She buried her face in her hands, and went on, speaking between her fingers in thick, sobbing whispers.
“God did not hold me back before from cutting my own throat,” she said; “and yet I prayed to him with all my soul, as I am praying now! Perhaps I was too self-willed, and wanted my own way too much, and so he would not hear me. Oh, I want to do his will—I want to let him choose for me; but, oh, far more than that I want my love, my darling, my husband! We have been joined together by God, and he has not put us asunder, nor has man put us asunder. Neither did he do it! It was I,—I myself,—out of my weak selfishness and self-will, because I wanted to make everything conform to me—because I wished him to love me by a rule and ideal of my own—to treat me according to my fancy—to make every sacrifice of himself and his nature and thoughts and feelings to me, and I was willing to consider him in nothing! But oh, my God, I have been shown my wickedness and selfishness! The scorching light of truth has come, and now I see it all. If I could have him back! If I could wipe out the past, and be once more in my wedding-dress and veil, and give him my vows again, O God, thou knowest whether I could keep them now or not! It cannot be, it cannot be! He pities me and would be kind to me, but he does not love me any longer. O God Almighty,” she cried aloud, writhing her body from the lounge, and getting on her knees, with her hands and her face lifted upward, “take me and work in me, and give light to my blinded eyes! Give me the strength to do what is right—to give him up—to stop thinking of him! I cannot bear this tearing struggle any more. I can fight no longer. I beg thee only, only for this—that I may somehow grope and stumble through this time without the loss of the one thing that is left to me—my woman’s pride!”
She fell forward, with her face buried in the lounge, and great sobs shaking her body. Gradually these subsided; but long after they had ceased she knelt there with her face concealed, alone in the silence and darkness.
At the same moment, only a little distance off, the sunlight was pouring down in floods upon the palms, the stuffs, the pictures, the statues, and the crowd of fashionable men and women who thronged the great exhibition of the spring Salon.
Voices of men and women rose melodiously, whether in praise or blame. Lorgnettes were raised, hands clasped in delight, and shoulders shrugged in disapproval. Fans were waved in delicate, gloved hands, whose every movement stirred the air in waves of sweet perfume from flowers, or delicate odors wafted from women’s gowns. Smartly dressed men and women stood about in groups, and now and then a hum arose as some great man, decorated with orders, and smiling with confident good humor, passed along, bowing to right and left, and receiving compliments—too familiar to be anything but gently stimulating—on the beauty of his latest pictures.
There were groups, larger or smaller, before many of the canvases; and in one of these groups, standing a little apart from the rest, were Harold and Martha Keene.
The picture before which they had paused was a rather small canvas on which was painted a woman leaning with her elbows on a table, and her chin resting in her hands, which met at the wrists, and then closed upon the cheeks at either side. The little table before her was perfectly bare. There was a striking absence of detail. The one thing which was accentuated by careful and distinct painting was a plain gold ring on the third finger of the left hand. The loose drapery which wrapped the shoulders, leaving bare the throat and arms, was simply blocked in with creamy white paint and heavy shadows. The hair was gathered in a thick coil at the top of the head. There was beauty in its coloring, and merit also in the flesh-tints of the face and throat; but the power of the picture was in the eyes, which looked directly at one. The brows above them were smooth, definite, and uncontracted. The lines of the face were youthful and round. The lips were firm and self-controlled. All the expression was left to the eyes, which, large, honest, courageous, and truthful, met those of the gazer, and gave their message—the message of despair.
“It is called in the catalogue simply ‘A Study,’” said a man standing close to Harold Keene; “and certainly there is no need to name it. The artist’s name is given as ‘G. Larrien.’ Does any one happen to know it?”
No one did, and the group of people soon passed on; but Harold stayed and looked. Martha, who stood at his elbow, was palpitating with excitement. She knew the picture and the artist, but she was determined not to betray, even by a look, the secret which she had promised her friend to keep. She saw that Harold studied the picture with intent interest, and she schooled her face to express nothing, in case he should look at her. She was watching him closely, and she thought that his color changed a little, but he gave no other sign of feeling. He did not look toward her. Indeed, there was neither question nor curiosity in his eyes, but a look of conviction and, she thought, a look of pain.
A man and woman had paused beside them now, and stood gazing at the picture.