THE 
 
 JUDGMENT BOOKS 
 
 BY 
 E.F. BENSON 
 
 
 V/HARPERS"^ 
 8 iLITTLE 
 \ NOVELS
 
 LIBRARY ] 
 
 V OF
 
 THE JUDGMENT BOOKS
 
 THE JUDGMENT BOOKS 
 
 B Stors 
 
 E. F. BEXSOX 
 
 AUTUOR OF "r»ODO' 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 •'VflfttOTOH 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 1895
 
 HARPER'S LITTLE NOVELS. 
 
 THE ROYAL MARINE. An Idyl of Narragansett Pier. By 
 Brandkr Matthews. Illustrated by VV. T. Smidlky. 
 
 A KENTUCKY CARDINAL. By James Lane Allen. Illus- 
 trated by Albert E. Stkrneb. 
 
 AN AGITATOR. By Clementina Black. 
 
 ST. JOHN'S WOOING. By M. G. McClelland. Illustrated. 
 
 MINISTERS OF GRACE. By Eva Wilder McGlasson. Illus- 
 trated by Clifford Carleton. 
 
 32mo, Cloth, Omamevtal, $1 00 each. 
 
 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
 tSff' for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers by 
 mail, postage prepaid, to any part "/ the Cnittd States, Canada, or 
 Mexico, on receipt of the price. 
 
 Copyright, 1895, by Harper i Brothers. 
 All rights reserred.
 
 THE JUDGMENT BOOKS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The terrace to the south of Penalva 
 Forest lay basking in the sunshine of 
 an early September afternoon, and the 
 very bees which kept passing in and 
 out from the two hives beneath the 
 laurel shrubbery to the right seemed 
 going about their work with most un- 
 proverbial drowsiness. A flight of some 
 eight steps led down from the centre of 
 tlie terrace to the lawn below, where a 
 tennis-court was marked out, and by 
 the bottom of the steps ran a gravel- 
 path which sloped up past the beehives
 
 to join the terrace at the far end. In 
 the gutter by this path lay a tennis- 
 ball, neglected and desolate. Below the 
 lawn the ground sloped quickly away 
 in a stretch of stubbly hay -field, just 
 shorn of its aftermath, down to a fence, 
 which lav strairsflino^ alons: a line of 
 brown seaweed - covered rocks, over 
 which the waveless water of the estuary 
 of the Fal crept up silently at high 
 tide. 
 
 A little iron staircase, the lower steps 
 of which, and the clasp which fastened 
 it to the wall, were fringed with oozy, 
 amphibious growth, communicated with 
 the beach on one side and the field on 
 the other. Except for this clearing to 
 the south of the house, the woods 
 climbed up steeply from almost the 
 water's edire to the back of a broad 
 Cornish moor, all purple and gold with 
 gorse and heather, and resonant with
 
 bees. Irresponsible drowsiness seemed 
 the key-note of the scene. 
 
 At a corner of the lawn, lying full 
 length on a wicker sofa beneath the 
 shade of the trees, lay Jack Armitage, 
 also irresponsibly drowsy. He would 
 have said he was meditatino^. Beino^-an 
 artist, he conceded to himself the right 
 to meditate as often and as long as he 
 pleased, but just now his meditations 
 were entirely confined to vague thoughts 
 that it was tea-time; and that, on the 
 whole, he would not have another pipe; 
 so he thrust his hands into his coat- 
 pockets and only thought about tea. 
 Perhaps the familiar and still warm 
 bowl of his favorite brier wood was re- 
 sponsible for his change of intention ; 
 in any case, it is certain that he drew 
 it out and began to fill it with the care- 
 ful precision of those who know that 
 the good gift of tobacco is squandered
 
 if it is bestowed aiuilcssly or carelessly 
 into its censer. 
 
 lie had been staying witli Frank 
 Trevor, the owner of this delightful 
 place, for nearly a month, and he had 
 sketched and talked art, in which he 
 disagreed with his host on every ques- 
 tion admitting two opinions — and these 
 are legion — all day and a considerable 
 part of the night. Frank, who was 
 even more orthodox than himself on the 
 subject of meditation, had finished, some 
 tvv'o months before, the portrait at which 
 he had been working; and, as his habit 
 was, had worked much too hard wdiile 
 he was at it, had knocked himself np, 
 and for the last eight weeks had spent 
 his time in sitting in the sun serene 
 and idle. Jack was leaving next day, 
 and had passed the morning in the 
 woods finishing a charming sketch of 
 the estuary seen through a foreground
 
 of trees. At lancli Frank liad said lie 
 was going to sit in the garden till tea- 
 time, after which they were going on the 
 river; but he had not appeared, and Jack 
 for the last hour or two had been inter- 
 mittently wondering what he was doing. 
 At this moment Frank was sitting 
 in a low chair in his studio doing noth- 
 ing. But he had been having a rather 
 emotional afternoon all by himself, see- 
 ing little private ghosts of his own, and 
 lie looked excited and troubled. In his 
 idle intervals he always kept the door 
 of his studio locked, and neither went 
 in himself nor allowed any one else to. 
 But this afternoon he had wanted a 
 book which he thought might be there, 
 and before he found it he had found 
 something else which had raised all the 
 *ghosts of his Decameron, and had in- 
 directly made him resolve to begin work 
 again at once.
 
 In Ills search be had taken down from 
 the shelves a book he had not touched 
 for some years, and out of its pages 
 there slipped a torn yellow programme 
 of a concert at one of the Cafe Chan- 
 tants in Paris. It went on bowing and 
 fluttering in its fall ; and as he picked 
 it up and looked at it for a mo- 
 ment idly the ghosts began to rise. 
 There was one ghost in particular 
 wliich, like Moses' rod, soon swallowed 
 up all the other ghosts. She had 
 been to that concert with him — she 
 had been to other concerts with him ; 
 and in another moment he had cram- 
 pled up the momentous little yel- 
 low programme and flung it into the 
 grate. 
 
 He walked up and down the room for 
 a minute or two, for the ghost was still* 
 visible, and then, by a very natural ef- 
 fect of reaction, he picked up the pro-
 
 gi-am me again, smoothed it out, and put 
 it back on the tiiblc. 
 
 What a hot, stifling niglit it had been ! 
 Paris ]aj gasping and choking as in a 
 vapor-batli. They had soon left the con- 
 cert, and walked about in the garden. 
 Even the moonh'ght seemed hot, and 
 every now and then a little peevish 
 wind ruffled the tree-tops, and then 
 grabbed at tlie eartli below, raising a 
 cloud of stinging dust — a horrible 
 night! 
 
 He had left Paris next day for a holi- 
 day, and had spent a month at New Quay, 
 on the north coast of Cornwall. How 
 restful and delicious it was! It seemed 
 the solution of all difficulties to pass 
 quiet, uneventful days in that little 
 backwater of life, away from towns 
 and jostling crowds ; above all, away 
 from Paris — beautiful, terrible Paris! 
 He lived a good deal with the artist set
 
 tliere, charming and intelligent folk, "svlio 
 prattled innocently of snnsets and fore- 
 grounds, and led a simple, healthy life. 
 He had fallen in love with simple, 
 healthy lives; he began to hate the 
 thought of the streets and the gas and 
 the glitter of Paris. He spent long 
 days on the shore listening to the low 
 murmur of the sound-quenched waves, 
 and Ion or nitrhts with the fisher-folks on 
 the sea, catching mackerel. In those 
 long, still hours he could think that the 
 sea was like some livino^ thins:, breatli- 
 ing slowly and steadily in sleep, and he 
 a child leaning on her breast, safe in her 
 care, alone with the great tender mother 
 of mankind. 
 
 One mornincr — how well he remem- 
 bered it ! — after a night on the sea, he 
 had landed a mile or so from the village, 
 and had walked along the shore alone 
 as the dawn was breaking, and, coming
 
 round a little jutting promontory of 
 rock, he had found two or three fisher- 
 men who had just pulled tlieir net to 
 land, naked but for a cloth round tlie 
 waist, gathered round a little fire they 
 had made on the beacli, where they had 
 broiled a few of their haul ; and as he 
 paused and spoke to them, for they were 
 old friends, one offered him a piece of 
 broiled fish, and another, who had not 
 been out, but had helped them to bring 
 in the net, had brought down some 
 bread and honey-comb, and he ate the 
 fish and honey-comb on the shore of the 
 sea as day broke . . . 
 
 And it was on that same morning he 
 first met Margery his wife. She had 
 come \vith some friends of his from 
 London by the night train, and they 
 were all going down to the bathing-ma- 
 chine, after their night's journey, when 
 Frank arrived at the village. He had
 
 10 
 
 known at once that the world only held 
 one woman for hini. 
 
 Their days of courtship were few. 
 Within three weeks of the time they 
 had met Frank had proposed to her and 
 been accepted. One afternoon, with 
 the fine, bold honesty of love, he had 
 told her that he had led such a life as 
 other men lead, that his record was not 
 stainless, and that she ought to know 
 before she bound up her life with him. 
 But Margery had stopped him. She 
 had said she did not wish to know; 
 that she loved him, and was not that 
 enough? But Frank still felt that she 
 liad better know ; if ghosts were to 
 rise between them it was less startling 
 if she knew what ghosts to expect. 
 But she had started as if in pain, and 
 said : 
 
 " Ah, don't, Frank ; you hurt me 
 when yon talk like that. It is dead and
 
 11 
 
 past. All, I knew that. Well, then, 
 bury it — let us bury it together." 
 
 And he obeyed her, and buried it. 
 
 Tie thonght over all this as he sat 
 with the crumpled programme in his 
 hand. Was it ever possible to bury a 
 thing entirely? Had not everything 
 which we thought dead a terrible facul- 
 ty of raising itself at most unexpected 
 moments? A scrap of paper — a few 
 words in a printed book — these could 
 be the last trump for a buried sin, and 
 it would rise. 
 
 He got up olf the sofa — these were 
 ugly thoughts — and went on looking 
 for the book he had come to find. Ah, 
 there it was in its paper cover — Dr. Je- 
 kyll and Mr. Hyde. He had bought it 
 on his way down from London, but had 
 not yet looked at it. 
 
 He opened it and glanced at a few 
 pages; and then, sitting down where he
 
 12 
 
 had been before, read the whole book 
 straiglit tliroiigli. He was strangely 
 excited and wronght upon by it, and 
 Iiis mind was beginning to grope in the 
 darkness after an idea. Yes, surelj-, this 
 was the essence of portrait-painting: 
 not to present a man as he was at a par- 
 ticular moment, in one particular part, 
 with the emblem of one particular pur- 
 suit by him — an artist with his canvas, 
 a sculptor with his clay — but the whole 
 man, his Jekvll and his Ilvde together 
 in one picture. 
 
 Then in a moment his mind, as it 
 were, found the handle of the door for 
 which it had been groping in darkness, 
 and flung it open, letting in the full 
 blaze of a complete idea. There is oii]y 
 one human being on earth whom an}^ 
 artist who ever lived could paint com- 
 pletely. It is only a man himself who 
 wholly knows both the side he turns to
 
 tlic world and the side he would hide 
 even from himself but cannot. 
 
 Frank's hands trembled nervoiisl^y, 
 and his breath came and went quick- 
 ly. He would paint himself as no man 
 yet had ever painted either himself or 
 any one else. He w^ould put his Jekyll 
 and Hyde on the canvas for men to 
 wonder at and to be silent before. He 
 would do wdiat no artist had ever yet 
 done. He thought of that room in the 
 Uffizi at Florence which holds the por- 
 trait of the Italian families, each paint- 
 ed by himself : Raphael, with his young, 
 beardless face — Raphael, the painter, 
 and no more ; Andrea del Sarto, not 
 the painter, but the liver. Each of 
 them had painted marvellously outside 
 themselves — one gift, one w\ay of love. 
 But he would do more : he would paint 
 himself as the husband and lover of 
 Margery, the Jekyll of himself, who
 
 14 
 
 Lad known and knew the best capabil- 
 ities for loving in his nature ; and he 
 Avould paint his Hjde, the man who 
 had lived as other men in Paris — a Bo- 
 hemian, careless, worthless, finding this 
 thing and that honej at the moment, 
 but to the soul wormwood and bitter- 
 ness. The wormwood should be there, 
 and the honey; his love for his wife 
 and his rejection and loathing of those 
 earlier days which he had thought were 
 dead, but which had risen and without 
 their honey. His own face, painted 
 by himself, should be the book out of 
 which he should be judged ; for love 
 and lust, happiness and misery, inno- 
 cence and guilt — all unite their indelible 
 marks there, and no one can ever efface 
 the other. 
 
 Then, because he felt he was on the 
 threshold of something new, and be- 
 cause all men, the stronirest and weak-
 
 15 
 
 est alike, are afraid, desperately afraid, 
 of everything which they know noth- 
 ing of, he became suddenly fright- 
 ened. 
 
 AYhat would this thing be? he asked 
 liiniself. AVhat would happen to himself 
 when he had done it ? Would he have 
 raised his dead permanently ? Would 
 they refuse to be buried again now that 
 he had of his own will perpetuated 
 them in his art ? And Margery, what 
 would she have to say to the ghosts 
 she would not allow him to tell her 
 about ? 
 
 Ent he was not a coward, and he did 
 not mean to turn back because of this 
 sudden spasm of fright. He would 
 begin to-morrow; he could not help be- 
 ginning at once, for, as he often told 
 Margery, when the idea was ready he 
 had to record it ; the artist's inexorable 
 need for expression could not be gain-
 
 IG 
 
 said or trifled with. It must come 
 out. 
 
