"Excellent! I shall be able to a.s.sume that character well," she said, with a grim smile. "I will tell him."
Spring came and went, but I saw very little of d.i.c.k. He had received a commission from one of the ill.u.s.trated papers to make a series of sketches of scenery in Scotland, and consequently he was away a good deal. Whenever he paid flying visits to London, however, he always looked me up, but, strangely enough, never mentioned Ethel.
Nevertheless, I ascertained that they frequently met.
At the close of a blue summer"s day, when the dreamy, golden haze wrapped the city in a mystic charm, I called at the studio, having heard that he had returned, and was settling down to work.
When I entered, d.i.c.k was standing before his easel, pipe in mouth and crayon in hand, busily sketching; while on the raised "throne" before him sat Ethel, radiant and beautiful. A tender smile played about her lips. It seemed as though a happiness--full, complete, perfectly satisfying--had taken possession of her, and lifted her out of herself-- out of the world even.
"Welcome, old fellow!" d.i.c.k cried, turning to shake hands with me.
"Behold my Circe!" and he waved his hand in the direction of his model.
"Ethel will not sit for any other subject. It hardly does her justice-- does it?"
"It is a strange fancy of mine," she explained, when I had greeted her.
"I"m sure the dress is very becoming--isn"t it?" And she waved the goblet she was holding above her head.
"Your pose is perfect, dear. Please don"t alter it," urged the artist; who, advancing to his easel again, continued the free, rapid outline.
We chatted and laughed together for nearly an hour, until the tints of pearl and rose had melted imperceptibly into the deep night sky; then d.i.c.k lit the lamps, while Ethel retired into the model"s sanctum to resume her nineteenth century attire.
Presently she reappeared, and we went to dine together at a restaurant in Piccadilly, afterwards visiting a theatre, and spending a very pleasant evening.
Poor d.i.c.k! I was sorry that he was so infatuated. He was such a large-hearted, honest fellow, that I felt quite pained when I antic.i.p.ated the awakening that must inevitably come sooner or later. He knew absolutely nothing of her past, and was quite ignorant that she had been a popular actress.
In the months that followed, I visited the studio almost daily, and watched the growth of the picture. d.i.c.k was putting his whole soul into the composition, and my knowledge of art--acquired by years of idling in the ateliers of the Quartier Latin, and dabbling with the colours a little myself--told me that he was engaged upon what promised to be his finest work.
The face was a lifelike portrait. The delicate tints of the neck and arms were reproduced with a skill that betrayed the master hand, and the reflection in the mirror behind had a wonderfully natural appearance, while the bright colours enhanced the general effect of gay, reckless abandon.
The fair model herself was charmed with it. Woman"s vanity always betrays itself over her picture.
One evening, at the time the canvas was receiving its finishing touches, I returned home from a stroll across Kensington Gardens, and, on going in, heard some one playing upon my piano, and a sweet soprano voice singing Trotere"s "In Old Madrid." I recognised the clear tones as those of Ethel.
"Ah, Harold!" she cried, jumping up as I entered the room. "I was amusing myself until your return. I--I have something to tell you."
"Well, what is it?" I asked, rather surprised.
"Cannot you guess? d.i.c.k has asked me to become his wife," she said in a low tone.
"The thing"s impossible!" I cried warmly. "I will not allow it. You may be friends, but he shall never marry you."
"How cruel you are!" she said, with a touch of sadness. "But, after all, your apprehensions are groundless. I have refused."
"Refused? Why?"
"For reasons of my own," she replied in a harsh, strained voice. "If-- if he speaks to you, urge him to abandon thoughts of love, and regard me as a friend only."
"You are at least sensible, Ethel," I said. "It is gratifying to know that you recognise the impossibility of such an union."
Tears welled in her eyes. She nodded, but did not reply.
A dry, grey day in March. It was "Show Sunday," that inst.i.tution in the art world, when the painter opens his studio to his friends and the public, to show them the picture he is about to send to the Academy.
The exhibition is in many instances but the showing beforehand of the garlands of victory in a battle which is doomed to be lost, for when the opening day comes, many of the anxious artists do not have the luck to see their pictures hung at all. Then insincere admirers smile in their sleeves at the painter"s chagrin. I have always been thankful that the happy writer of books has no such ordeal to face. He never reads his new romance to his friends, nor do his well-wishers applaud in advance.
Reviewers have first tilt at "advance copies," and very properly.
From morn till eve on "Show Sunday," Campden Hill is always blocked by the carriages of the curious, and studios are besieged by fashionable crowds, whose chatter and laughter mingles pleasantly with the clinking of tea-cups. On this occasion, as on previous ones, I a.s.sisted d.i.c.k to receive his visitors, but unfortunately Ethel had been taken suddenly unwell, and could not attend.
My antic.i.p.ations proved correct. "Circe" was voted an unqualified success. The opinions of critics who dropped in were unanimous that it was the artist"s masterpiece, and that the expression and general conception were marvellous--a verdict endorsed by gushing society women, bored club men, and the inane _jeunesse doree_.
A sc.r.a.p of conversation I overheard in the course of the afternoon, however, caused me to ponder.
An elderly man, evidently a foreigner, wearing the violet ribbon of the French Academy in his b.u.t.tonhole, was standing with a young girl in the crowd around the easel.
"Why, look, papa! That face!" the girl cried, when her eyes fell upon the canvas. "It is _her_ portrait! Surely the Signore cannot know!"
"_Dio_!" exclaimed the old man, evidently recognising the features.
"The picture is indeed magnificent; but to think that she should allow herself to appear in that character! Come away, Zelie; let us go."
I heard no more, for they turned and left. Having acted as eavesdropper, I could hardly question them. Nevertheless, I was sorely puzzled.
"Look! Read that!"
In surprise I glanced up from my work of romance-weaving on the following morning, and saw d.i.c.k, pale and agitated, standing at my elbow.
The letter he placed before me was in a woman"s hand, and emitted the faintest breath of violets. A glance was sufficient to recognise that the sprawly writing was Ethel"s.
Taking it up, I eagerly read the following lines it contained:--
"Dear d.i.c.k,--_I regret to tell you that circ.u.mstances preclude me from ever meeting you again. I am going far away, where you cannot find me. It was foolish for us to have loved, therefore forget me. That you may meet some one far worthier than myself, and that `Circe" may bring you fame and fortune, is the most sincere hope of your models_.
"Ethel."
"I warned you against your infatuation, old fellow," I said seriously.
"But I couldn"t help it. I--I loved her," he answered in a hoa.r.s.e, trembling voice.
"Forget her," I argued. "She is worthless and vain; why make yourself miserable?"
"Ah, you are right!" he said, as if suddenly impressed by the force of my arguments, while his face a.s.sumed a hard, determined expression.
"She is Circe indeed, and she had her foot upon my neck. But it is all over," he added bitterly. "I shall think no more of her."
Then he wished me an abrupt farewell, and left, apparently in order to conceal his emotion.
That evening I called at d.i.c.k"s house, but was informed by his housekeeper that he had packed his bag and departed, stating that he would not return for at least a month, perhaps longer. When I entered the studio, gloomy in the twilight, I was astonished to find that the "Circe" had been removed from the easel, and that it was standing in a corner with its face to the wall.
Something prompted me to turn it, and when I did so, I discovered to my dismay that in his frenzy of mad despair he had taken a brushful of black paint and drawn it across the face, making a great, ugly, disfiguring daub over the forehead and eyebrows, utterly ruining the features, and producing a curiously forbidding effect.