"Now let us see what you And he turned to the picture. own whim to serve my own ends entirely; | then added: "I admired the photograph very, very much." That was all No signature; no clue to the writer's real personality; and no sign of regret. I sank down before the picture and But there is no need to tell all my weakness-all my folly; already I have told too much, and grown tedious. What else could I have expected Even to have hoped for more was the veriest madness, and how promptly was the longing punished! We sat on then-Misery and I together, close companions now for many a long day -far into the twilight. My orders had been strict, and I was not disturbed until quite late I heard Herriott's voice outside, whereupon, like some wounded animal, I wanted to creep away and hide. But no; I could only try, and that vainly, to rouse myself in readiness to receive him. He let himself in with his latch-key, and still I sat on, when, as he lit the gas, he started at seeing me. Possibly I looked white and ill, for he exclaimed anxiously: "What on earth are you doing here all alone, and in the dark? Pale, too! Is anything the matter? Can I" "No-no, thanks. I-I am all right. A little tired, I believe; but-what of yourself?" "My dear fellow, don't try to humbug me! You are anything but all right,' and must have a glass of wine right away. I see how it is. You've had no one to look after you, and you've been going it again. You have half fagged yourself to death because I was away, and I'm only back just in time. Here, drink this. Come, no nonsense!" I allowed him to run on, for it was the easiest way out of the difficulty, and let him suppose he was right. I tried to swallow the wine he had poured out, and after one or two abortive attempts succeeded. "There, that is better," he exclaimed, brightly, and as though greatly relieved; The sound that forced itself from him was no exclamation in the ordinary sense of the word; it was more as though he met with a sudden difficulty in drawing his breath, after which he remained silent and motionless, gazing at my work for so long that at last I grew impatient. "Well," I cried at length, "what do you think of it? Will it do?" "Do-why-oh, the picture! Ah! we want a little more light on the subject before we can judge of that." And he set the strong top light all ablaze before he went on: "There, now we can see thisthis Sappho of your dreams—see what and whom she is like." And he sat down before the picture again, to recommence after a while: "Yes, I have seen her look like that at times." "You mean"The woman who sat to you for that. She can both look and be very different when she pleases." "Then you know her?" "I am not sure that I do now. There was a time when I thought I did, and then again a later time when I was forced to doubt, and again make up my mind. Until now, looking at this, your presentment of her, I could almost doubt still." "I have not half done her justice." "What-then she has bewitched you?" And Herriott laughed a short, hard laugh, while I was thankful that his eyes were turned away from me. Still, I answered after a time: "If you mean do I admire her, my answer lies there. Could I have painted even that unless "And you think you have read her, riddle that she is, aright?" he interrupted, still with his eyes on the canvas. Again my answer is there-except that I have not been able to put in the half of what I saw. If__" "My dear fellow, there is no 'if' about the case. You have succeeded only too well, and so has she. You have painted what was once my ideal of her, as well as your own. Have painted her as the truest and noblest of her sex, while really—' "There, don't go on; don't speak ill of her by even a single word," I broke in, impetuously. No. You are right; and, besides, why should I Was it her fault? Is it ever a woman's fault when some poor weak fool takes her for something a little lower than the angels,' to find that she is only a woman after all? Ob, no; it was no fault of hers. Yet I could have staked my life on her truth " "As I would now," I interposed, steadily. "I don't in the least know what your grievance may be." "But you decide, ex parte, against me. That is as it should be. I allow the judgement to go by default; I have no wish, not the very slightest, to make out a case. Confoundedly odd, too," he murmured, later, "that she should have allowed you to paint us together-so! One would have thought that common decency-but there, women are cruel at times, if only to be kind." And he laughed his doubtful laugh again; then turned away to say: "And so Sappho is hung, and on the line! Well, it is no more than you deserve. The next thing will be the cheque in-well, how many figures shall we say? And this also. What do you mean to ask for this 1" "Oh, that one is not for sale," I answered as indifferently as I could; whereat we both learned that there was something which each would do well to avoid, and we talked a little at random, and with an effort, of his late journey, of his sister, of