 Frank Trevor had a very mobile face, 
 a face which his feelings played on 
 freely as a breeze ruffling a moorland 
 pool of water. II is dark-gray eyes, set 
 deep under their black eyebrows, were 
 kindled and glowing with excitement. 
 In such moments lie looked strikingly 
 handsome, though his features, taken 
 singly, were not faultless. Ilis mouth 
 was too short and too full-lipped for 
 actual beauty; but now, as he sat there, 
 the very eagerness and vitality that came 
 and went, as now one aspect of his idea 
 and uow^ another struck him, gave a 
 fineness to every feature that made it 
 worthy of an admiration which a more 
 perfectly moulded face miglit well have 
 failed to deserve. 
 
 But there was another fear as well, a 
 fear so fantastic that he was almost
 
 17 
 
 ashamed of it ; but, as be thought of it, 
 it grew upon him. He bad always felt 
 when be painted a portrait that virtue 
 went out of him ; that be put actually 
 a part of his personality into his picture. 
 What, then, would happen if be painted 
 bis own portrait completely ? He knew 
 his idea was fantastic and unreasonable; 
 but the fear — a fear again of something 
 that was new — was there, lurking in a 
 shaded corner of bis mind. But of this 
 be could speak to Margery, and Mar- 
 gery's cool, smiling way of dealing with 
 phantasms always had a most evaporat- 
 ing effect on them. Of the other fear 
 be bad wished to speak to her once, but 
 she did not wish to bear, and be wished 
 to speak to her of it no longer. 
 
 He looked at bis watch and found it 
 was nearly tea-time ; he had been there 
 over two hours, and he wondered to 
 himself whether it bad seemed more 
 
 2
 
 IS 
 
 like two years or two minutes. He 
 rose to go, but before leaving the room 
 he took a long look round it, feeling 
 that he was looking at it for perhaps 
 the last time ; at any rate, that it could 
 never look the same again. 
 
 '' We ouly register a change in our- 
 selves,'' he thought, " by the impression 
 that other things make on us. If our 
 taste changes we say that a thing we 
 used to think beautiful is ugly. It is 
 not so — it is the same as it always was. 
 I cannot paint this picture without 
 changing myself. TThat will the change 
 be?" 
 
 The yellow, crumpled programme 
 and the copy of Jehjll mid Hyde lay 
 together unregarded on the table. 
 When we have drunk our medicine we 
 do not concern ourselves with the 
 medicine -bottle — unless, like the im- 
 mortal Mrs. Pullet, we take a vague,
 
 19 
 
 melancholy pleasure in recalling how 
 much medicine we have taken. But 
 that dear lady's worst enemies could 
 not have found a single point in com- 
 mon between her and Frank Trevor.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Jack Aemitage, as we know, though 
 he was aware it was tea-time, was filling 
 his pipe. He had accomplished this 
 to his satisfaction, and had just got 
 it comfortably under way when Mrs. 
 Trevor, also with tea in her mind, came 
 down the steps leading from the terrace 
 and strolled towards him. 
 
 "Where's Frank?" she asked. "I 
 thought he said he was going to sit 
 about with yon till tea ?" 
 
 " He said so," said Jack ; " but he 
 went into his studio to get a book, and 
 he has not appeared since." 
 
 " Well, I suppose he's in the house," 
 she said. " In any case it's five, and we
 
 21 
 
 slia'ii't get more than two hours on the 
 ri^^er. So come in." 
 
 Jack often caught himself regretting 
 lie was not a portrait-painter when he 
 looked at Mrs. Trevor. She was, he 
 told himself, one of the beauties of all 
 time, and her black hair, black eyes, and 
 delicately chiselled nose had caused 
 many young men on the slightest ac- 
 quaintance to wish that she had not 
 decided to change her maiden name to 
 Trevor. It was also noticeable that as 
 their acquaintance became less slight 
 their regret became proportionately 
 keener. Frank had done a portrait of 
 her, the first that brought him promi- 
 nently into notice, and, as Jack thought, 
 his best. By one of those daring experi- 
 ments which in his hands seemed al- 
 ways to succeed, he had represented her 
 a tall, stately figure, dressed in white, 
 standing in front of a great Chinese
 
 screen covered with writhing dragons 
 in bhie and £i:old, a niMitmare of hide- 
 ous forms in wonderful colors. It was 
 a bold experiment, but certainly, to 
 Jack's mind, he had managed with mi- 
 raculous success to bring out what was 
 almost as characteristic of his wife's 
 mind as her beauty was of her body, 
 and which, for want of a better word, 
 he called her wholesomeness. The con- 
 trast between that and the exquisite de- 
 formities behind her hit eyes, so to 
 speak, straight in the face. But it hit 
 fair, and it was triumphant. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor paused on the edge of 
 the gravel-path and picked up tlie lone- 
 ly tennis-ball. 
 
 . " To think that it should have been 
 there all the time !" she said. " How 
 blind you are, Mr. Armitage !" 
 
 Jack rose and knocked out his pipe. 
 " The Fates are unkind," he said. " You
 
 23 
 
 call me in to tea just when I've lit my 
 pipe, and then go and blame me for not 
 finding the tennis-ball, which yon told 
 me was not worth while looking for." 
 
 '• I didn't know it was in the gutter," 
 she said. "I thought it had gone into 
 the flower-beds." 
 
 " Nor did I know it w^as in the gut- 
 ter, or I should have looked for it 
 there." 
 
 Margery laughed. 
 
 " I wish you were stopping on lon- 
 ger," she said, "and not going to-mor- 
 row. Surely you needn't go?" 
 
 " You are too kind, but the Fates are 
 still unkind," he said. "I have already 
 put it off a week, during which time 
 my brother has been languishing alone 
 at New Quay." 
 
 " To New Quay ? I didn't know yuu 
 were going there. Frank and I know 
 New Quay very well."
 
 24 
 
 Frank was in the drawing-room when 
 they went in, giving orders that the 
 studio should be thorouglilj swept out 
 and dusted that evening. 
 
 " I'm going to begin painting to-mor- 
 row," he announced, abruptly, to the 
 others as they came in. 
 
 Margery turned to Jack. 
 
 "No more tennis for me unless you 
 stop," she said. " Have you ever been 
 with us when Frank is painting? I 
 see nothing of him all day, and he gob- 
 bles his meals and scowls at the butler." 
 
 The footman eame in again with the 
 tea-things. 
 
 "And take that big looking-glass out 
 of the spare bedroom," said Frank to 
 him, "and put it in the studio." 
 
 " What do you want a looking-glass 
 for?" asked his wife, as the man left the 
 room. 
 
 Frank got up, and walked restlessly
 
 25 
 
 up and down. "I begin to-morrow," 
 lie said ; " I've got the idea ready. I can 
 see it. Until then it is no use trying to 
 paint ; but when that comes, it is no use 
 not trying." 
 
 "But what's the looking-glass for?" 
 repeated Margery. 
 
 "Ah, yes, I haven't told you. I'm 
 going to paint a portrait of my- 
 self." 
 
 "That's my advice," observed Mar- 
 gery. "I've often suggested that to 
 you, haven't I, Frank?" 
 
 "You have. I wonder if you did 
 wisely ? Tliis afternoon, however, other 
 tliino:s sne^o^ested it to me." 
 
 " Have you been meditating ?" asked 
 Jack, sympathetically. " I've been med- 
 itating all afternoon. "Why didn't yon 
 come out, as you said you would, and 
 meditate with me?" 
 
 "I had a little private meditation of
 
 26 
 
 my own,'' said Frank. '' It demanded 
 solitude." 
 
 " Is it bills ?'' asked Margery. " You 
 know, dear, I told you that you'd be 
 sorry for paying a hundred guineas for 
 that horse.'' 
 
 Frank laughed. 
 
 "Xo, it's not bills — at least, not bills 
 that make demands of cash. Give me 
 some tea, Margy." 
 
 The evening was warm and line, but 
 cloudless, and after dinner the three sat 
 out on the terrace listening to the foot- 
 falls of night stealing on tiptoe in the 
 woods round them. The full moon, 
 shining through white skeins of drift- 
 ing cloud, cast a strange, diffused light, 
 and the air, alert with the coming rain, 
 seen:ed full of those delicate scents which 
 are imperceptible during the day. Once 
 a hare ran out from the cover across the 
 lawn, where it sat np for a few moments,
 
 27 
 
 with ears cocked forward, until it heard 
 the rustle of Margery's dress, as she 
 moved to look in the direction of Frank's 
 finger pointing at it, and then scuttled 
 noiselessly off. 
 
 They had been silent for some little 
 time, bnt at last Frank spoke. He 
 wanted to tell Margery of his fantastic 
 fear, that fear which she might hear 
 about ; or, rather, to let her find it out, 
 and pour cool common-sense on it. 
 
 " I feel just as I did on my last night 
 at home, before I went to school for the 
 first time," he said. " I feel as if I had 
 never painted a portrait before. I have 
 had a long holiday, I know; but still it is 
 not as if I had never been to school be- 
 fore. I wonder why I feel like that?" 
 
 "Most of one's fears are for very 
 harmless things," observed Jack. " One 
 sees a bogie and runs away, but it is 
 probably only a turnip and a candle.
 
 28 
 
 Naturally one is nervous about a new 
 thing. One doesn't quite know what it 
 ma}^ turn out to be. But, as a rule, if 
 it isn't a turnip and a candle, it is a 
 sheet and a mask. Equally inoffensive 
 really, but unexpected." 
 
 "Ah, but I don't usually feel like 
 that," said Frank. "In fact, I never 
 have before. One is like a plant. When 
 one has flowered once, it is fairly cer- 
 tain that the next flowers will be like 
 the last, if one puts anything of one's 
 self into it. Of course if one faces 
 one's self one may put out a monstros- 
 ity, but I am not facing myself. Yet, 
 somehow, I am as afraid as if I were 
 going to produce something horrible 
 and unnatural. But I can't face my- 
 self; I can't blossom under glass." 
 
 " That's such a nice theory for you, 
 dear," said Margery, "especially if you 
 are inclined to be lazy."
 
 29 
 
 Frank made a little hopeless gesture 
 of impatience. 
 
 "Lazy, industrious — industrious, lazy; 
 what have those to do with it? You 
 don't understand me a bit. When the 
 time has come that I should paint, I do 
 so inevitably ; if the time has not come, 
 it is impossible for me to paint. I know 
 that you think artists are idle, desultory, 
 Bohemian, irregular. That is part of 
 their nature as artists. A man who 
 grinds out so much a day is not and. 
 cannot be an artist. The sap flows, and 
 we bud ; the sap recedes, and for us it 
 is winter-time. You do not call a tree 
 lazy in winter because it does not jDut 
 out leaves?" 
 
 " But a tree, at any rate, is regular," 
 said Margery; "besides, evergreens." 
 
 " Yes, and everlasting flowers," said 
 Frank, impatiently. " The tree is only 
 a simile. But we are not dead when
 
 30 
 
 we don't produce any more than the 
 tree is dead in December." 
 
 Margery frowned. This theory of 
 Frank's was her pet aversion, but slie 
 could not get him to give it up. 
 
 " Then do you mean to say tliat all 
 effort is valueless ?" 
 
 " No, no !" cried Frank ; " the whole 
 process of production is frantic, passion- 
 ate effort to realize what one sees. But 
 no amount of effort will make one see 
 anytliing. I could do you a picture, 
 which you would probably think very 
 prettj^, every da}^, if you liked, of 
 'Love in a Cottage,' or some such in- 
 anity." 
 
 Jack crossed his legs, thoughtfully. 
 
 '* The great objection of love in a 
 cottage," he said, "is that it is so hard 
 to find a really suitable cottage." 
 
 Frank laughed. "A courageous at- 
 tempt to change the subject," he said.
 
 31 
 
 "But Tin not going to talk nonsense 
 to-night." 
 
 " I think you're talking awful non- 
 sense, dear," said Margery, candidly. 
 
 " You will see I am serious in a 
 minute," said Frank. "I was saying I 
 could paint that sort of thing at any time, 
 but it would not be part of me. And 
 the only pictures worth doing are those 
 which are part of one's self. Everj^ 
 real picture tells you, of course, some- 
 thing about what it represents; but it 
 tells you a great deal about the man 
 who painted it, and that is the most im- 
 portant of the tw^o. And I cannot — and, 
 what is more, I don't choose to — paint 
 anything into which I do not put part 
 of myself." 
 
 ^'Mind you look about the woods 
 after I've gone," said Jack, "and if you 
 see a leg or an arm of mine lying about, 
 send it to me. Beach Hotel, Xew^ Quay."
 
 Frank threw himself back in his chair 
 Avith a laugh. 
 
 ''Mj dear Jack," he said, "for a 
 clever man you are a confounded idiot. 
 ^"0 one ever accused you of putting a 
 nail- paring of your own into any of 
 your pictures. Of course you are a 
 landscape-painter — that makes a certain 
 difference. A landscape-painter paints 
 what he sees, and only some of that; a 
 portrait-painter — a real portrait-painter 
 — paints what he knows and feels, and 
 when he paints the virtue goes out of 
 him." 
 
 " And the more he knows, the more 
 virtue goes out of him, I suppose," said 
 Jack. " You know yourself pretty well 
 — what will happen when you paint 
 yourself ?" 
 
 Frank grew suddenly grave. 
 
 " That's exactly what I want to know 
 mvself. That was what I meant when
 
 33 
 
 I said I felt like a little boy going to 
 school for the first time — it will be 
 something new. I liave only painted 
 four portraits in my life, and each of 
 them definitely took something out of 
 me — changed me; and from each — I 
 am telling you sober truth — I absorbed 
 something of the sitter. And when I 
 paint myself — " 
 
 '*I suppose you will go out like a 
 candle," interrupted Jack. "Total dis- 
 appearance of a rising English artist ; 
 and of the portrait, what? Shall w'e 
 think it is you? Will it w^alk about 
 and talk ? Will it get your vitality ?" 
 
