No hideous, scowling, red-haired arch-apostate was this painted Iscariot,—but a handsome man, whose features were startlingly like those in the ivory miniature.
It was a wild, dreary, mournful picture, suggestive of melancholy mediæval myths, and most abnormal phantasms; and would more appropriately have draped the walls of some flagellating ascetic’s cell, than the luxuriously furnished room that now contained it.
Bending forward to deepen the dark circles which suffering 413 and remorse had worn beneath the brilliant eyes of the apostle, the lonely artist added another verse to her quotation,—
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“Once every year, when carols wake On earth the Christmas night’s repose, Arising from the sinner’s lake I journey to these healing snows.” |
The motion loosened a delicate white lily pinned at her throat, and it fell upon the palette, sullying its purity with the dark paint to which its petals clung. She removed it, looked at its defaced loveliness, and tossed it aside, saying moodily,—
“Typical of our souls, originally dowered with a stainless and well-nigh perfect holiness, but drooping dust-ward continually, and once tainted by the fall,—hugging the corruption that ruined it.”
As the governess looked and listened, a half-perplexed, half-frightened expression passed over her countenance, and at length she advanced to the arch, and said, tremblingly,—
“Can I have a few moments’ conversation with Mrs. Gerome, on important business?”
“My God! am I verily mad at last? Because I called up Judas, must I also evoke the partner of his crime?”
With a thrilling, almost blood-curdling cry Mrs. Gerome had leaped to her feet at the sound of Miss Dexter’s voice, and, dropping palette and brush, confronted her with a look of horror and hate. The quick and violent movement shook out her comb, and down came the folds of hair, falling like a silver cataract to her knees.