anything, in fact, for a time, except of what lay nearest to our hearts, until finally, to our mutual relief, we separated for the night. Soon after came the private view, and Herriott persuaded me to join the crowd. At first I refused, but nothing would serve but we must go together. He was soon claimed and carried off by his many friends, but I was little known, 80 moved about as fancy led me, unnoticed and alone. I was not tall enough, nor yet aggressive enough, to see the more popular pictures, except by waiting patiently until gradually I gravitated to the front. I виррове it was only human to feel a slight exulting thrill as I found myself on the fringe of a crowd, larger and more closely packed than any I had seen, and realised that the centre of attraction was Sappho-my Sappho ! As I stood there hesitating whether or not I should wait among the rest or pass on, a low, clear voice from behind caused me a still deeper and more lasting tremor, as I recognised the well-remembered tones of my model herself. Evidently she was answering her companion's previous challenge, the meaning of which I could gather though I had not heard the words. "Yes; I have seen Sappho, and I have no wish to deny-anything." Then followed the other voice, which was also a woman's, and equally low, yet penetrating, surcharged as it was with an intention I could not but feel. "And you sat for that to the artist. Don't you think that was just the least in the world- "And the speaker paused as though fast for a word, then went on without it: "But there, I don't suppose you will think anything of the kind. You were always a little gone on Art, and its professors-especially the professors. This is the same one, I suppose, though I hoped I had saved you from that." There was a still deeper vibration in my sitter's voice as she answered: "Then it is you whom I have to thank.” "Not at all, you need not thank me. I acted purely in your interest, of course; but thanks are quite unnecessary-between you and me. Then again it was scarcely any trouble." And there was a studied deliberation, a calculated distinctness, about the next few words. "Pity it was not more effectual! Yet he professed to quite agree with me at the time, when I put it to him plainly how very, very rich you were, while he-well, you know what he was, and still is, for anything one knows." "And you told him that—what—what did he say? Oh, what would he think-of me!" but this last was little louder than a sigh. "Oh, he admitted it all. Was it my fault if, in spite of my protestations, he chose to fancy the warning came from you? Possibly I did not protest as strongly as, at that time, you would have had me, or would have done, perhaps, yourself. When he taxed me with it, you know, I was obliged to admit that we had talked him over together." "You mean you had talked," interposed the other, coldly. "You know I never said a word." "Nor was there any necessity. It was all perfectly true, and he-well, he was gentleman enough to feel it for himself; so that in spite of your infatuation you were saved; but now, I suppose, it has all begun again, as bad, or worse than ever." "Oh, what need is there to ask? Is it not plain enough that, this time, you have sought him-allowed him to paint you for every one to see? They will say you ran after him." So far I had heard, because I could not well get away from the crowd-nay, to be honest, I am not sure that I had tried very hard, for the music of my Sappho's voice had held me like a spell. Now, however, the crowd began to fade away, and I must go with it or be seen; and, moreover, I had heard quite enough, so turned and slipped away. But I was too late, my model spoke again : "It does not concern either you or me, perhaps, but you are under some mistake; if you mean Mr. Herriott, I-I believe he is-engaged. But the artist who painted Sappho is there. I will introduce him if you choose." "What! you sat to that little horror you let him paint you-- Oh, my dear, whatever could have possessed you? But, at least you stand excused; no one could suspect you for a moment of running after a thing like that!" The words were supposed to be spoken in a whisper, but I heard them, every one. As I turned to glance reassuringly at Sappho, I saw her turn crimson with shame and mortification; and not to make matters worse I stole quietly away. So, then, my dream was over, and I was awake at last. It was not so much the cruel words as the double cruelty of the situation that bore me down, as I realised how pitifully weak I had been to "hope against hopet after all. Ah, well that was all done with now. So much at least was clear. But, was it so clear, so impossible, I wondered still more weakly next, while some old line about "hearts caught on the rebound" recurred to me-as though my presumption had not been sufficiently cauterised already. And for a moment I forgot friendship, and Frank, and honour as the subtle temptation overpowered me and carried me away, and I began to piece out the threads