 Frank got quickly out of his chair 
 and stood before them. His thin, tall 
 figure looked almost ghostly in the 
 strange half-light, and he spoke rapidly 
 and excitedly. 
 
 " That is exactly what I am afraid 
 of," he said. " I am afraid — I confess
 
 34 
 
 it — I am afraid of many things about 
 this portrait, and that is one of them. I 
 began to paint myself once before — I 
 have never told even Margery this — but 
 I had to stop. But this afternoon sev- 
 eral things made themselves irresistible, 
 and I must try again. I was in bad 
 health when 1 tried before, and one 
 evening when I went into the studio 
 and saw it — it was more than half fin- 
 ished — I had a sudden giddy feeling that 
 I did not know which was me — the por- 
 trait or myself. I knew I was on the 
 verge of something new and unknown, 
 that if I went on with it I should go 
 mad or go to heaven ; and when I moved 
 towards it I saw it — I did see it — take 
 a step towards me." 
 
 " Lookino^-o^lass," said Marirery. "Go 
 on, dear." 
 
 " Then I was frightened. I ran away. 
 JSTcxt day I came back and tore the pict-
 
 35 
 
 lire into shreds. But now I am braver. 
 Besides, brave or not, I must do it. I 
 lost a great deal, I know, by not going 
 on with it, but I could not. Oh yes, 
 you may laugh if you like, but it is 
 true. You may even say that what I lost 
 was exactly what one always does lose 
 when one is afraid of doing something. 
 One loses self-command. One is less 
 able to do the thing next time one tries. 
 I lost all that, but I lost a great deal 
 more : I lost the chance of knowing 
 what happens to a man if he parts with 
 himself." 
 
 "Don't be silly, Frank," said Mar- 
 gery, suddenly. " How can a man part 
 with himself?" 
 
 " In two ways at least. He may go 
 mad or he may die. I dare say it 
 doesn't matter much, if one only has 
 produced something worth producing; 
 but it frightened me."
 
 Despite herself, perhaps because fear 
 is the most contagions of diseases, Mar- 
 gery felt a little frightened, too, abont 
 this new portrait. But she rallied. 
 
 '• When the time comes for us to die 
 we die," she said, "and we can't help it. 
 But we can all avoid being very silly 
 while we live — at least, you can, and 
 you are the case in point/' 
 
 Frank resumed his seat, and spoke 
 less quickly and excitedly. 
 
 "I know it all sounds ridiculous and 
 absurd," he said ; " but if I paint my por- 
 trait as I think I am going to, I shall 
 put all myself into it. It will be a 
 wonderful thing — there will be no pict- 
 ure like it. But I tell you, plainly and 
 soberly — I am not feverish, yon may feel 
 my pulse if you like — that if I paint it 
 as I believe I can, something will hap- 
 pen to me. It will be my soul as well 
 as my body you will see there. Ah,
 
 37 
 
 there are a hundred dangers in the way. 
 What will happen to me I don't pre- 
 tend to guess. Moreover, I am fright- 
 ened about it." 
 
 Once again, for a moment, Margery 
 was frightened too. Frank's fear and 
 earnestness were very catching. But 
 she summoned her common-sense to her 
 aid. Such things did not happen ; it 
 was iiripossihle in a civilized country 
 towards the end of the nineteenth cen- 
 tury. 
 
 " Oh, my dear boy," she said, " it is 
 so like you to tell us that it will be a 
 wonderful thing, and that there will be 
 no picture like it. It will be even more 
 like you, if, after you have made an 
 admirable beginning, you say it is a 
 horror and put your foot through it, 
 vowing you will never set brush to can- 
 vas again. I suppose it is all part of 
 the artistic temperament."
 
 38 
 
 Frank thonglit of liis other fear, of 
 which he could not tell Margery, which 
 she had refused to hear of before. He 
 laid his hand on her arm. 
 
 "Margery, tell me not to do it," he 
 said, earnestly. " If you will tell me 
 not to do it, 1 won't." 
 
 "My dear Frank, you told us just 
 now that it was inevitable you should. 
 But why should I tell you not to do it? 
 I think it would be the best thing in 
 the world for you." 
 
 " Well, we shall see. Jack, why 
 should you go away to-morrow? Why 
 not stop and be a witness?" 
 
 " No, I must go," said Jack, " but if 
 Mrs. Trevor will send me a post-card, or 
 wire, if you show any grave symptoms 
 of o;oino: to Heaven or Bedlam, I will 
 come back at once — I promise that. 
 Dear me, how anxious I shall feel ! 
 Just these words, you know: 'Mr. Trev-
 
 39 
 
 or going to Bedlam' or 'going to Heav- 
 en,' and I'll come at once. But I must 
 go to-morrow. I've been expected at 
 New Quay for a week. Besides, I've 
 painted so many beech-trees here that 
 they will say I am going to paint all 
 the trees in England, just as Moore has 
 painted all the English Channel. I 
 hear he's begun on the Atlantic." 
 
 Frank laughed. 
 
 ''I fear he certainly has painted a 
 great many square miles of sea. How- 
 ever, supposing they lost all the Admi- 
 ralt}^ charts, how useful it would be ! 
 They would soon be able to reproduce 
 them from his pictures, for they cer- 
 tainly are exactly like the sea." 
 
 "But they are all like the Bellman's 
 chart in the 'Hunting of the Shark,'" 
 said Margery, " without the least ves- 
 tige of land." 
 
 " What would be the effect on you.
 
 40 
 
 Frank," asked the other, " if you paint- 
 ed a few hundred miles of sea? I sup- 
 pose )^ou would be found drowned in 
 your studio some niorninc,^, and they 
 would be able to fix the place where you 
 were drowned by seeing what you were 
 painting last. But there are difficulties 
 in the way." 
 
 "He must be very careful only to 
 paint shallow places," said Margery, 
 "where he can't be drowned. Oh, 
 Frank, perhaps it's your astral body 
 that goes hopping about from picture 
 to picture !" 
 
 "Astral fiddlesticks!" said Frank. 
 " Come, let's go in." 
 
 He paused for a moment on the 
 thresliold of the long French window 
 opening into the drawing-room. 
 
 "But if any one, particularly you, 
 Margery," he said, " ever mistakes my 
 portrait for myself, I shall know that
 
 41 
 
 the particular fear I have been telling 
 you about is likely to be realized. And 
 then, if you wish, we will discuss the 
 advisability of my going on with it. 
 But I begin to-morrow."
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Akmitage bad to have at half-past 
 eight the next morning, for it was a 
 ten -mile drive to Truro, the nearest 
 station, and lie breakfasted alone. Rain 
 bad fallen heavily during the night, but 
 it had cleared up before morning, and 
 everything looked deliciously fresh and 
 clean. Ten minutes before his carriafre 
 came round Margery appeared, and 
 they walked together up and down the 
 terrace until it was time for him to be 
 off. Margery was looking a little tired 
 and worried, as if she had not slept 
 well. 
 
 "I shall have breakfast with Frank 
 in his studio after you have gone,'' she
 
 43 
 
 said, "so until jour carriage comes we'll 
 take a turn out-of-doors. There is some- 
 thing so extraordinarily sweet about the 
 open air." 
 
 "Frank didn't seem to me to profit 
 by it much last night." 
 
 Margery frowned. " I don't know 
 what's the matter with me," she said. 
 "All that nonsense which Frank talked 
 last night must have got on my nerves. 
 Don't you know those long, half-wak- 
 ing dreams one has sometimes when 
 one is not quite certain whether what 
 one hears or sees is real or not? Once 
 last night I woke like that. I thought 
 at first it was part of my dream, and 
 heard Frank talking in his sleep. ' Mar- 
 gery,' he said, ' that isn't me at all. This 
 is me. Surely you know me. Do I 
 look so terrible V " 
 
 "Why should he think he looked ter- 
 rible ?" said Jack.
 
 44 
 
 ''I don't know. Then he went ram- 
 bling on : ^ I tried to bury it, and you 
 would not let me tell you.' Of course, 
 his mind must liave been running on 
 what he said yesterday evening as we 
 came in, for he went on repeating, 
 'Don't you know me? Don't you 
 know me?' And this morning he got 
 up at daybreak, and I haven't seen him 
 since." 
 
 Margery stopped to pick a couple of 
 rosebuds and put them in the front of 
 her dress. She had no hat on, and the 
 light wind blew through her hair with 
 a deliciously bracing effect. She turned 
 towards the sea, and sniffed in the salt 
 freshness with wide nostrils like a young 
 thorough-bred horse. 
 
 " If Frank would only be out-of-doors 
 for two hours a day while he was work- 
 ing, I shouldn't mind," she said; "but 
 he sticks in his studio, and then his di-
 
 45 
 
 gestion gets out of order, and he be- 
 comes astral. And mj mother wants 
 us to go to the Lizard to-morrow — 
 they've taken a house for the summer 
 — -and spend a couple of daj^s. I think 
 I shall go, but yet I don't like to leave 
 Frank. It's no use trying to get him 
 to come." 
 
 " But you aren't nervous, are you ?" 
 asked Jack. " I thought you were so 
 particularly sensible last night. Frank 
 is awfully fantastic — he always was ; but 
 fundamentally he's sane enough. Prob- 
 ably it will be a wonderful picture — lie 
 is usually right about his pictures — and 
 he will be excessively nervous and irri- 
 table while he is doing it, and refresh- 
 ingly idle when it's done. That's the 
 way he usually has." 
 
 " But it's an unhealthy way of doing 
 things," said Margery. " I wish he was
 
 46 
 
 " The wind bloweth where it listeth," 
 said Jack, "and it blows very often on 
 liirn. Isn't tliat enough?" 
 
 "Well, then, I wish I had a barom- 
 eter," said she. " The hurricane conies 
 down without warning. But I'm not 
 nervous — at least, I don't mean to be. 
 It is just one of Frank's ridiculous no- 
 tions. All the same, as he said last 
 night, when he does do a really good 
 portrait it has a very definite effect on 
 him." 
 
 "In what way? I don't understand." 
 
 "Do you remember liis picture of 
 Mr. Bracebridge ? It was in the Acad- 
 emy the year after his portrait of me, 
 though it was painted first. You know 
 every one said it was wicked to paint a 
 thing like that — that he might as well 
 have painted Mr. Bracebridge without 
 any clothes on as without any body
 
 47 
 
 '' Without any body on ?" 
 
 " Yes ; someliow — even I felt it, and 
 I am not artistic — Frank managed to 
 paint his soul. I could have written an 
 exhaustive analysis of Mr. Bracebridge's 
 cliaracter from that portrait." 
 
 " And the effect on Frank ?" 
 
 " Mr. Bracebridge is a charming man, 
 you know," said Margery, " Init he is 
 really unable to tell the truth. It sounds 
 very ridiculous, but for six weeks Frank 
 really became the most awful liar." 
 
 Jack stopped short. 
 
 ^'But the thing is absurd. In any 
 case, what does he mean by saying that 
 he doesn't know what will happen when 
 he paints himself ? It seems to me that 
 in the case of Mr. Bracebridge, so far 
 from Frank putting a lot of himself 
 into the picture, he unfortunately ab- 
 sorbed a lot of Mr. Bracebridge into 
 himself."
 
 48 
 
 " Frank was quite unconscious he had 
 become a liar," said Margery ; " but what 
 he means is this: he put a lot of his 
 o\vn personality into the picture — real- 
 ly the whole thing is so absurd that I 
 am ashamed to tell you about it — and 
 consequently weakened himself, or, as 
 he would express it, emptied himself. 
 And being in this state, Mr. Brace- 
 bridge's little weakness impressed itself 
 on him. That certainly happened, and 
 it seems to me only likely. We are all 
 affected by any one with whom we are 
 much taken up, but what Frank assumes 
 is the loss of his own personality. That 
 is absurd." 
 
 "Frank was like a hypnotic subject, 
 in fact," said Jack — "at least, they say 
 that they give themselves up, and sub- 
 ject themselves to another's will. But 
 even then — and, like you, I think the 
 whole thing is nonsense — how will the
 
 49 
 
 painting of his own portrait affect 
 him?" 
 
 " Like this : he puts his whole per- 
 sonality into it and receives nothing in 
 exchange ; no other personality will, so 
 to speak, feed him. Reall}^, he is very 
 silly." 
 
 The sound of carriage-wheels caused 
 them to turn in their stroll and walk 
 back again to the house. 
 
 " Incidentally," asked Jack, " how did 
 he cease to be a liar ?" 
 
 Margery looked at him openly and 
 frankly. 
 
 "Oh, by painting me. I am very 
 truthful." 
 
 "Did he absorb any other character- 
 istic?" 
 
 "Yes; he became less fantastic for a 
 time. You see I am very unimagina- 
 tive." 
 
 " Then you had better get him to
 
 50 
 
 paint another portrait of yon while he 
 is doing this. Won't that preserve the 
 bah^nce i'- 
 
 The fresh air and snnsliine were hav- 
 ing their legitin^ate effect on Margery, 
 and had sufficiently cancelled her trou- 
 bled night. She broke out into a light 
 laugh. 
 
 '• 01), that would be too dreadfully 
 complicated,'' she said. "Let's see — 
 what would happen ? He would put 
 his personality into both portraits, and 
 get back some of mine, and so he would 
 cease to be himself and become a wa- 
 tery reminiscence of me. It's as bad as 
 equations. Really, Mr. Armitage, I am 
 beo^innino^ to think vou believe in it 
 yourself." 
 
