“Now we will go to the Morning room so I call a;” and together they walked over the exquisite mosaic floors, and halls of parquetry, and stairway glittering as the sun, and figures of classic art looked down, and fold on fold of hues of soft-blent shadows dropped from tinted panes and fell around them. In apparently the most casual way they passed a studio filled with light and color, where, in violet velvet blouse, and cap upon his poetic locks, worked and smoked the master of Italian art.
“This is my parteekler fren—the Baroness Von Eulaw, Señor Fillipo,” and they hurried on.
Arrived at the suite, they first entered the dressing room. It was plainly finished in French gray, with gold and blue enamel, the same colors repeated in drapery and cushions. But one piece attracted particular attention. It was an alabaster fountain, the elaborate accessories half concealing a full-sized bust of Morning, the identity of which could not be mistaken. It was exquisitely chiseled, and falling jets, and icy foam, and cascades like cobwebs, built up masses of soft, misty whiteness, shutting back all save an incidental glimpse of outline, and thickening by contrast the boldness of the water plants at the base.
“A very pretty conceit,” said the baroness, approvingly. “Who is the designer?”
“Me,” said the señorita, coldly, leading the way to the main chamber, to which apartment Murella carried the key. Unlocking the door, the baroness had scarcely time to take in the mute, indescribable effects of the auroral tints on the walls, stippled and faded into thinnest ether, with its golden sky overspread with winged cherubs in high relief, laid in tints such as are only painted on angels, when the baron’s party were heard approaching. One thing, however, had struck the baroness, even at a cursory glance. The dust lay thick and undisturbed over all the furniture of the room. A superb curtain of corn-colored brocade hung over one end of the apartment, which also showed signs of not having been disturbed at least for a term of many months. A gesture of impatience was made by Murella as she spoke, in an irascible tone of voice, “What for a he bring a they here?”
However, the party, following their guide, entered, expressing surprise at finding the ladies had preceded them.
The baron at once walked over and engaged their pretty hostess in conversation, laughing genuinely at her piquant expressions and unworldly-wise ways, while Morning talked about some irrelevant thing with Miss Winters, and the rest of the company sauntered to the remoter quarters of the apartments. Mrs. Thornton, however, coveted a view behind the maize curtain, and to this end plied the major-domo with such blandishments as were at her command, and using vigorously the little Spanish she possessed. The Spaniard turned to look for the señorita—she had momentarily disappeared with the baron—and he flung aside the fatal curtain.
There, in a regal frame, in a painting by the famous hand of Prince Fillipo Colonna, master of arts in the Royal Academy at Rome, appeared two full-sized figures. They were those of David Morning and Señorita Gonzales. It was an interior of an adobe house. The saints upon the mud walls, with rosaries suspended beneath them, and the crude decorations about the fireplace, with the hammocks in the shadow were dimly visible. Light came in through a low window, and fell upon the white face of Morning, just tinged with returning health. One hand held suspended a pencil, while with the other, just discernible from out the shadows, he clasped the girlish figure of Murella Gonzales.
It was a master work of art, and more than condoned all malicious or vain intent on the part of the author. The expression upon Morning’s face was one of placid amusement, while that upon the girl’s was anxious and arch, questioning and trusting, open, yet elusive, like the mimosa growing sturdily from the potted earth in the rude casement, which receded at a sound of the human voice. The noble artist had evidently caught an inspiration from the local color—filtrated through the hot brain of the lovely señorita—and had touched the face of Morning with the light of his lovely companion.
Mr. Morning had just crossed over to catch a word with the baroness when the tableau was unveiled. Her whitening face frightened him, and he looked quickly over her shoulder at the picture. At the same moment a piercing shriek, and Señorita Murella rushed wildly down the room.