She sank down upon the window seat, burying her face in her hands, and sobbing in a quiet, childish fashion. Intense pity for this helpless, weak woman touched him, but he knew that her only real chance of salvation in this world was for her to find herself through suffering, and that if she continued to depend upon any other for support, she would never be strong enough to stand alone. He did not speak until she raised her face, and her sobbing had almost died away.
“Of course you will think me very hard-hearted and brutal, Mrs. West,” he said, “but I must risk that. If things are going wrong, you must help yourself. The only thing I can do is to tell you that from what I know of your husband, he would love his wife to be as strong and self-dependent as himself. Now, please go back to your chair, and sit as you were at first.”
His heart was full of sympathy for the weak, little woman, so pretty, so vain, so helpless. There was little chance, he felt sure, that she would ever develop into strength, or that she would retain her husband’s affection, if Alice Lane—quiet, determined, and very passionate as he believed her to be—were bent on winning it. West’s restless manner and talk had shown that something was amiss. The old story—the vessel of porcelain and the vessel of iron. She a joy to him so long as she continued to amuse and please, but thrown aside broken, when her charm had gone. Maddison had foreseen some such event as this, but had not thought that she would suffer greatly, or at any rate, for a length of time, taking her to be one who would be content with luxuries and pretty things. But he realized now that there was a depth of affection in her, childish perhaps, but none the less deep, which might lead to tragedy, if West turned her out of his life. But he knew that he was helpless to assist: West was masterful and ruthless; the pity of it was that he had been so blind as not to see that this simple child could not long content him.
He scarcely dared look at the pitiable face that he must truly reproduce upon his canvas. Could he allow anyone save herself to see this portrait of an unhappy woman?
Then it occurred to him that perhaps he was unduly apprehensive; that after all, his first surmise might be correct, and that when she had ceased to cry for her lost toy, she would dry her eyes and be happy with something more costly and less valuable than human love. At any rate, there was no aid that he could render; the tragedy, or the comedy, must play itself out, with himself among the spectators.
Before he had released her, the other two returned.
“Come along,” shouted West; “it’s getting late. We won’t come in.”
As they were leaving the studio, Mrs. West held out her hand to Maddison, saying:
“Thank you. You said you couldn’t help me—but you have.”