 "Xo, I don't; not a bit more than 
 you do. Well, I must say good-bye to 
 Frank, and tell him not to become too 
 astral."
 
 51 
 
 Frank was standing in front of his 
 easel with the charcoal in his hand. He 
 had caught a very characteristic pose of 
 his figure with extraordinary success, 
 and Margery and Jack exchanged a 
 rapid glance as they saw it ; for though 
 they had both avowed that they did not 
 believe a word of " Frank's nonsense," 
 they both felt it to be a certain relief 
 when they saw how brilliantly Frank 
 had sketched it in. There was a cer- 
 tain sureness about his lines that seemed 
 to give both Bedhim and Heaven a most 
 satisfactory remoteness. But they both 
 noticed that Frank had drawn the face 
 alread}^ and erased it, and it was only 
 represented by a few half-obliterated 
 lines. 
 
 Frank did not look up when tliey 
 entered, and Jack crossed the room to 
 Iiim. 
 
 " Fm just off," he said, seeing that
 
 52 
 
 the other did not look up, •' and I've 
 come to say good-bje. I've enjoyed 
 my visit enormously — quite enormous- 
 
 ly." 
 
 Frank started and winced as if he had 
 been struck, and, looking up, saw Armi- 
 tage for the first time. He drew his 
 hand over his eyes as if he had just been 
 awakened and his eyes were still heavy 
 with sleep. 
 
 ''Ah, Jack, I didn't see yon. What 
 time is it? Where are you going?" 
 
 Even as he spoke he turned to the 
 easel again and went on drawing. 
 
 "I'm going away," said Jack. "I'm 
 going to New Quay." 
 
 " Of course you are. Well, good-bye. 
 Drop in and see us at any time. I'm 
 very busy," and he was lost in his work. 
 
 Jack laid his hand on his shoulder. 
 
 " Don't overdo it, old boy," he said. 
 "You soon knock up, you know, if 3'ou
 
 53 
 
 don't take exercise. And it \Yon't be 
 lialf so good if you slave at it all day. 
 Half the artistic sense is good diges- 
 tion." 
 
 " No, I'll be very careful," said 
 Frank, half to himself. "Take your 
 hand awa}^ please; I'm drawing in 
 that piece." 
 
 "I shall tell them to send breakfast 
 in here at once, Frank," said Margery. 
 "I'm going to have breakfast here with 
 you." 
 
 Frank made no reply, and the two 
 left the room together. Armitage was 
 suddenly loath to go, but the carriage 
 was at the door, and it was obviously 
 absurd to stop just because — because 
 Frank had talked a great deal of non- 
 sense tlie evening before, and had made 
 a wonderfully clever sketch of himself, 
 but for some reason had been dissatis- 
 fied with the drawing of the face. Some-
 
 51 
 
 how that little point interested him, and 
 he wanted to assure himself that no sig- 
 nificance was to be attached to it. Be- 
 sides, Frank was in better hands than 
 liis, for he left behind him this splen- 
 didly sensible woman, a sort of apotheo- 
 sis of common-sense, in whom that rare 
 but prosaic virtue became something 
 keen and subtle. She had said that she 
 thought all this idea of Frank's about 
 his personality was ridiculous. Be- 
 sides, she could always telegraph to 
 Xew Quay. 
 
 That obliterated face had caught Mar- 
 gery's attention as well as his, and as 
 they walked down the corridor to the 
 front door she said : 
 
 '' Did you notice that Frank had 
 drawn in the face and then rubbed it 
 out f 
 
 "Yes; I wondered if you had noticed 
 it too."
 
 55 
 
 "Why do yon think he did that?" 
 asked Margery. 
 
 " I don't know ; I suppose it didn't 
 satisfy him." 
 
 Margery frowned. 
 
 " I don't know either. Frank is usu- 
 ally so rapid about tlie drawing. And 
 he always draws the face as soon as he 
 has got a few of the lines of the body 
 in. Really I don't know, only I no- 
 ticed it." 
 
 But just before Jack drove off an im- 
 pulse prompted him to say, "Beach 
 Hotel, New Quay, you know. I will 
 be sure to come if you telegraph." 
 
 " Yes, many thanks. I shall remem- 
 ber. It is very good of you to promise 
 to come at once; but I don't think it's 
 very likely, you know, that I shall tele- 
 graph. Good-bye." 
 
 Margery waited till the carriage dis- 
 appeared between the trees, and then
 
 56 
 
 went in to tell them to send breakfast 
 to the studio at once. And as she 
 walked back there she allowed to her- 
 self, with her habitual honesty, that 
 her will was in collision with her incli- 
 nations. She had a great gift of forc- 
 ing herself to do anything which her 
 will told her she had better do. In 
 dealing with other people also her will 
 asserted its predominance, and if it was 
 in collision with theirs they had been 
 heard to remark that she was obstinate, 
 while if it went in harness with them 
 they said, " Dear Margery is so firm !" 
 and congratulated themselv^es and her. 
 And when, as on this occasion, her will 
 was in collision with her own inclina- 
 tions, it exhibited itself in a splendid 
 self-control. 
 
 She felt a trifle lonely and inadequate 
 when she saw Armitage drive off; but, 
 as she told herself, her sense of loneli-
 
 57 
 
 ness and inadequacy were not due to 
 the fact that she was frightened at 
 being alone with Frank and his ghostly 
 enemies, but because she had deter- 
 mined to fight tliose ghostly enemies; 
 to force Frank, as far as in her la}^, to 
 paint the portrait of himself, and fin- 
 ish it at all costs. This, she persuaded 
 herself, would be a real and final defeat 
 of his fantastic tendencies, his irregu- 
 larity, his fits of complete laziness when- 
 ever ideas did not beat loud at the door 
 of his imagination. It was absurd to 
 sit at home and wait for the idea to 
 call ; art had to look for ideas in all 
 sorts of places. And it was with a fine 
 show of justification that she said to 
 herself tliat many of his wild ideas 
 would be routed if she could only make 
 him go through with this portrait, and 
 see him stand in front of the finished 
 work and say, " It is all I ever hoped it
 
 58 
 
 would be, and I am still a sane man." 
 Surely if she could help in any way 
 to make him do that, it would be no 
 slight cause for self -congratulation. 
 Genius was often bitter, but Frank 
 was not that ; more often it was fan- 
 tastic, and Frank should be fantastic no 
 longer. 
 
 " AVhat harm can come to him 
 through this?" she reasoned. "I am 
 quite sure " — already she liked to tell 
 herself she was quite sure — " that he 
 will not lose his personality, because 
 such things do not happen. That he 
 will be awfully savage and silent while 
 he is painting I fully expect ; but that 
 does not matter. What does matter is 
 that he should see, when it is finished, 
 what a goose he has been." 
 
 Breakfast had just been brought in 
 when Margery returned to the studio, 
 but Frank was still workino^. She sat
 
 59 
 
 down at once and beo:an to make 
 tea. 
 
 " You'd much better have your break- 
 fast now," she said, " and go on work- 
 ing afterwards; but I suppose, as usual, 
 you will let everything get cold and 
 nasty. Eggs and bacon and cold grouse. 
 I'm going to begin." 
 
 Margery helped herself to eggs and 
 bacon, and poured out some tea; but she 
 had scarcely caught the flavor of her 
 first sip when Frank suddenly left his 
 canvas and sat down by her. 
 
 " I'm tired," he said, " and my hand 
 is heavy." 
 
 "It will be lighter after breakfast," 
 said Margery, cheerfully. "Eat, Frank." 
 
 "No, I shall eat soon. I want to sit 
 by you and look at you. Margery dar- 
 ling, what a trial it must be to have me 
 for a husband !" 
 
 There was something very wistful
 
 GO 
 
 and patlietie in liis voico, and Margery 
 felt moved. 
 
 "All, Frank," she said, ''I don't find 
 it so." 
 
 Frank was lookini]: at her with easfer 
 ej'es, as a dog looks at his master, 
 lie had taken up her hand, and was 
 stroking it gently with his long, ner- 
 vous fingers. Suddenly he jumped up. 
 
 "I see, I see," he said. "I have been 
 drawing something that wasn't me at all. 
 I can do it now. Margery, will you come 
 and stand very close to me, so that when 
 I look in the glass I can see you too ?" 
 
 Margery rose from her half -eaten 
 breakfast, and went across the room 
 to where his easel was. 
 
 "So?" she said. 
 
 Frank picked up the charcoal, and 
 began drawing rapidly. In ten minutes 
 he had done what he had been trying 
 to do for the last two hours.
 
 61 
 
 *' There," lie said, " that is your hus- 
 band. And now go back to yonr break- 
 fast, Margery. I must begin to paint 
 at once !" 
 
 Margery looked at the face he had 
 drawn. 
 
 "Wh}^, it is you," she said. "And, 
 Frank, you look just as you looked 
 when I met you that morning on the 
 beach at New Quay." 
 
 " That is what I mean," said Frank.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Margery finished her breakfast with 
 a sense of relief. She wanted this por- 
 trait to be done quickly and easily, 
 without incident or difficulty, and the 
 fact that Frank had completely got over 
 his odd inability to draw the face as 
 he wished was very encouraging. She 
 left a parting injunction with him to 
 eat his breakfast before lunch, and take 
 himself out for half an hour's stroll. 
 
 Frank got his palette ready and 
 stood brush in hand. He glanced at 
 his own reflection in the looking-glass 
 and back to the face on tlie canvas, then 
 back again. 
 
 " It is very odd," he murmured to
 
 63 
 
 himself. "I saw it so clearly just 
 now." 
 
 He stood looking from one to the 
 other, and a frown gathered on his 
 face. When Margery had been thei-e 
 with him he had seen something quite 
 different to what he saw now. He 
 had seen himself as she saw him, but 
 the face which frowned back at him 
 from the looking-glass was the face of 
 another man. 
 
 He laid the palette and the dry 
 brushes down, and took a piece of paper 
 and began drawing on it. Line for 
 line he reproduced the face he had 
 drawn earlier in the morning, which he 
 had erased once. 
 
 "It is no good," he said; "I must 
 draw what I am, not what Margery 
 thinks me." And, taking apiece of bread- 
 crumb from the breakfast - table, he 
 rubbed out the face which he had drawn
 
 64 
 
 wlien Margery was standing at his side. 
 He looked again at the sketch he had 
 made. He felt that he could not draw 
 it any other way. The eyelids were a 
 little drooped ; the whole face a little 
 faded, but still eager. The noises of a 
 gay city were in its ears ; the eyes, half 
 unfocussed, looking outward and a lit- 
 tle sideways, were half amused, half 
 wearied. The mouth smiled slightly, 
 and the lips were parted; but the smile 
 was not altogether wholesome. But 
 through it all the face had a wistful ex- 
 pression — the tired eyes seemed to long 
 for somethino: different from the thino^s 
 which were sweet and bitter and bad, 
 but had not the strength to cease from 
 looking on them. 
 
 Frank took np his crayon again. 
 There was still something about the 
 mouth which did not satisfy him. He 
 looked at his reflection and back ao:aia
 
 65 
 
 several times before he saw what was 
 wanting. Then he made two rapid 
 strokes, increasing the line of shadow in 
 the mouth, and the thing was finished. 
 The expression he had tried to catcli for 
 so long was there, and he wondered 
 whether Margery would see it with the 
 same eyes as he did. 
 
 Later in the morning Margery strolled 
 into the studio again, expecting to find 
 him painting. He was drawing busily 
 when she entered, and did not look up. 
 The face which she had seen him draw 
 at breakfast -time was gone, and some 
 faintly indicated lines of another face 
 had taken its place. Frank always drew 
 with extreme care, but usually with great 
 rapidity, and to her eyes he seemed to 
 have done nothing since she had left him. 
 
 " Well, how goes it ?" she asked. 
 
 " It goes slowly, but I am working 
 very carefully," he said.
 
 60 
 
 He stood away from tlie portrait and 
 let her see it. He had strengthened 
 the outline since she had been in at 
 breakfast, and sketched in the back- 
 ground. 
 
 " Why, it's splendid !" she said. " That's 
 exactly the way you loll on the edge of 
 the table. Frank, it's awfully good. But 
 why have you rubbed out the face ?" 
 
 Frank looked up. 
 
 "Ah, yes; I rubbed it out directly 
 after 3'ou left me, and made a sketch of 
 what it was going to be like, and I for- 
 got to put it in again. I'll do it now. 
 There is a great deal of careful work 
 about the hands, too." 
 
 " What are you doing ?" asked Mar- 
 gery, examining them. " It looks as if 
 you were smoothing out a crumpled 
 piece of paper." 
 
 " Ah, you think that ?" said Frank, 
 absentl3\ " I wondered if you would
 
 67 
 
 think I was crumpling a piece of jDaper 
 up." 
 
 " Oh no," said she, confidently ; ^'yoii 
 are smoothing it out. What does it 
 mean? What's the paper — a programme 
 or something?" 
 
 " Yes, a programme or something." 
 
 He emphasized the faint lines on the 
 face, and again stood aside. 
 
 " Look !" 
 
 ''Oil, Frank, that won't do at all. You 
 look as if you were a convict or some- 
 thing horrible, or as if that piece of pa- 
 per in your hands was an unpaid bill 
 which you were trying not to pay." 
 
 Frank lauo^hed a little bitter lauo^h. 
 
 " My drawing has been very success- 
 ful," he said. 
 
 Margery was still looking at the face. 
 
 "It is horrible," she said. "Yet I 
 don't see where it is wrong. It's very- 
 like you, somehow."
 
 68 
 
 She looked from the picture to her 
 husband, and saw tliat his face was puz- 
 zled and anxious. 
 
