the man she had first wronged, the man who held the power to give her story to the world, even as he had shown it to herself. Calmly, coldly, with merciless fidelity, with never one word or hint of consciousness as to who she was, the artist had completed his study. The wronged husband spurned the guilty wife as remorselessly as she had once forsaken him. It was just—he had said so; but I found it in me to wish that justice were less cruel.
*****
"It was still early next morning when Christian came to my room.
"'I find I have mislaid my key of the studio,' he said. ‘'Will you lend me yours?'
"'I am just going there,' I answered. 'We may as well walk together.'
"The studio was but a short distance from where we lived. To this day I remember that morning—the soft air, the budding green of the trees, the scent of spring flowers. Ah! if human life could but renew itself as nature does! . . . But I must hasten on. We reached the studio. I stopped in some consternation.
"'Why, Christian,' I said, 'your key is in the lock! How careless!'
"He looked disturbed.
"'I have no recollection of leaving it there,' he said; 'and you were the last to come away, you remember.'
"'True,' I said, 'and I certainly closed and locked the door as usual.'
"We spent no more time in words. A vague presentiment of evil oppressed us. In silence we hurried into the room. My first glance was for the picture. It stood there in the full glare of the morning light, tragic, wonderful as ever. But on the bare wooden floor beneath I saw outstretched a woman's prostrate figure. We sprang forward. A cry of horror burst from Christian. Face downwards on the floor she lay, half veiled by masses of loosened hair, her hand clasping a sharp and shining blade; her face, as he raised it, white and calm, set in the frozen peace of death.
"We raised her, and laid her on the couch, but even as we did so we knew that there was no hope. Her life's history had ended here, where its first chapter of retribution had been written by the man she had wronged.
"When the first shock of horror was over, and the medical verdict had been pronounced, I noticed that on the table there were some sheets of paper, closely written, and placed together. They were not addressed, but I drew Christian's attention to them, feeling certain they were meant for him. He read them silently, sadly, perhaps with something of regret at last. When he had finished, he folded them together, and turned to me.
"'You can guess, of course,' he said. 'She came here determined to destroy that picture; full of hatred and revenge. She writes here of all that was in her heart from the moment that she saw herself on that canvas. Some softer feeling, however, seems to have stolen over her as—as she wrote—some memory of our youth, our love—for she did love me, just for a brief space, as well as it was in her to love anyone. She leaves off abruptly, as you see. I think she must have gone over to the picture for one more look. The knife was in her grasp. Whether she faltered in intent, or whether, as the doctor says, the heart's action suddenly ceased under the effects of fierce excitement, we shall never know. There she lies—powerless now to plead for or receive forgiveness.'
"'You would not grant forgiveness, Christian,' I said sadly, as I covered the calm, dead face; 'yet, you see, it was not in your hands to give—retribution.""
The speaker paused, and looked round at the grave and silent circle.
"That is all," he said, "only Christian did not send that picture for exhibition. It stood from that day in his studio, in a recess veiled by a heavy curtain. I think no one save he or I, ever lifted that curtain, or knew the history it hid from all the world, whose praises he has won, whose fame is his, at last, when he neither needs, nor knows of it."
Finis.
