And eventually this theme held and swayed the play—this effect of a deep love upon such a nature as Nella-Rose’s, the propelling power—the redeeming and strengthening influence. In the end Truedale called his work “The Interpretation.”
And while this was going on behind the attic door, a seemingly slight incident had the effect of reinforcing Truedale’s growing belief in his philosophy.
He and Lynda went one day to the studio of a sculptor who had suddenly come into fame because of a wonderful figure, half human, half divine, that had startled the sophisticated critics out of their usual calm.
The man had done much good work before, but nothing remarkable; he had taken his years of labour with patient courage, insisting that they were but preparation. He had half starved in the beginning—had gradually made his way to what every one believed was a mediocre standstill; but he kept his faith and his cheerful outlook, and then—he quietly presented the remarkable figure that demanded recognition and appreciation.
The artist had sold his masterpiece for a sum that might reasonably have caused some excitement in his life—but it had not!
“I’m sorry I let the thing go,” he confided to a chosen few; “come and help me bid it good-bye.”
Lynda and Conning were among the chosen, and upon the afternoon of their call they happened to be alone with him in the studio.
All other pieces of work had been put away; the figure, in the best possible light, stood alone; and the master, in the most impersonal way, stood guard over it with reverent touch and hushed voice.
Had his attitude been a pose it would have been ridiculous; but it was so detached, so sincere, so absolutely humble, that it rose to the height of dignified simplicity.
“Thornton, where did you get your inspiration—your model?” Truedale asked, after the beauty of the thing had sunk into his heart.