 " I see what it is,'' she said. " You've 
 been worrvino^ and orrowlincr over it till 
 
 ^ kD ~ ~ 
 
 your face really began to look some- 
 thing like what you were drawing. Oh, 
 Frank, you haven't had breakfast yet. 
 Sit down and have it at once. It all 
 comes of having no breakfast." 
 
 " Is that all, do you think T' asked he. 
 "Is that the face of a man who is only 
 guilty of not eating his breakfast? It 
 looks to me guilty, somehow." 
 
 " Yes, that's why it's guilty. Your 
 face is guilty, too. When you've eaten 
 your breakfast and smoked that horrid 
 little black pipe of yours, it won't look 
 guilty any more." 
 
 Frank was looking at what he had 
 done with the air of a disinterested 
 spectator.
 
 60 
 
 ''It seems tome that that brute there 
 has done something wor.^e than not eat 
 liis breakfast," lie said. 
 
 "Nonsense. I'm going to get you 
 some fresh tea because this is cold, and 
 there's that sweet little cold grouse d}^- 
 ing, so to speak, to be eaten. You begin 
 on it while I get the tea." 
 
 Frank felt exhausted and hungry-, and 
 he sat down and proceeded to cut the 
 " sweet little grouse " of which Margery 
 had spoken. He had a strange sense of 
 having just awakened from a dream, or 
 else having just fallen asleep and begun 
 dreaming. He could not tell which 
 seemed the most real — the hours he had 
 just spent before the canvas, or the 
 present moment with Margery in his 
 thoughts. He only knew that the two 
 were quite distinct and different. 
 
 Suddenly he dropped his knife and 
 fork with a crash, and turned to the
 
 picture again. Yes, there was no doubt 
 about it. There was a curious look in 
 the lines of the face, especially in the 
 mouth, which suggested guilt ; and jet, 
 as Mai'gery had said, it was very like 
 him. 
 
 Margery's fears and doubts had re- 
 turned to her for a moment with re- 
 newed force as she looked at the face 
 Frank had drawn, but she had spent 
 an hour out-of-doors, and the fresh au- 
 tumn air had been hellebore to fantastic 
 thoughts, and, by a violent effort, she 
 had torn her vague disquiet out of her 
 mind, and her manner to Frank had 
 been perfectly natural. She soon re- 
 turned with a teapot of fresh tea, and 
 chatted to him while he breakfasted. 
 
 "What part of your personality has 
 gone this morning?" she asked. "It 
 seems to me that you are just as sulky 
 as you always are when you are paint-
 
 71 
 
 ing. That's unfortunate, because this 
 afternoon we play tennis at the Fortes- 
 cues', and if you are sulky, why, there'll 
 be a pair of yon — you and Mr. F, Oh, 
 but what a dreadful man, Frank ! I don't 
 love him one bit more than one Chris- 
 tian is bound to love another, and he's 
 a Presbyterian at that !" 
 
 " Oh, I can't go to the Fortescues'," 
 said Frank. " I want to get on with 
 this. I've been working very hard, yet 
 I haven't finished drawing it yet." 
 
 " Don't interrupt," said Margery. 
 " Then we come home after tea, and 
 the Rev. Mr. Greenock dines with us, 
 and the Rev. Mrs. — particularly the 
 Rev. Mrs." 
 
 " There are some people," said Frank, 
 " wlio make me feel as I imagine rab- 
 bits must feel when they find a ferret 
 has been put into their burrow — I want 
 to run away."
 
 72 
 
 " Yes, dear, I know exactly what you 
 mean. She's got plenty of personal- 
 ity." 
 
 Margery's presence was wonderfully 
 soothino^ to Frank. She carried an at- 
 mosphere of sanity about with her 
 which could not fail to make itself felt. 
 He leaned back in his chair and thought 
 no more of the portrait. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot to tell yon," she went 
 on. "Mother wants us both to come 
 over to the Lizard and stay with her a 
 couple of nights. She leaves on Thurs- 
 day, you know, and I've hardly seen 
 her." 
 
 "I can't possibly go," said Frank. 
 " I can't leave my painting when Fve 
 only just begun it." 
 
 " I wish you'd come," said Margery. 
 
 " Margery, how silly 3'ou are I I 
 couldn't possibly. But — but there's no 
 reason why you shouldn't go."
 
 73 
 
 He suddenly sprang up. 
 
 " Margery, tell nie not to go on with 
 it," he said, '\and if you'll do that T\\ 
 c'ouie. But I can't leave it." 
 
 '' Frank, how silly you are. I shall 
 do nothing of the kind. I wish you 
 would leave it for a couple of days and 
 come with me, but I know it's no use 
 arguing with you. I shall go, I think, 
 for one night, not for two ; so if I start 
 to-morrow morninf^ I shall o^et back on 
 Friday evening. I must see mother 
 again before she leaves Cornwall." 
 
 Frank walked back to the easel. 
 
 "What's the matter with it?" he 
 said, impatiently. 
 
 " You've only made yourself look 
 very cross, dear," said Margery, placid- 
 ly. " You often do look cross, you 
 know, but I should not advise you to 
 paint yourself as cross as you are. Oh, 
 Frank, Fve got a brilliant idea!"
 
 74 
 
 " What's that T 
 
 " Why, put all the crossness out of 
 your personality into the picture, and 
 then you'll never be cross any niore. 
 Oh, I'm so glad I thought of that !" 
 
 Frank had picked up the charcoal 
 and put a few finishing lines to the 
 face. 
 
 " I've drawn it in carefully and free- 
 ly, as if it was a black-and-white sketch," 
 he said. "There, that's what I saw all 
 morning, except just when you were 
 breakfasting here." 
 
 " Oh, Frank, you do look a brute !" 
 said Margery. " I'm not going to stop 
 in the room with that, nor are you, be- 
 cause you are coming for a little walk till 
 lunch-time. You have to see Hooper 
 about mending that gate down to the 
 rocks, and tell him, when he marks out 
 the tennis-court, he must do it accord- 
 ing to measurement, and not as his own
 
 75 
 
 exuberant fancy prompts. It's about a 
 hundred feet long. Come away out." 
 
 Frank turned from the eascL 
 
 " Yes, I'll come," he said. " I can't 
 get on with that just now; I don't 
 know why; but unless I paint it as I see 
 it I can't paint it at all, and I see it like 
 that." 
 
 " Well, nobody can say you've flat- 
 tered yourself," said Margery, consol- 
 ingly. 
 
 They strolled out through the sweet- 
 smelling woods, full of scents after the 
 night's rain, and already beginning to 
 turn gold and russet. A light mist still 
 hung over the edges of the estuary, and 
 five miles away, at Falmouth Harbor, 
 the tall masts of the ships seemed to 
 prick the skein of vapor like needles. 
 The tide was up, and covered more than 
 half of the little iron steps below the 
 gate which had to be repaired, and long,
 
 76 
 
 brown-fin o^ered sea-weed swnno; to and 
 fro in tlie gentle swell of the water, like 
 tlie bands of some blind man groping 
 upward for light. Color, air, and sound 
 alike seemed subdned and mellow, and 
 with Margery bj him Frank's phantoms 
 seemed to catch something of the pre- 
 vailing tranqnillitj', and retired into the 
 dim, aqueous mists, instead of hovering 
 insistently round him, black - winged, 
 scarlet-robed. 
 
 " I think I'll come to the Fortescues', 
 after all, this afternoon," said Frank, as 
 tlie}^ turned homeward. 
 
 " Why, of course 3'ou will." 
 
 "There's no 'of course' about it, 
 dear," said Frank ; " but I feel as if I 
 couldn't paint to-day." 
 
 " How dreadfully lazy you are !" said 
 Margery, inconsistently. "You'd never 
 do anything if it wasn't for me. But 
 you must promise to work very hard
 
 77 
 
 and sensibly to-morrow and next day, 
 and when I come back I shall expect to 
 see it more than half finished." 
 
 "Sensibly!" said Frank, impatiently ; 
 "there is no such thing. All good work 
 is done in a sort of madness or somnam- 
 bnlism — I don't know which. Everj^- 
 thing worth doing is done by men pos- 
 sessed of demons." 
 
 " The demon of crossness seems to 
 have haunted yon this morning," said 
 Margery. " But yon needn't make 
 yourself crosser than is consistent with 
 truth." 
 
 " But supposing I can't paint it in 
 any other way than what you saw this 
 morning?" asked Frank. " What am I 
 to do, then ?" 
 
 " Tliere ! Now you are asking my 
 advice," said Margery, triumphantly, 
 " although you always insist that I know 
 nothing about art. Why, of course.
 
 you must paint it as jou see it. Yuii 
 are forever saying tliat yourself." 
 
 " Well, you won't like it," said Frank. 
 
 " If you'll promise to eat your break- 
 fast at nine and your lunch at two, and 
 not woi"k more than seven hours a day 
 and go out not less than three, I will 
 chance it. Mr. Arniitage was so right 
 when he said that good digestion was 
 half the artistic sense." 
 
 " And the other half is bad dreams," 
 said Frank. 
 
 "Xo ; if 3'ou have good digestion, you 
 don't have bad dreams." 
 
 Frank walked on in silence. 
 
 " If I only knew what was the mat- 
 ter with it," he said, at length, "I could 
 correct it. But I don't, and I think it 
 must be right. It's very odd." 
 
 " It's not a bit odd ; it's only because 
 you didn't eat your breakfast. And 
 now you've got to eat your lunch."
 
 79 
 
 Frank smoked a cigarette in his stu- 
 dio afterwards while Margery was get- 
 ting ready. Soon he heard her calling, 
 and got up to go. lie stood for a mo- 
 ment in front of the portrait before 
 leaving the room, and a momentary 
 spasm of uncontrollable fear seized him. 
 
 "My God !" he said, " she goes away 
 to-morrow ; and I — I shall be left alone 
 with this !"
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 Fkank got through his tennis-party 
 without discredit. Margery's presence 
 seemed to have exorcised — for the time 
 being, at any rate — the demon which he 
 said possessed him, and there was no 
 apparent simihirity between liis nature 
 and Mr. Fortescue's. Ease of manner 
 and a certain picturesqueness were nat- 
 ural to him, and Margery found lierself 
 forgetting the slightly disturbing events 
 of the last twenty-four hours. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Greenock, wlio dined 
 with them that evening, were gifted 
 with oppressive personalities. Frank 
 once said that he always felt as if 
 Raphael's clouds had descended on
 
 81 
 
 liim when he talked to this gentleman. 
 Raphael's clouds, he maintained, were 
 very likely big with blessing, but were 
 somewhat solid in texture, and resem- 
 bled benedictory feather-beds rather 
 than benedictory clouds. The environ- 
 ment of benediction was possibly good 
 for one in the long-run, but he himself 
 considered it rather suffocating at the 
 time. Mrs. Greenock, on the other hand, 
 was an example of what Americans per- 
 haps mean by a " very bright woman." 
 Slie was oppressively bright. She had 
 bright blue eyes, which suggested but- 
 tons covered with shiny American cloth, 
 and a nose like a ship's prow, which 
 seemed to cut the air when she moved. 
 She asked artists questions about their 
 art and musicians about their music, 
 and if she had met a crossing-sweeper 
 she would certainly have asked him 
 questions about his crossing. This, she
 
 83 
 
 was persuaded, was tlie best way of im- 
 proving an already superior intellect, as 
 liers admittedly was. There is a great 
 deal to be said for her view — there al- 
 waj's was a great deal to be said for her 
 views, and she usually said most of it 
 herself. She always made a point of 
 saying that she could remember any- 
 thing you happened to tell her, in order 
 to give Tom, or Harry, or Jane a really 
 professional opinion in case they should 
 happen to ask lier questions on the sub- 
 ject in hand. She may, in fact, be de- 
 scribed as a lioness-woman, who bore 
 away all possible scraps to feed her 
 whelps. Iler methods of obtaining the 
 scraps, however, as Frank had suggested, 
 reminded one of a ferret at work. She 
 had the same bright, cruel way of peer- 
 ing restlessly about. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Greenock were loudly 
 and insistently punctual, and when
 
 Frank came into the drawing-room that 
 evening he found his guests ah-eadj 
 there. Mrs. Greenock was snaj3ping up 
 pieces of information from Margery, 
 and Mr. Greenock's attitude gave the 
 beholder to understand that the blessing 
 of the Church liovered over this instruc- 
 tive intercourse. 
 
 Mrs. Greenock instantly annexed 
 Frank, as being able to give her more 
 professional, and therefore more nutri- 
 tive, scraps of intellectual food than his 
 wife. She had a rich barytone voice 
 and an impressive delivery. 
 
 "I'm sm-e you'll think me dreadfully 
 ignorant," she said; "but when dear 
 Kate asked me when Leonardo died I 
 was unable to tell her within ten years. 
 Now, what was the date ?" 
 
 " I really could not say for certain," 
 said Frank ; " I forget the exact year, if 
 I ever knew it."
 
 84 
 
 Mrs. Greenock heaved a sigh of re- 
 lief. 
 
 "Thank you so much, Mr. Trevor," 
 she said. " Then may I tell dear Kate 
 that even you don't know for certain, and 
 so it cannot have been an epoch-making 
 year? AVhen one knows so little and 
 wants to know so mnch, it is always 
 worth while remembering that there is 
 something one need not know. Now, 
 which would you say was the most 
 epoch-making year in the history of 
 Art ?" 
 
 Frank felt helpless with the bright, 
 cruel eyes of the ferret fastened on his 
 face, and he shifted nervously from one 
 foot to the other. 
 
