found in London."
'"Then," I said, "an artist's success depends a great deal upon his
model? I had no idea of such a thing."
'"It does indeed," he said. "Such success as I have won since my
great loss is very largely owing to those two ladies, one so grand
and the other so sweet, whom you are admiring."
'The way in which he spoke the words "since my great loss" almost
brought tears into my eyes. He then went round the room, and
explained in a delightful way the various pictures and objects of
interest. I felt that I was preventing him from working, and told
him so.
'"You are very thoughtful," he said, "but I can only paint when I
feel the impulse within me, and to-day I am lazy. But while you go
and get your luncheon--I do not lunch myself--I must try to do
something. You must have many matters of your own that you would
like to attend to. Will you return to the studio about five o'clock,
and let me have your company in another walk?"
'Until five o'clock I was quite alone, and wandered about the house
and garden trying my memory as to whether I could recall something,
but in vain. At any other time than this I should no doubt have found
the old house a very fascinating one; but not for two minutes
together could my mind dwell upon anything but the amazing situation
in which I found myself. The house was, I saw, built of grey stone,
and as it had seven gables it suggested to me Nathaniel Hawthorne's
famous story, of which my aunt was so fond. Inside I found every room
to be more or less interesting. But what attracted me most, I think,
was a series of large attics in which was a number of enormous oak
beams supporting the antique roof. With the sunlight pouring through
the windows and illuminating almost every corner, the place seemed
cheerful enough, but I could not help thinking how ghostly it must
look on a moonlight night.
'While the thought was in my mind, a strangle sensation came upon me.
I seemed to hear a moan; it came through the door of the large attic
adjoining the one in which I stood, and then I heard a voice that
seemed familiar to me, and yet I could not recall it. It was
repeating in a loud, agonised tone the words of that curse written on
the parchment scroll which I picked up on Raxton sands. I was so
astonished that for a long time I could think of nothing else.