He remained silent for some moments, not appearing to heed my expressions of regret at having involuntarily introduced so painful a subject, but after a while, endeavouring to recover himself, he asked me to come to his private room.
“I want to show you her picture, that you may see what you might have painted.”
He took it from a secret drawer in his desk. It was no photograph, none of those soulless things, giving the most unnatural of all expressions, a fixed one; it was a miniature, beautifully painted, the artist had felt what he represented in his own soul, and so passed it on to yours. The globular under eye-lid, the short upper lip, spoke of a very sensitive character, the heavy brow of a melancholy one; there too was the blue-black hair of which I had heard so much, in which was placed the only ornament in the picture, a passion flower.
“It was her favourite flower: you can imagine that I can bear to see no one else wearing one;” Standish said, and then all his fortitude deserted him, and he gave way to one of those bursts of despair to which you sometimes see rather weak people abandon themselves. I soothed him as well as I could, and far, far into the night remained talking to him, and hearing from him many details of the past I had never heard before—perhaps, if Lady Standish guessed half these regrets for the dead, her evident alienation from her husband was partly justifiable, or at any rate, comprehensible. On the other hand, Alfred seemed to have reason almost to accuse himself as the cause of the death of his first love, a report of his intended marriage to the lady chosen by his mother and uncle, after his separation from her, seemed to have turned her brain, and there was too much reason to fear she had died by her own hand.
CHAPTER II.
In spite of my late vigil with Standish, I rose very early next morning, having a good deal of work to do on Lady Standish’s picture before our next sitting. I took care to remove the occasion of the previous night’s discomfort from the drawing-room by carrying the passion flowers down to my studio with me. The room given up to my painting was on the ground-floor in the end tower which formed the corner of the house, and had a separate entrance. I was working away steadily at Lady Standish’s portrait, thinking, I must confess, less of the features before me than of Alfred’s sad history, which had procured me a sleepless night—for I was really much attached to him—when the light in the room seemed suddenly to diminish. I thought the morning had turned very cold, and the sun gone in; when, looking quickly up, I saw that a lady had entered the room, and now stood by the door, which she had closed after her. She was dressed wholly in dark violet, and a large shawl of the same material as her dress was draped round her. Her face was almost hidden by a large drooping hat with a long feather, which she wore very low over her eyes.
“Can I be of any service to you, madam?” I asked, advancing to her with my palette still in my hand, as she did not seem about to speak.
“Of the very greatest, sir, if you will,” was the reply, in a sweet voice which had the peculiarity of a total want of intonation. “Indeed I am come here to ask you a favour.”
I bowed, and renewed my offers of service.
“You will think my request a very extraordinary one. I am come to ask you to take my picture.”
As she spoke she removed her hat, and stood motionless before me, as if prepared for my examination. I saw a face, which without having positive beauty, you could not look at once without longing to see it again. Some memory, I know not what, haunted me as I gazed at her. Yet I felt sure I had never seen her before. The peculiarity of her face was her low white forehead, over which the dark hair was tightly drawn. As I looked at her I thought what a splendid Judith she would make, after the sacrifice of Holofernes. Yet there was a look of deep sorrow in her eyes which, when she raised, I saw to my surprise were deep blue—a most uncommon conjunction with such black hair.
“You would not refuse me, indeed you would not,” she said, finding I did not immediately reply to her request, clasping her hands in front of her, “if you knew how much depended on it—and I must add to this another petition, strange as you may think it—that you will mention to no one my having been here, and if you do paint me, that you will show the picture to no one until it is finished—then I will release you from the promise of secresy, and you will understand the reasons for it.”
The mystery of the affair piqued and pleased me. “I shall be happy,” I said, “to accede to your request.”
“Thank you—I thank you—you know not how much. Can you begin directly?”
I looked round, somewhat surprised at this great haste. Fortunately, I had brought two ready stretched and prepared canvases, not being sure of the right size for Lady Standish’s picture, and placing the one not yet used on the easel, I invited my visitor to take her place.
“What is your idea for the picture?” said I. “Have you any particular fancy or wish?”
“I wish for no ornament,” she replied. “Yet stay,” looking round, and seeing the passion flowers on the table, “if you will allow me, I will place one of these in my hair.”
She did so, and again stood before me. Where had I seen that face before?
“That is a very despairing attitude you have chosen,” said I, with a smile, as she hung down her clasped hands and drooped her head a little.
“That is what it should be,” she replied. “Oblige me by letting it be so.”
It was as well to humour her to her full bent; therefore I began to sketch, and continued steadily at work for the next hour or more, till the sounds of life and resumed animation began to reach us from the house. Then she suddenly looked up.
“I will, if you please, return to-morrow morning at the same hour,” she said, and replacing her I large hat, she besought me to remember her injunction of secresy, which I promised to do, made me a little inclination of the head, and glided from the room.