 •' It would be hard to say that any one 
 year was epoch-making," he replied ; 
 " but I should say that the Italian Renais- 
 sance generally was the greatest epoch. 
 May I take 3'ou in to dinner?"
 
 85 
 
 Mrs. Greenock turned lier eyes np to 
 the ceiling as if in a sudden spasm of 
 gratitude. 
 
 "Thank you so much for telling me 
 that. Algernon dear, did you hear 
 what Mr. Trevor said about the Italian 
 Renaissance? He agrees with us." 
 
 Mrs. Greenock unfolded her napkin as 
 if she were in expectation of finding the 
 manna of professional opinion wrapped 
 up in it, and was a little disappointed 
 on discovering only a piece of ordinary 
 bread. 
 
 " And what, Mr. Trevor, if I may ask 
 you this — what is the subject of your 
 next picture ? Naturally I wish to know 
 exactly all that is going on round me. 
 That is the only way, is it not, of being 
 able to trace the tendencies of Art ? 
 Historical, romantic, realistic — what?" 
 
 " I've just begun a portrait of myself," 
 said Frank.
 
 Mrs. Greenock laid down the spoon- 
 ful of sonp she was raising to her lips, as 
 if the mental food she was receiving 
 was more suited to supply her needs 
 than potage a la Ijonne femme. 
 
 " Thank 3-011 so much," she ejacu- 
 lated. " Algernon dear, Mr. Trevor is 
 doing a portrait of himself. Kemind 
 me to tell Harry that as soon as we get 
 home. Ah, what a revelation it will be ! 
 An artist's portrait of himself — the 
 portrait of you by yourself. That is 
 the only true way for artists to teach 
 us, to show us theirselves — what they 
 are, not only what they look like." 
 
 Frank crumbled his bread with sub- 
 dued violence. 
 
 " You have hit the nail on the head," 
 he replied. " That is exactly what I 
 mean to do." 
 
 Mrs. Greenock was delighted. This 
 was a sort of testimonial to the superior-
 
 87 
 
 itv of her intellect, written in the hand 
 of a professional. 
 
 ^'Please tell me more," she said, re- 
 jecting an entree. 
 
 " There is nothing to tell," he said ; 
 " you have got to the root of the matter. 
 A portrait should be, as you say, the 
 man himself, not what he looks like. 
 We are often very different to what we 
 look like, and a gallery of real portraits 
 would be a very startling thing. So 
 many portraits are merely colored photo- 
 graphs. My endeavor is that this shall 
 be something more than that." 
 
 " Yes !" said Mrs. Greenock, eagerly. 
 
 " You shall see it if you wish," said 
 Frank, " but it will not be finished for 
 a couple of days yet. My wife goes 
 away to-morrow for a night, and as I 
 shall be alone I shall work very hard at 
 it. It—" 
 
 Frank was speaking in his lowest
 
 88 
 
 audible tones, but he stopped suddenly. 
 He was afraid for a moment that he 
 would actually lose all control over him- 
 self. As he spoke all his strange dreams 
 and fancies surged back over his mind, 
 and he could hardly prevent himself 
 from crying aloud. He looked up and 
 caught Margery's eye, and she, seeing 
 that something was wrong, referred a 
 point which she or Mr. Greenock had 
 been discussing to his wife. Meantime 
 Frank pulled himself together, but reg- 
 istered a solemn vow that never till the 
 crack of doom should Mrs. Greenock set 
 foot in his house again. He and Mar- 
 gery had had a small tussle over the ne- 
 cessity of asking the vicar to dinner, but 
 Margery had insisted that every one 
 always asked the vicar to dine, and 
 Frank, of weaker will than she, had 
 acquiesced. Poor Mrs. Greenock had 
 unconsciously launched herself on very
 
 thin ice, and Frank inwardly absolved 
 himself from all responsibility if she 
 tried the experiment again. 
 
 When the two ladies left the room 
 Mr. Greenock's feather-bed descents be- 
 gan in earnest. It was trying, but he 
 was less likely to go in dangerous places 
 than his predatory wife. He would not 
 drink any more wine, and he w^ould not 
 smoke; but when Frank proposed that 
 they should join the ladies, he said : 
 
 " It so seldom happens, in this seclud- 
 ed corner of the world, that I can con- 
 verse ^vith men who have lived their 
 lives in a sphere so different to mine, 
 that I confess I should much enjoy a 
 little longer talk with you." 
 
 "Yes, I suppose you get few visitors 
 here," said Frank. 
 
 " The visitors we get here," said Mr. 
 Greenock, " are chiefly tourists who 
 are not inclined for an interchange of
 
 90 
 
 tlioiiglit and experience. Sometimes I 
 see them in our little church-yard where 
 so many men of note are buried, but 
 they do not stop. Indeed, it would in- 
 dicate a morbid tendency if they did." 
 
 *'I have often noticed how many 
 names one knows are on the graves in 
 your church-yard," said Frank. 
 
 " It is a solemn thought," said Mr. 
 Greenock, " that in our little church- 
 yard lies all that is mortal of so many 
 brilliant intellects and exceptional abil- 
 ities. ' Green grows the grass on their 
 graves,' as my wife beautifully express- 
 ed it the other day in a little lyric." 
 
 " Dear me, I did not know that Mrs. 
 Greenock wrote poetry," said Frank. 
 
 " She is a sonneteer of considerable 
 power," said the vicar. 
 
 Frank, who had always thought of 
 Mrs. Greenock in the light of a Puritan 
 rather than a sonneteer, gave a sudden
 
 91 
 
 choke of laughter. But Mr. Greenock 
 was arranging his next sentence and did 
 not hear it. 
 
 "Her verses are always distinguished 
 by their thoughtfully chosen similes," 
 he continued, " and their flow of har- 
 monious language." 
 
 "You can hardly feel out of the 
 world if you always have a poet by 
 you." 
 
 " The career of a poet," said Mr. 
 Greenock, "is alwaj^s beset with snares 
 and difficulties. On the one hand, there 
 is the danger of a too easily gained pop- 
 ularity, and, on the other, the discour- 
 aging effect of the absence of an audi- 
 ence." 
 
 "I am sure I can guess to whicli 
 danger Mrs. Greenock is most exposed," 
 said Frank, rather wildly. 
 
 " You are pleased to say so," said the 
 vicar, with an appreciative wave of his
 
 92 
 
 hand. "In point of fact, some verses 
 of liers which have appeared from time 
 to time in a local paper have attracted 
 much not unmerited attention. She is 
 preparing a small volume of verse-id jls 
 for publication." 
 
 Mr. Greenock rose, as if further in- 
 terchange of thought and experience 
 could not but be bathos after this, and 
 Frank and he joined the ladies. 
 
 Mrs. Greenock was seized with sen- 
 sitiveness when she heard that Frank 
 had learned about the forthcoming 
 verse - idyls, but soon recovered suffi- 
 ciently to make some very true though 
 not very original remarks on the beauty 
 of the moonlit sea, and pressed Frank to 
 tell her whether any one had ever paint- 
 ed a moonlit scene. Frank cast a glance 
 of concentrated hatred at the unoffend- 
 ing moon, and proceeded to answer. 
 
 "In this imperfect world,'- he said,
 
 93 
 
 ''it would surely be too much to expect 
 that we can convince any one else. It 
 is sufficient if we can convince ourselves. 
 What on earth does the opinion of the 
 fooh'sh crowd matter to an artist ? Their 
 praiseisalmostmoredistastefulthan their 
 censure. Have you ever seen a critic? I 
 met one once at dinne*', and — God for- 
 give him, fori cannot — he admired my 
 pictures. He admired them all, and he 
 admired them for the wrong reasons. 
 He admired just that which was intel- 
 ligible to him. He added insult to in- 
 jury by praising them in one of those 
 penny-in-the-slot journals, as some one 
 says. No man has a right to criticise a 
 picture unless he knows more about Art 
 than the man who painted it. Carry 
 conviction to any one else? Wait till 
 the day when your poems seem ugly to 
 you, when all you write seems common- 
 place and trivial ; you will not care about
 
 94 
 
 convincing other people then. You will 
 say, ' It is enough if I can write a line 
 which seems to nie only not execrable.' 
 Extremes meet, and contentment comes 
 only to those who know nothing or who 
 nearly know all." 
 
 Mrs. Greenock stared at him in 
 amazement. This w\as not at all her 
 idea of the cultured, refined artist, the 
 man who would say pretty things in 
 beautiful language, and ask to borrow 
 the Penalva Gazette wdiich contained 
 lier poem on "A Corner in a Country 
 Church-yard." She drew^ on her gloves 
 as if to shield herself from a blustering 
 wind. 
 
 Frank, I am sorry to say, felt an evil 
 pleasure in the shock he had given her. 
 lie had spoken without malice afore- 
 thought, but the malice certainly came 
 in when he had finished speaking. 
 What right had this verse-idyl woman
 
 to tell him what a portrait should be, to 
 speak to him of that which he hardly 
 dared think of himself, and drag his 
 nightmare out on to the table-cloth ? 
 
 His voice rose a tone as he went on. 
 
 " You call one thing pretty, another 
 ugly," he said. "Believe me, Art 
 knows no such terms. A thing is true 
 or it is false, and the cruelty of it is that 
 if we have as much as a grain of false- 
 hood in our whole sense of truth, the 
 thing is worthless. Therefore, in this 
 picture I am doing I have tried to be ab- 
 solutely truthful ; as you said at dinner, 
 I have tried to paint what I am with- 
 out extenuation or concealment. Would 
 you like to see it? You would prob- 
 ably call it a hideous caricature, because 
 in this terribly cruel human life no man 
 knows what is good in him, but only 
 what is bad. It is those who love us only 
 who know if there is any good in us — "
 
 96 
 
 His voice sank again, and as his eye 
 rested on Margery the hardness soft- 
 ened from his face and it was trans- 
 formed. 
 
 "Dear me, I have been talking a lot 
 of shop, I am afraid," he said ; ' but I 
 have the privilege or the misfortune — I 
 hardly know which — to be terribly in 
 earnest, and I have committed the un- 
 pardonable breach of manners to make 
 you the unwilling recipient of my ear- 
 nestness. Ah, Margery is going to 
 sing to us." 
 
 Poor Mrs. Greenock felt as if she 
 had asked for a little bread and been 
 pelted with quartern loaves. She felt 
 almost too sore and knocked about to 
 eat it herself, much less to put pieces in 
 her pocket for Tom and Harry and 
 Jane. But the fact that Margery was 
 singing made it natural for her to 
 be silent, and she finished putting on
 
 97 
 
 lier gloves, and, so to speak, tidied her- 
 self up again. In fact, before they left 
 she had recovered enough to be able to 
 thank Frank for the extremely interest- 
 ing conversation thej had had, and to 
 remind him of his promise to show her 
 the picture. 
 
 " I will send you a note when it is 
 done," said he. "Margery is going 
 away to-morrow for the inside of two 
 days, and I expect it will be finished in 
 three or four days at the most."
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Maegeey left early next morning, 
 since, by the ingenious and tortuous 
 route pursued by the Cornish lines, it 
 was a day's journey from Penalva to 
 the Lizard. Frank drove with her to 
 the station, and promised to do as he 
 was told, and not work more than seven 
 hours a da}' and not less than four. He 
 had quite recovered his equanimity, and 
 spoke of the portrait without fear or 
 despair. But when they got in sight of 
 the station, and again when a puff of 
 white steam and a thin, shrill whistle 
 came to them as they stood on the plat- 
 form, through the blue-white morning 
 mist, a terror came and looked him in
 
 99 
 
 the face, and lie clung to Margery like 
 a fi-ightened child. 
 
 " Margery, you will come back to- 
 morrow, won't you ?" he said. " Ah, 
 need you go at all ?" 
 
 Margery was disappointed. She had 
 thought that Frank had got over his 
 fantastic fears, he had been so like him- 
 self during the drive. But she was ab- 
 solutely determined to go through with 
 this. To yield once was to yield twice, 
 and she would not yield. Frank must 
 be cured of this sort of thing, and the 
 only way to cure him was to make him 
 do what he feared — to make him give 
 himself absolute final evidence that per- 
 sonalities did not vanish away before 
 portraits like ghosts at daybreak. But, 
 as a matter of fact, Frank's fear was the 
 fear he had not spoken to her of. The 
 danger of losing her swallowed up the 
 danger of losing himself.
 
 100 
 
 '' Oh, Frank, don't be a fool !" she 
 said. "Here's the train. Have you 
 had my bag Labelled ? Of course I shall 
 be back to - morrow. Good - bye, old 
 boy !" 
 
 And with another whistle and puff 
 of steam the train was off. 
 
