I.
"A little more to the light, please--so, that is better." The artistworked rapidly; now and then letting his eyes rest for a moment on hissitter, then returning to the face on the canvas, that was rapidlygrowing under his hands.
The studio, a small Swiss cottage some distance from the business centerof St. Louis, was rather richly, though plainly, furnished. The wallswere tinted a neutral gray, an occasional piece of sober-hued draperyhung here and there, while a heavily curtained arch at the backconnected with the artist's private apartments beyond.
On the opposite side of the room a door opened to the little entrancehall, and near to this doorway was a carved oaken mantel, above whichwere grouped together a number of curious weapons, evidently gatheredhere and there as bric-a-brac, and used, perhaps, now and then, asproperties, in the arrangement of some picture.
There was the long-barreled and elaborately ornamented gun of theArab--the scimitar of the Turk--the blow-gun of the South AmericanIndian--the bow and arrow of his northern brother. At the bottom of thisarray was a pair of French rapiers of the seventeenth century. Theblades were crossed and rested upon a brass-headed nail, and upon thisnail there hung, point downward, a jewel-hilted Italian stiletto ordagger, suspended by a silken cord.
The room was lighted by a sky-light and one window--only the light ofthe former falling upon the sitter--a large Japanese screen divertingall other direct rays. Through the half-open casement a light breath ofsummer crept in, from the little garden outside, freighted with themingled odors of sweet-briar and white flowering locust. A yellowbutterfly flitted in and out, now and then making a circuit of the room,resting here and there for a moment to fan noiselessly with its bloomywings. A stray bee buzzed drowsily in, but, finding nothing soattractive as the sweets without, hastily retreated, striking heavilyagainst the window-pane, where it sputtered and fumed for a time, andgladly escaped. Then all was silent in the room save for the lightchafing sound made by the artist's brush against the hitherto untouchedcanvas.
He at the easel was a man of about thirty years--Julian Paul Goetze, aname already ranked high among his profession. His sitter was a woman ofperhaps twenty-three. Her figure was somewhat above medium height andperfectly developed. She was clad in a plain, trimly fitting dress ofsilver gray, with a neat white collar at the throat. Her face was aperfect oval in its contour, her complexion almost childish in itsdelicacy. Her hair, a silky brown in color, was fastened in a knot atthe back of her shapely head, while in front it was a fluffy mass thatpartially concealed the forehead, and softly shadowed what seemed to theartist to be the sweetest face in all the world. The features were asdelicately chiseled as one would expect to find them in a statue ofPurity. The eyes were a deep gray, inclining to hazel, and the coloringof the cheek and lips so tender that the artist looked a littledespairingly at the tints upon his palette; while through all therepervaded such an expression of absolute innocence and freedom from theworld's taint, as to find expression in but the one word, saintliness.
And yet there was something about the face of his sitter that brought atroubled expression to that of the artist. As with bold, rapid strokeshe laid in the ground-work for the hair he looked puzzled. As he tracedthe exquisite outline of the ear his look was almost one of vexation.Once he left his easel, and, going to another canvas that rested on thefloor, face to the wall, he turned it partly about and looked at itintently for a few moments. Then he resumed his work, evidently in deepthought. For awhile he painted on in silence. He was inclined by natureto be diffident at first with his sitters, and with this fair being thebeginning of a conversation seemed to him a thing as difficult as it wasdesirable. There was a suggestion of weariness in her face, too, whichhe felt would disappear with awakened interest.
"I--I beg pardon," he said, somewhat abruptly at length; "have you everhad a portrait before?"
His voice was rich and musical, and the face before him brightened.
"Oh, no! And it is only by accident that I am having one now. I waspassing and saw your name; I knew it by reputation, and it occurred tome all at once that I would sit for my picture. Perhaps I should havewaited and worn a different dress. It was only a passing impulse. Itnever occurred to me before; I cannot tell why it did now."
The animation and the faint blush that had crept over her face while shespoke were enchanting. The artist was delighted.
"Your dress could not have been better chosen, and the impulse wassurely an inspiration," he said, smiling, "and perhaps," he added, "youmay have a friend or--a--a relative who has had, or is having aportrait, which suggested the idea."
As he paused he looked at her inquiringly. The look of weariness hadreturned to her face.
"No; I have no relatives, and"--she blushed deeply and was silent.
"Forgive me," he said, earnestly; "I did not intend to be inquisitive."
She did not reply in words, but as she lifted her eyes there was atenderness there that awakened within him all the sympathy, thenobleness and the affection of his purer and better nature. Their eyesmet, and in a single moment there was formed between them an invisiblebond which both felt and neither sought to conceal. No word was spoken.The artist painted on in silence; but a new light had come into hissitter's face, and a new source of inspiration into his own heart.
For a long time neither spoke. A dreamy hush seemed to creep in with thesweet odors from the garden, and, with them, a summer restfulness andpeace. The yellow butterfly that had been hovering about them, flittingthis way and that, came closer and closer, and at last settledfearlessly upon one of the gloved hands that lay folded in the sitter'slap. She watched it for a moment, then looked up at the painter with asmile.
"The insect has a true instinct," he said, gently; "it has no fear ofcapture."
"No; I should only hurt it and destroy its beauty."
"Butterflies," said the artist, "are like beautiful thoughts. They hovermistily about us, flitting away whenever we attempt to capture them; andif at last we are successful we find only too often that their wingshave lost the delicacy of their bloom."
"Yes; I have felt that many times."
While she spoke the insect rose hastily in the air as if frightened,and, circling about for a moment above them, darted out through the openwindow.
"I have heard they are emblems of inconstancy, too," she said,thoughtfully, as it disappeared.
A faint glow of crimson suffused for an instant the olive face beforeher, but he forced a smile and did not reply.
The rest of the afternoon slipped away with but little interchange ofwords between artist and sitter. When either spoke the words were fewand simple, but there was a tenderness in their voices that uttered morethan the spoken syllables.
The face on the canvas was growing rapidly. He had already worked longerthan he usually did at the first sitting, and yet he could not bear tolet her go. He had seen her for the first time less than two hoursbefore; he did not even know her name. The little white card which shehad given him he had glanced at without reading. He had only seen herfeatures, and heard only the gentle voice that had made known hererrand. And now he wondered if it were possible that only a few hoursbefore she had had no part in his life; a life wherein there had beenmany lights and shadows, and the shadows had been ever as broad andsomber as the lights had been bold and brilliant.