CHAPTER VIII.
THE PORTRAIT.
Sprague was seated before his easel arranging his palette for the morning's work. The unfinished portrait of Agnes Murdock looked down upon him with eyes of living beauty. Occasionally the artist would bestow a deft touch upon the glowing canvas and would retire to a distance to note with a critical eye the new effect. Then he would consult his watch in nervous impatience; and, going to the window, he would glance anxiously up and down the street. Once or twice the rumble of wheels caused him to look up in glad expectancy, which gradually gave way to gloomy discontent as the noise died away in the distance.
At length hope seemed to depart altogether from the young man's breast. He threw down his brushes, gave up all pretence of work and drifted off into a brown study. His eyes, fixed upon those of the portrait, had a troubled look in them;—so troubled, that it was clearly out of all proportion to the professional disappointment of a painter kept waiting for a fair subject.
So absorbed did he become in his gloomy meditations, that, when at last a carriage stopped before the house, the artist did not hear it. But when, presently, a gentle tap sounded upon the door of the studio, he sprang to his feet, as if he had received an electric shock.
Perhaps he had; for it was followed by a rapid current of delicious thrills tingling through every nerve and effecting in his whole being a sudden and marvelous transformation. At once the furrowed brow was smooth; the drooping lips were wreathed in smiles; the troubled look gave way to one of glad welcome.
For she had come at last. There she stood, with laughing brown eyes and glowing cheeks, when Sprague threw open the door. Alas, as usual, she was accompanied by her maid. Never mind; was it not enough to have her there at all, to bask in the sunshine of her smile, to look into the dangerous depths of those soul-stirring eyes, to listen to the rippling of her silvery voice?
"I fear I am a little late, Mr. Sprague; I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. But you see this is how it was——"
What mattered it to him now how it was? Was she not there? An eternity of suspense and misery would have been wiped out by that single entrancing fact. Her words beat upon his ear like rapturous melody; he drank them in, hardly conscious of their meaning.
Agnes Murdock, followed by her maid, proceeded at once to the dressing-room set apart for the use of the artist's models. When she returned, dressed for the sitting, she assumed under Sprague's directions the pose of the portrait, while the artist critically arranged her draperies and adjusted the shades and screens.
The maid had remained in the dressing-room.
"And so these are positively the last final touches, are they, Mr. Sprague?" asked the young girl mischievously, after a few minutes. "You artists seem to be quite as uncertain about your farewell appearances as any famous actress or singer."
The artist looked up quickly as the girl spoke. An expression of pain crossed his features.
"Yes, Miss Murdock," he answered gravely. "I shall not have to trouble you to pose again."
Miss Murdock's attention was attracted by the melancholy note in his voice. She observed him from the corner of her eyes in kindly curiosity.
The artist fell into a moody silence. For a while he worked with feverish activity at the portrait; and then, gradually falling into a fit of melancholy abstraction, he sat, with poised brush, gazing intently at the beautiful girl before him. His task forgotten, he was apparently unconscious that he was taking advantage of his privileged position to stare at his fair subject. Agnes felt his burning glance and was embarrassed by it; but, womanlike, she retained control of herself, outwardly, at all events, as she uttered some commonplace remark, which broke the spell and brought the artist to his senses with a sharp consciousness of his rudeness. He replied to the young girl's question in a low, changed voice, and then relapsed into a gloomy silence. After an awkward interval he asked suddenly:
"Are you so very glad, Miss Murdock, that our sittings are almost over?"
"Why, no, Mr. Sprague," replied Agnes; "I did not mean that. Of course I shall be glad when the portrait is finished, because I wish to have it home and to let my friends see it. But I should be indeed ungrateful if I begrudged my poor little time and trouble, when yours have been so lavishly and so ungrudgingly spent."
"These sittings have been a source of so much pleasure to me," continued Sprague thoughtfully, "that I have selfishly overlooked the fact that they could only be an annoyance and a bore to you. I fear I have needlessly prolonged them."
"But indeed, Mr. Sprague, I assure you it has been anything but a bore to me to pose. I am sure I shall miss the pleasant morning hours I have spent here."
"They have been the happiest hours of my life," said Sprague earnestly in a low voice, "and now they are nearly gone——forever."
Agnes started slightly, blushed, and riveted her gaze upon the dainty white hands which lay clasped together in her lap. Her bosom rose and fell in quickened undulations.
"Why forever, Mr. Sprague?" she asked softly; "do you think of leaving New York?"
"No," he replied quickly; "it is you who are about to desert this studio, which for a short time has been brightened by your presence——"
"Well," interrupted Agnes, "since you are not going to leave New York, I hope you will continue to call on us."
"I suppose I shall continue to call on your reception days, if that is what you mean," said Sprague somewhat disconsolately.
"Now that," laughed Agnes, "is not in line with the polite things you have been saying."
"I did not mean to say anything rude, Miss Murdock, but a call on your reception day is a call on your guests. Surrounded as you are on such occasions, one has barely a chance to catch a glimpse of you, much less to speak with you."
"We are always glad to see our friends at other times than on our reception days."
"Do you really mean it?" asked the artist eagerly. "May I call on you sometimes when the crowd is not there?"
"We shall be happy to have you call at any time, Mr. Sprague."
Sprague thought he detected a slight emphasis on the pronoun.
"But it is not we I wish to call on. It is you, Miss Murdock."
Once more the young girl's expressive eyes fixed their gaze upon the delicate hands in her lap, and once more there was a scarcely perceptible flutter beneath the lace which lay upon her white throat.
The artist sat with intent eyes fixed upon her.
"Of course I shall be pleased to have you call at any time, Mr. Sprague," she said after a brief instant.
What more could any sane man expect a modest girl to say? It is not so much the words spoken as the manner of their utterance that conveys meaning. But it is a truism that a lover is not a sane man. Sprague was not yet satisfied. He was about to speak again, when a knock sounded upon the door.
It was the hall-boy with a letter.
"Miss Murdock?" he inquired, glancing in the direction of the young girl.
"For me?" exclaimed Agnes, surprised.
"Yes, Miss; a gentleman left it for you."
Agnes took the letter, inspected it curiously for an instant; then, excusing herself, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the note which it contained.
At once a deep flush suffused her face, and an expression of annoyance passed over her features. She glanced up hastily at Sprague, who was apparently hard at work upon the background of the picture.
The hall-boy was waiting expectantly.
"There is no answer," said Agnes quietly.
And as the stern mandates of fashion either forbid a woman to wear a pocket, or else decree that it shall be located in some practically inaccessible position, the young girl dropped the letter and its envelope into her lap and resumed the pose.
Sprague tried to renew the conversation where it had been interrupted; but his efforts were in vain. Both he and Agnes were preoccupied during the balance of the sitting.
When at last the time came for Miss Murdock to leave, Sprague accompanied her to her carriage. After watching it until it disappeared around the corner, he returned moodily to the studio.
As he entered the room, his eyes fixed in a vacant stare upon the floor, he caught sight of something white—a sheet of paper—resting there. Mechanically he pushed it to one side with his foot.
The sunshine seemed to have gone with Agnes Murdock. A gloom had fallen upon the place and its occupant. The artist tried to work; but he was restless and depressed. At length he threw down his brushes; and rising from the easel, he put on his hat and coat and started out for a walk, in the hope that exercise would drive away the blue devils whose grip he felt tightening upon his heartstrings.
Meeting some friends in the course of his aimless wanderings, he was persuaded to spend the rest of the day in their company, and returned to his bachelor quarters late in the evening, tired enough physically to obtain that healthful sleep which is the boon of strong youth.