 Frank drove home again like a man 
 possessed. Margery had gone, and there 
 remained to him only one thing, and 
 until he was with that time ran to waste. 
 The horses, freshened by the cool, clean 
 air, flew over the hard road, but Frank 
 still urged them on. As soon as they 
 drew up by the door Frank jumped 
 down, leaving the reins on their backs, 
 and went to his studio. There in the 
 corner stood his worst self, and he set 
 to work in earnest. To-day there was 
 no waiting, no puzzling over an idea he 
 could not realize. The evil face smiled 
 as it looked at the yellow little pro-
 
 101 
 
 gramme, and the long- fingered hands 
 smoothed out its creases with a linger- 
 ing, loving touch. Desire and the fulfil- 
 ment of desire were there, and into the 
 sonl had the leanness of it entered. And 
 because, as he had said, no man knows 
 tlie best of himself, but only the worst, 
 there was but little trace in the face of 
 the man who liad loved Margery and 
 whom Margery had loved ; yet in the 
 eyes was the trace of what had been 
 lost, and if not regret, at least the long- 
 ing to be able to regret. Tlie better part 
 was not wholly dead, though half smoth- 
 ered under the weight of evil. As he 
 painted he began to realize that it would 
 be so. Had Margery been there, he felt 
 the better part would have been record- 
 ed too; but the devil is a highwayman 
 who waits for men who are alone, and 
 he is stronger than a solitary man, 
 though he be St. Anthony himself. But
 
 102 
 
 Margery was away, and her absence was 
 almost as the draught that transformed 
 Jekjll into Hyde. So for those two 
 days he worked alone, as he had never 
 worked before, but as he has often 
 worked since, utterly absorbed in his 
 painting, and eating ravenously, but for 
 a few moments only, when his food was 
 brouo^ht to him. As the hours went on 
 the conviction came over him that lie 
 was right both about the strange fear 
 he had spoken of to Margerj^ and about 
 the other fear of which he had spoken 
 to none. His conscious self seemed to 
 be passing into the portrait, and one by 
 one, like drops of bitter water, his past 
 life flowed higher and higher round 
 him. Far off he thought he could see 
 Margery, but she gave no sign. She 
 did not beckon to him to come, she was 
 not alive to the dansjer of the risinsf 
 waters. Soon it would be too late.
 
 103 
 
 The first evening, after the dayh'ght 
 had fallen and he could no longer paint, 
 he threw himself down on the sofa. The 
 work of the last few days stood opposite 
 him, and the red glow of the sunset, not 
 yet quite faded from the sky, still made 
 it clearly visible, though the value of the 
 colors was lost. Frank felt like a man 
 who, after a long, sleepless night of pain, 
 feels that if only he could forget every- 
 thing for a moment he might doze off 
 into a slumber that would take an hour 
 or two out of life. But the pain, as it 
 were, stood before him, mastering him. 
 
 It may only have been that his nerves, 
 abnormally excited after the strain of 
 working, played him false ; but it seemed 
 to him that, in spite of the fading light, 
 the portrait \vas as clear as ever; and as 
 he was sitting wondering at this, half 
 encouraging himself to believe it, he 
 was suddenly aware that the figure he
 
 104 
 
 had painted cast a shadow on to the 
 background which he had never put 
 there, xis he had painted it, the shadow 
 fell on the left side of the face, but now 
 it seemed that the shadow was on the 
 right side of the face, exactly as it would 
 naturally be cast by the light coming 
 from the window. At that moment he 
 knew what fear w^as — cold fear that 
 clutches at the heart — and he sat there a 
 moment unable to move, almost expect- 
 ing to hear it speak to him. Then, with 
 an effort of will so strong that it seemed 
 like a straining of the body, he walked 
 up to it, turned it round to the wall, and 
 left the room. 
 
 That night he had an odd dream, the 
 result again of the excitement of the day, 
 but so strangely natural that he hardly 
 knew next morning whether it had hap- 
 pened or not. He dreamed he went 
 back to the studio, finding everything
 
 105 
 
 exactly as lie had left it — the portrait 
 turned with its face to the wall, and his 
 brushes and palette where he had laid 
 them down when it had become too dark 
 to paint. The servants had brought in 
 lights, and had laid the day's paper on 
 the table. He was conscious of utter 
 weariness of mind and body, and he 
 longed for Margery, but knew that she 
 was away. The yellow programme of 
 the Cafe Chantant lay on a shelf of the 
 bookcase, where he had put it in the 
 leaves of Jekyll and Hyde^ and he 
 took the two down together, as he had 
 done a few days before, and mechani- 
 cally his mind again retraced the life it 
 had before suggested to him. Suddenly 
 an utter loathing of it all, more com- 
 plete than he had ever felt, came over 
 liim, and he tried to tear the programme 
 up. But it seemed to be made of a thin 
 sheet of some hard substance, and it
 
 106 
 
 would not tear. Then he tried to crush 
 it under his foot, but it would not even 
 bend. The bitter, unimaginable agony 
 of not being able to destroy it awoke 
 him, and he found morning had come. 
 
 All that day he worked, and once 
 again as evening fell he sat on the sofa, 
 staring blankly at what he had done. 
 Once asrain the shadow shifted on the 
 painted face, and fell where the light 
 from the window would naturally cast 
 it, and once again cold fear clutched at 
 his heart. At that moment he heard 
 steps along the passage, steps which he 
 knew, and Margery entered. 
 
 " Frank," she said, opening the door, 
 "are you there?" 
 
 A long figure sprang off the sofa 
 and ran across the room to her, half 
 smothering her in caresses. 
 
 " Oh, Margery, I'm so glad you've 
 come," he said — " so glad. You don't
 
 107 
 
 know what it has been without 3^00. 
 Margery, promise you won't go away 
 again till it is finished. You won't go 
 away again, will you ?" 
 
 Margery shuddered and drew back a 
 moment, she hardly knew why. 
 
 " Why, Frank, what's the matter ?" 
 she asked. "Have you seen a ghost — 
 or what ?" 
 
 *' The place is full of ghosts," said he. 
 " But they won't trouble me any more 
 now you've come back. Let's go out, 
 away from here." 
 
 " But I want to see the portrait first," 
 said she. 
 
 " Ah, the portrait 1" 
 
 Frank took two quick steps to where 
 it was standing, and wheeled it round 
 with its face to the wall. 
 
 "ISTot to-night," he said. "Please 
 don't look at it to-night. You can't see 
 it by this light."
 
 108 
 
 ''I know I can't," said she, "bat I only 
 wanted to peep at it to see if it had got 
 on." 
 
 " It lias got on," said Frank, " it has 
 got on wonderfnlly. But don't look 
 at it to-night. It is terrible after sun- 
 set." 
 
 Margery raised her eyebrows. 
 
 " Oh, don't be so silly," she said. 
 " However, I don't mind waiting till 
 to-morrow. Is it good ?" 
 
 " Come out of this place, and I'll tell 
 you about it." 
 
 Outside the west was still luminous 
 with the sunken sun, and as they 
 stepped out on to the terrace Margery 
 turned to look at Frank. Ilis face 
 seemed terribly tired and anxious, and 
 there were deep shades beneath his eyes. 
 But again, as a few moments before in 
 the shadow, she involuntarily shrank 
 from him. There was somethinir in his
 
 109 
 
 face more than what mere weariness 
 and anxiety would produce — something 
 she had seen in the face he had sketched 
 two days ago, and the something she 
 knew she had shrunk from before, 
 though she had not seen it. But in 
 a moment she pulled herself together; 
 if she were going to go in for fantastic 
 fears too, the allowance of sanity be- 
 tween them would not be enough for 
 daily consumption. Frank, however, 
 noticed it at once. 
 
 " Ah, you too," he said, bitterly — 
 " even you desert me." 
 
 Margery took hold of his arm. 
 
 "Don't talk sheer, silly nonsense," 
 she said. " I don't know what you 
 mean. I know what's the matter with 
 you. You've been working all day and 
 not going out." 
 
 " Yes, I know I have. I couldn't 
 help it. But never mind that now. I
 
 110 
 
 have got you back. Margery, yon 
 don't giv^e me np really, do you ?" 
 
 '"Frank, what do you mean?" slie 
 asked. 
 
 "I — I mean — I mean nothing. I 
 don't know what I am saying. I've 
 been \vorking too hard, and I have got 
 dazed and stupid." 
 
 He turned to look at the blaze on the 
 waters to the west. 
 
 " Ah, how beautiful it is !" he ex- 
 claimed. "I wish I were a landscape- 
 painter. But you are more beautiful, 
 Margery. But it is safer to be a land- 
 scape-painter, so much safer !" 
 
 Mai'gery stopped and faced him. 
 
 "Now, Frank, tell me the truth. 
 Have you been out since I left 3'ou yes- 
 terday morning?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "How long have you been working 
 each day ?"
 
 Ill 
 
 "I don't know. I didn't look at my 
 watch. All day, I suppose ; and the 
 days are long — terribly long — and 
 the nights too. The nights are even 
 longer, but one can't work then." 
 
 Margery was frightened, and, being 
 frightened, she got angry with herself 
 and him. 
 
 " Oh, you really are too annoying," 
 she said, with a stamp of her foot. 
 " You get yourself into bad health by 
 overworking and not taking any exer- 
 cise — you've got the family liver, you 
 know — and then you tell me the house 
 is full of ghosts, and conjure up all sorts 
 of absurd fancies about losing your per- 
 sonality, frightening yourself and me. 
 Frank, it's too bad !" 
 
 Frank looked up suddenly at her. 
 
 " You too ? Are you frightened 
 too? God help me if you are fright- 
 ened too!"
 
 112 
 
 "Xo, I'm not frightened,'' said Mar- 
 gery, "but I'm angrj and asliamed of 
 jou. You're no better than a silly 
 child.-' 
 
 '' Margery," said he, in his lowest 
 audible tone, " I'll never touch the pict- 
 ure again if you wish. Tell me to de- 
 stroy it and I will, and we'll go for a 
 holiday together. I — I want a holiday; 
 I'ye been working too hard. Or it 
 would be better if you went in very 
 quietly and cut it up. I don't want to 
 go near it. It doesn't like rae. Tell 
 me to destroy it." 
 
 " lio, no'.'' cried Margery, " that's the 
 very thing I will not do. And fancy 
 saying you want a holiday I You've 
 just had two months' holiday. But 
 that's no reason why you should work 
 like a lunatic. Of course any one can 
 go mad if they like — it's only a question 
 of whether vou think you are o:oing to."
 
 113 
 
 " Margery, tell me truthfully," said 
 Frank, " do you think I am going 
 mad ?" 
 
 "Of course I don't. I only think 
 you are verj^, very silly. But I've 
 known that ever since I knew you at 
 all. It's a great pity." 
 
 They strolled up and down for a few 
 moments in silence. The magic of 
 Margery's presence was beginning to 
 ^vork on Frank, and after a little space 
 of silence" he laughed to himself almost 
 naturally. 
 
 "Marger}^ you are doing me good," 
 he said. " I've been terribly lonely 
 without you." 
 
 "And terribly silly, it appears." 
 
 "Perhaps I have. Anyhow, I like 
 to hear you tell me so. I should like 
 to think I had been silly, but I don't 
 know." 
 
 "I'm afraid if you've hccu silly the
 
 114 
 
 portrait will be silly too," said she. " Is 
 it sillj, Frank?" 
 
 " It's wonderful," said he, suddenly 
 stopping short. " It is not only like 
 me, bat it's me — at least, if you will 
 stop with me while I work it will be 
 all me. I shall feel safer if you are 
 there." 
 
 " Then I won't be there," said Mar- 
 gery. " You are not a child any longer, 
 and you must work alone. You always 
 say you can't work if any one else is 
 there." 
 
 " Well, I don't suppose it matters," 
 said Frank, with returning confidence. 
 " The fact that I know you are in the 
 house will be enough. But the portrait 
 — it's wonderful ! I can't think wliy I 
 loathe it so." 
 
 " You loathe it because you have been 
 working at it in a ridiculous manner," 
 said Margery. " To-morrow I regulate
 
 115 
 
 your day for you. I shall leave yon 
 your morning to yourself, and after 
 lunch you shall come out with me for 
 two hoars at least. We will go up some 
 of those little creeks where we went 
 two years ago. Come in now. It's 
 nearly dinner-time." 
 
 When they were alone and a por- 
 trait was in progress they often sat in 
 the studio after dinner; but to-night, 
 when Margery proposed it, Frank start- 
 ed up from where he was sitting. 
 
 "No, Margery," he said, "please let 
 us sit here. I don't want to go to the 
 studio at all." 
 
 "It's the scene of your crime," said 
 Margery. 
 
 Frank turned pale. 
 
 "What crime?" he asked. "What 
 do you know of my crimes ?" 
 
 Margery put down the paper she was 
 reading and burst out laughing.
 
 116 
 
 " You really are too ridiculous," she 
 said. " Are you and I going to play 
 the second act of a melodrama ? Your 
 crime of working all day and taking no 
 exercise." 
 
 " Oh, I see," said Frank. " Well, don't 
 let us visit the scene of my crimes to- 
 night." 
 
 Margery had determined that, what- 
 ever Frank did, she would behave quite 
 naturally, and not allow herself to in- 
 dulge even in disturbing thoughts. So 
 she laughed again, and wiped off Frank's 
 remark from her mind. 
 
 Otherwise his behavior that evening 
 was quite reassuring. Often when he 
 was painting he had an aversion to being 
 left alone in the intervals, and though 
 this perhaps was more marked than usu- 
 al, Margery did not allow it to disquiet 
 her. The painting of a portrait was 
 always rather a trying time, though
 
 117 
 
 Frank's explanation of this did not seem 
 to lier in the least satisfactory. 
 
 "When one paints," he had said to 
 her once, "one is much more exposed 
 to other influences. One's soul, so to 
 speak, is on the surface, and I want 
 some one near me who will keep an eye 
 on it, and I feel safe if I have your eye 
 on me, Margery. You know, when re- 
 ligious people have been to church or 
 to a revivalist meeting, they are much 
 more susceptible to what they see, 
 whether it is sin or sanctity ; that is 
 just because their souls have come to 
 the surface. It is very unwise to go to 
 see a lot of strange people when you 
 are in that state. No one knows what 
 influence they may have on you. But 
 I know what influence you have on 
 me." 
 
 " I wish my influence would make 
 you a little less silly," she had replied.
 
 118 
 
 MargeiT ^YGnt to bed qnito liapp}- in 
 her mind, except on one point. She 
 had been gifted by nature with a superb 
 serenity whicli it took much blustering 
 wind to ruffle, and in the main Frank's 
 beliavior was different, not in kind, but 
 only in degree, from what she had seen 
 before when he was painting. lie al- 
 ways got nervous and excited over a 
 picture which he really gave himself up 
 to; he always talked ridiculous non- 
 sense about personalities and influences, 
 and though his childlike desire to be 
 with her when he was not working 
 was more accentuated than usual, she 
 drew the very natural conclusion that 
 he was more absorbed than usual in his 
 work. 
 