I held in my hands. They two were hopelessly estranged-through no fault of theirs, whispered pity-and certainly through none of mine, echoed self. Rather was it the work of that female Iago of a friend who had played upon the man's pride; while she, Sappho, had made her one attempt to bridge the gulf which had stretched itself between them by showing her willingness to be associated, if only on canvas, with him. Then I saw Sappho, sensitive and proud, who had risked something already, as her friend had so kindly pointed out, even in sitting to me, only to find, as she thought, she had ventured all in vain. The photograph to her, in her anomalous position, could bear but one interpretation. She was too late! She could only retreatwith honour. She would never venture again; while I—I who loved her-was the only one who knew both sides, the only one who could interfere, and so pronounce my own irrevocable doom. And, pitiful waverer that I was, while I hesitated, the unconscious Frank came to me with a laugh. "Well, old lion, you will have to leave your den-every body begs to be introduced; while you, you look as though some calamity had befallen you, instead of having just achieved the one desire of your life." "Oh, hush!" I cried, not daring to trust myself to think. "Go-go to her! She is there! It was all a mistake! She loves you, I know-never mind how. Tell her," here I had an inspiration, "that you are not engaged, for that is what she thought, and " MRS. KINGSTON was famous for her small dinner-parties. "So very select," some of her friends said; "so friendly and sociable," others remarked. From which it may be inferred that she chose her guests with great care; and took care that those chosen should please each other. Her cook was excellent. Dr. Kingston held a theory that to inferior cooking most of the ills both of human flesh and spirit were traceable; and the result of his theory and his wife's practice, through the medium of her cook, drove many an excellent matron to despair. One of these dinner-parties had taken place on an evening early in May, four or five days after the Private View. It had been no exception to the rule; indeed, it had been unusually pleasant. It had consisted of a husband and wife, musical people; two women, a novelist and her very pretty daughter; a young barrister, and a famous tenor. The Kingstons' "set" was composed of all kinds of people; and a considerable contingent was drawn from the artistic world. The two last-named guests had apparently found the evening very pleasant; for when all the other guests, after keeping their carriages as long as possible, had at length departed, they had seemed in no hurry to do so likewise; and had, on their host's invitation, very readily adjourned to his smoking-room, for what he called "a quiet cigarette" with himself and Keith Brydain. Dr. Kingston's smoking-room was a little square room on the ground floor, leading out of his large and comfortable consulting room. "I like to be near my work-room," he was wont to say; "I feel more at home here than I should anywhere else." front rank among men; he would never have had the strength to carve his own way to it. But in the front rank he undoubtedly was. He was a great friend of the whole Kingston family, more especially, perhaps, of the master of it. Dr. Kingston and Lennard were always engrossed, after a few moments' intercourse, in the closest argument; the link that bound them together being a common taste-curious enough in Lennard-for scientific research. He had sung to-night, to Mrs. Kingston's great contentment. It was, as he sometimes reminded her, a privilege which scarcely any one else shared with her. Lennard only sang, he said, for his oldest friends. "Well," he said suddenly, breaking a little silence which had followed the end of a long discussion between him and Dr. Kingston, "I must really be going. I've got some work to get through to-morrow, and it's half-past twelve by your time, Kingston." "I believe my time is correct," said Dr. Kingston, with a little smile as strong as the lips that formed it; "but don't hurry, Lennard." The smoking-room was furnished with the plainness to be looked for from a practical man, the only luxuries being two or three comfortable arm-chairs and a very "I must," said the other. "I'll go and good Turkey carpet. But neither the arm-get into my coat at once, before you tempt chairs nor a wicker lounging-chair, which had been drawn near them, were occupied at this moment. It was between twelve and one; the "quiet cigarettes," combined with conversation, had been going on for more than an hour, and the two guests had just made a move, and they and their host and Brydain stood round the fire, which was comfortable enough, even on a May night, interchanging a few last words. Dr. Kingston stood at one end of the mantelshelf, leaning his elbow on it and flicking the burnt part of his cigarette off against the edge of a bronze. He was a man of about fifty-eight, with keen, clever eyes, and a