voice seemed a little less steady, a little less cold.
"On the morrow," he said abruptly, "she was gone, leaving a note of farewell, and—and thanks for me. I felt a momentary disappointment. I should like to have said farewell to her, and it was strange, too, how much I missed her and Denis. The loneliness and quiet of my life grew more than lonely as the days went on, and I at last madeupmy mind to go to London. Whether by chance or purpose I found myself there on the day the Academy opened. All who are artists know what that day means for them. I—well, I was artist enough to feel the interest of art triumphs, and the sorrow of its failures. I went where half London was thronging, and mingled with the crowd, artistic, critical, and curious, who were gathered in the Academy galleries. I passed into the first room. I noticed how the crowds surged and pushed and thronged around one picture there, and I heard murmurs of praise and wonder from scores of lips as I, too, tried to get sight of what seemed to them so marvellous and attractive. At last a break in the throng favoured me. I looked over the heads of some dozen people in front of the picture, and I saw—the picture I had gazed at in such wonder and delight in the studio of Musette Delaporte! Deservedly honoured, it hung there on the line, and already its praises were sounding, and the severest critics as well as the most eager enthusiasts were giving it fame.
"Leaning on her arm was a man—bent and crippled."
"I turned away at last. My steps were, however, arrested on the outskirts of the crowd by sight of a woman whose figure seemed strangely familiar. Her face was veiled and somewhat averted, but I knew well enough that pose of the beautiful head, that coil of gold brown hair, just lifted from the white neck. She—she did not see me as for a moment I lingered there. Then I noticed she was not alone. Leaning on her arm was a man, his face pale and worn, as if by long suffering, his frame bent and crippled. As his eyes caught the picture I saw the sudden light and wonder that leaped into his face. I saw, too, the glory of love and tenderness in hers. I drew nearer, the man was speaking: 'How could you do it,' he said, 'how could you?' 'Oh, Maurice, forgive me,' said that low, remembered voice. 'Dearest, are we not one in heart and soul and name? I only finished what you had so well begun. You were so ill and helpless, and when you went into the hospital, oh, the days were so long and so empty. I meant to tell you, but when it was finished I had not the courage, so I just sent it, signed, as usual, M. Delaporte. I—I never dared to hope it would be accepted. After all, what did I do? The plan, the thought, the detail all were yours, only my poor weak hand worked when yours was helpless.'
I was so close I heard every word, so close that I saw him bend and kiss with reverence the hand that she had called poor and weak, so close that I heard the low breathed murmur from his lips, 'God bless and reward you, my noble wife!'"
***
"And she was married all the time!" said Denis plaintively. "She might have told us!"
Jasper Trenoweth was silent.