very strong mouth and chin, His face and his movements alike were characteristic. The slow, consciously capable way in which his hands performed even that trifling action, showed, as clearly as his expression, that he was a man who possessed power, and what is rarer, the gift of using it. me any more." Lennard turned round answered. "Good night," Brydain "Thank you," he added, simply, and without much apparent interest; "you are very good." Mr. Lennard went into the hall followed by his host; and Edward Tredennis, the young barrister, prepared rather reluctantly to follow his example. "Good night," he said to Brydain. "I've got some work to do, too, and mine must be polished off by breakfast time. I hope we shall meet again. You're staying here?" Tredennis was a short man; one of those under-sized men who look middle-aged, even in their youth. He was about fiveand-thirty, and had gained by hard work and considerable ability a very fair position in his profession. He had a plain, clever, and slightly cynical face, with light-grey eyes, which looked frankly into Brydain's face as he spoke. Brydain answered their gaze with another, quite as frank. "Yes," he said. "I hope we shall." Then Edward Tredennis followed his fellow-guest, and Brydain was left alone by the now dying fire. He poked the ashes about with his foot; and wondered why they were taking so very long to say good night, and when his uncle would come back. A moment or two later the voices in the hall ceased suddenly; the front door shut with a heavy thud, and Dr. Kingston came back. He mixed himself a glass of whisky, from a tray on the table, and handed Brydain some. But he did not sit down. He came back to his former position by the mantelshelf. 'Keith," he said, abruptly, as he set his glass down, "what do you think of what Lennard says? Eh!" Brydain, who had been thinking of Tredennis, answered, vaguely: "Mr. Lennard? I don't quite know what you mean." "What he said to you about your voice just now, my dear fellow. It seems he said something to you earlier in the evening, too." "Oh, yes; he was very kind about my singing.' "Kind!" said Dr. Kingston, with an amused twinkle in his eyes. "Lennard isn't the sort of man to make you pretty speeches, Keith. He meant every word he said!" At the beginning of the evening Brydain had sung. He had demurred slightly when his aunt first asked him to do so. But she had insisted, and Brydain had instantly given in, and with a simple acquiescence. He had sung an old Scotch song, playing his own accompaniment. His singing was an accomplishment of which Brydain had thought very little. All his life he had sung, in his own way, to his father, to Mackenzie, to any one who asked him, or to himself, for simple pleasure in it. It had always seemed to him that his voice was just the outcome of an ordinary instinct, much the same as any other instinct. He had been greatly surprised, on his former visits to London, that his aunt and cousins had wished to hear him sing; and he was still more surprised this evening when, at the end of his song, Mr. Lennard sauntered up to him and asked him to sing again. But Brydain had not given the request, or the tersely expressed commendation which followed the second song, another thought until now. Now he looked up at his uncle with wonder in his face. "It was very good of him," he repeated. "My dear Keith," said Dr. Kingston, brusquely, but not at all unkindly, "suppose you were to look at this thing practically. Lennard has been talking to me in the hall. I gather from what he says, that your fortune lies before you, if you like to work." "To work!" repeated Keith, quite uncomprehendingly. "Yes. He tells me that with a year's work you might "To sing in public, do you mean?" interrupted Brydain, with a sudden comprehension. "Oh, but he can't have been thinking what he was saying. My voice is nothing, nothing at all! I don't see how such a swell as that could have made such a mistake." His face was quite flushed with the haste with_which he spoke. "Is 'such a swell as that' likely to make a mistake, do you think?" responded Dr. Kingston, briefly. "He says you have a finer quality of voice than any he has met in all his experience. He knows-that's all I can say." The look of incredulity and amaze left Brydain's eyes slowly; the excited flush died out of his cheeks; he looked steadily at the fire, and there was a silence. "But," he said, slowly, after a pause, "if, as you say, it is true, and I suppose you and he know, I don't see what I can do. I don't see that I could become a professional singer." "What's against it?" asked his uncle. Brydain paused again. "It's a rather unusual career, isn't it?" he said at length, with some hesitation. "An odd sort of way of earning one's Dr. Kingston interrupted him quickly. Come to the point quicker, my dear fellow; it saves time. What you mean is that you don't think it would befit the Laird of Brydain to sing for his supper; in fact, you don't think it's gentlemanly to be an artist ?" |