 But there was one point which trou- 
 bled her: she had Cjuite unaccountably 
 shrunk from him when he ran to meet 
 her across the studio, and she had shrunk
 
 119 
 
 from him again when she saw his face. 
 She told lierself that this was her own 
 silliness, not his, and that it was ridicu- 
 lous of her to try to cure Frank of his 
 absurdities while she was so absurd her- 
 self. She had shrunk back involunta- 
 rily, as if from an evil thing. 
 
 " How absurd and ridiculous of me," 
 she said to herself, as she settled her- 
 self in bed. " Frank is Frank, and it is 
 his idea that he is ceasing or will cease 
 to be Frank which I have thought all 
 along is so supremely silly, and which 
 I think supremely silly still. Yet I 
 shrank from him as I would from a 
 man who had committed a crime." 
 
 Then suddenly another thought came 
 to join this one in her brain : " What 
 crimes? What do you know of my 
 crimes?" 
 
 The contact and the electric spark 
 had been instantaneous, forshe wrenched
 
 120 
 
 the two tlionglits apart. But they had 
 come together, and between them they 
 had generated a spark of light. 
 
 And so, without knowing it, she knew 
 for a moment what was Frank's secret 
 which he dared not tell lier.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 • Frank got up, as his custom was, very 
 early next morning, and went straight 
 to the studio ; and Margery, keeping to 
 the resolve of the night before, left him 
 alone all morning. She had sent his 
 breakfast in to him, but ate hers alone 
 in her morning-room. 
 
 The knowledge that she was with 
 him had had a quieting effect on Frank, 
 and he had slept deep and dreamlessly. 
 As he walked along the passage to his 
 studio he felt that he hardly feared 
 what he would find there. How could 
 the ghost of what was dead in him 
 have any chance, so to speak, against 
 the near, living reality of Margery and
 
 122 
 
 Margery's love ? AVas not good more 
 powerful than evil I But when he en- 
 tered the studio and had wheeled the por- 
 trait back into its place, the supremacy of 
 one side of his nature over the other was 
 reversed instantaneously — almost with- 
 out consciousness of transition. The 
 power which the thing his hands had 
 been working out for the last few days 
 had acquired was becoming overwhelm- 
 ing. When Margery was with him, 
 actually with him, she still held np his 
 better part ; but when he was alone with 
 this, all that was good sank like lead in 
 an unplumbed sea. He was like some 
 heathen who makes with his own hands 
 an idol of stone or wood, and then bows 
 down before that which he himself 
 made, believing that it is lord over him. 
 All morning Margery successfully 
 fono:ht aojainst her inclination to o^o to 
 Frank, for she was clear in her own
 
 123 
 
 mind that he had to work out his salva- 
 tion alone. He was afraid of being 
 alone, and the only way to teach him 
 not to be afraid was to let him learn in 
 solitude that there was nothing to be 
 afraid of. So she yawned an hour 
 away over a two -volume novel by a 
 popular author, wrote a letter to her 
 mother, ordered dinner, and tried to 
 think she was very bus)\ But it was 
 with a certain sense of relief that she 
 heard the clock strike one, and, shut- 
 ting up her book, she went to the 
 studio. 
 
 Frank was standing with his back to 
 the door, and did not look up from his 
 work when she entered. She came up 
 behind him and saw what he had wished 
 her not to see the night before, and 
 understood why. He always worked 
 rapidly though never hurriedly, and she 
 knew at once what the finished picture
 
 124 
 
 would be like. The "idea" was re- 
 corded. 
 
 She gave a sudden start and a little 
 cry as sharp and involuntary as the 
 cvy of physical pain, for the meaning 
 of the first rouo:h sketch whicli had 
 puzzled her was now worked out, and 
 she saw before her the face of a guilty 
 man. She shrank and shuddered as 
 she had shrunk when her husband ran 
 to meet her across the studio the night 
 before, and as she had shrunk from him 
 when she saw his face, for the face that 
 looked out from that canvas was the 
 same as her husband's face which had 
 so startled and repelled her. It was 
 the face of a man who has wilfully sti- 
 fled certain nobler impulses for the 
 sake of something wicked, and who was 
 stifling them still. It was the face 
 of a man who has fallen, and when 
 she turned to look at Frank she saw
 
 125 
 
 that he had in the portrait seized on 
 something that stared from every line 
 of his features. 
 
 " Ah, Frank," she cried, " but what 
 has happened? It is horrible, and you 
 — you are horrible, too !" 
 
 Frank did not seem to hear, for he 
 went on painting; but she heard him 
 mnrmur below his breath: 
 
 " Yes, horrible, horrible !" 
 
 For the moment Margery lost her 
 nerve completely. She was incontrol- 
 lably frightened. 
 
 " Frank, Frank !" slie cried, hysteri- 
 cally. 
 
 Then she cursed her own folly. That 
 was not the way to teach him. She 
 laid one hand on his arm, and with her 
 voice again in control, " Leave off paint- 
 ing," she said — "leave off painting at 
 once and look at me !" 
 
 This time he heard. Ilis rii>lit
 
 126 
 
 liand, holding a brush filled with paint, 
 dropped nervelessly to his side, and the 
 brush slid from his lingers on to the 
 floor. 
 
 In that moment his face changed. 
 The vicious, guiltj lines softened and 
 faded, and his expression became that 
 of a frightened child. 
 
 " Ah, Alarger}'," he cried, " what has 
 happened? "Why were you not here? 
 What have I been doing?'' 
 
 Margery had got between him and 
 the picture, and before he had finished 
 speaking she had wheeled it round with 
 its face to the wall. 
 
 "You've been working long enough," 
 she said, '' and you are coming out for 
 a bit." 
 
 "Yes, that will be nice," said Frank, 
 picking up the brush he had dropped 
 and examining it. "AYhy, it is quite 
 full of paint," he added, as if this re-
 
 127 
 
 markable discovery was quite worth 
 comment. 
 
 " You dear, how extraordinary !" said 
 Margery. "You usually paint with 
 dry brushes, don't you ?" 
 
 " Oh, I've been painting all morning, 
 so I have !" said Frank, in the same list- 
 less, tired voice, and his eye wandered 
 to the easel which Margery had turned 
 round. 
 
 "No, you've got to let it alone," said 
 she, guessing his intention. " You are 
 not going to work any more till this 
 afternoon." 
 
 Frank passed his hands over his eyes. 
 
 " I'm rather tired," he said. " I think 
 I won't go for a walk. I'll sit down 
 liere if you will stop with me." 
 
 "Very good, for ten minutes; and 
 then you must come out. It's a lovely 
 morning, and we'll only stroll." 
 
 Frank looked out of the window.
 
 138 
 
 "Mj God I it is a lovelj morning," 
 he said — "it is insolently lovely. I've 
 been dreaming, I think. Those trees 
 look as if they were dreaming, too. I 
 wonder if they have such horrible 
 dreams as I ? I think I nuist have 
 been asleep. I feel queer and only 
 half awake, and I've had bad dreams — 
 horrid dreams.'' 
 
 ''Did he have nasty dream^s?" said she, 
 sympathetically. " He said he was go- 
 ino^ to work so hard, and he's dreamed 
 instead."' 
 
 Frank seemed hardly to hear her. 
 
 "It began by my wondering wheth- 
 er I ought to go on with that por- 
 trait or not/' he said. ''I kept think- 
 ing—" 
 
 "You shall go on with it, Frank," 
 broke in Marsierv, suddenlv, afraid of 
 lettino^ herself consent — "I tell vou 
 that you must go on with it.''
 
 129 
 
 Frank roused liimself at the sound of 
 her eager voice. 
 
 " You don't understand," he said. " I 
 know that I am running a certain risk 
 if I do. I told 3^ou about one of those 
 risks I was running, didn't I? It was 
 that, partly, I was drawing about all 
 morning. I thought I was in danger 
 all the time. I was running the risk of 
 losing myself, or becoming something 
 quite different to what I am. I ran 
 the risk of losing you, myself — all I 
 care for, except my Art." 
 
 "And with a big 'A,' dear?" asked 
 Margery. 
 
 " With the very biggest ' A,' and all 
 scarlet." 
 
 " The Scarlet Letter^'' said Margery, 
 triumphantly, " which you were read- 
 ing last week? That accounts for that 
 symptom. Go on and be more explicit !" 
 
 "I know you think it is all absurd,"
 
 130 
 
 said Frank, '' but I am a better judge 
 than 3'ou. I know myself better than 
 you know me — better, please God, than 
 you will ever know me. However, yon 
 won't understand that. But with re- 
 gard to what I told you : when I paint 
 a picture, you think the net result is I 
 and a picture, instead of I alone. But 
 you are wrong. There is only I just as 
 before; and inasn:iuch as there is a pict- 
 ure, there is less of myself here in my 
 clothes." 
 
 "A picture is oil-paint," said Margery, 
 " and you buy that at shops." 
 
 " Yes, and brushes too," said Frank ; 
 "but a picture is not only oil-paint and 
 brushes." 
 
 "Go on," said Margery. 
 
 " Well, have I got any right to do 
 it? In other pictures it has not mat- 
 tered because one recuperates by de- 
 grees, and one does not put all one's
 
 131 
 
 self into tliem. But painting this I 
 feel differently. I am going into it, 
 slowly but inevitabl3\ I shall put all 
 I am into it — at least, all I know of 
 while I am painting ; and what will 
 happen to this thing here" (he pointed 
 to himself) "I can't say. All the time 
 I was painting, that thought with oth- 
 ers was with me, as if it had been writ- 
 ten in fire on my brain. Have I got 
 any business to run risks which I can't 
 estimate ? I know I have a certain 
 duty to perform to you and others, and 
 is it right for me to risk all that for a 
 painted thing?" 
 
 He stood up. 
 
 "Margery," he said, "that is not all. 
 Shall I tell you the rest? There is 
 another risk I run much more impor- 
 tant, and much more terrible. May I 
 tell you ?" 
 
 "No, you may not," said Margery,
 
 132 
 
 decidedly. ^'It simply makes these fan- 
 tastic fears more real to you to speak of 
 them. You shall not tell me. And 
 now we are going out. But I have one 
 thing to tell you. Listen to me, 
 Frank," she said, standing up and fac- 
 ing him. " As you said just now, you 
 know nothing of the risk you run. All 
 you do know is that it is in your power, 
 as you believe, and as I believe, to do 
 something really good if you go on 
 with that picture. I don't say that I 
 shall like it, but it may be a splendid 
 piece of work without that. Are you 
 an artist, or a silly child, frightened of 
 ghosts ? 1 want you to finish it be- 
 cause I think it may teach you that 
 you have a large number of silly ideas 
 in your head, and when you see that 
 none of them are fulfilled it may help 
 you to get rid of them — in fact, I be- 
 lieve I want you to finish it for the
 
 133 
 
 same reason for which you are afraid to 
 finisli it. You say you will lose your 
 personality, or some of your personality. 
 I say you will get rid of a great many 
 silly ideas. If you lose that part of 
 your personality I shall be delighted — 
 in fact, it is the best thing that could 
 happen to you. As for your other 
 fears, I don't know what they are, and 
 I don't want to know. To speak of 
 them encourages you to believe in 
 them. There! Now you've worked 
 enough for the present, and we'll go for 
 a stroll till lunch ; and after lunch we'll 
 go out again, and you can work for an- 
 other hour or two before it gets dark." 
 It required all Margery's resolution 
 and self-control to get through this 
 speech. It was not a pretty thing that 
 had looked out at her from the easel, 
 and the look she had seen twice on 
 Frank's face, and felt once, was not
 
 134 
 
 pretty either. That his work had a 
 very definite and startling effect on 
 him she knew from personal experi- 
 ence, but that anything could happen 
 to him she entirely declined to believe. 
 He was cross, irritable, odious, as she 
 often told him, when he was interested 
 in his work, but when it was over he 
 became calm, unruffled, and delightful 
 again. She was fully determined he 
 should do this portrait, and to himself 
 she allowed that it would be a relief 
 when it was finished. 
 
 Frank got up at once with unusual 
 docility. As a rule, he scowled and 
 snarled when she fetched liim away 
 from his work, and made himself gener- 
 ally disagreeable. This uncommon state 
 of things gave Margery great surprise. 
 
 " Well, why don't you say you'll be 
 blessed if you come?" she asked, mov- 
 in£: towards the door.
 
 135 
 
 "Ah, I'm quite willing to come," he 
 said. "Why shouldn't I come? I 
 always would come anywhere with 
 you." 
 
 He followed her towards the door, 
 and in passing suddenly caught sight of 
 the easel. He looked round like a child 
 afraid of being detected in doing some- 
 thing it ought not, and before Margery 
 could stop him he had taken two quick 
 steps towards it and turned it round. 
 In a moment his mood changed. 
 
 " Do you see that ?" he said in a 
 wdiisper, as if the thing would overhear 
 him. " That's what I was all the morn- 
 ing when you were not here, and I 
 knew I oughtn't to be painting. Wait 
 a minute, Margy ; I want to finish a bit 
 I was working at 1" 
 
 His face grew suddenly pale, and the 
 look of guilt descended on it like a 
 mist, blotting out the features.
 
 136 
 
 " That's what you are making of me," 
 he said. " Give me my palette. Quick! 
 I sha'ii't be a minute." 
 
 But Margery caught up, as she had 
 often done before, his palette and brush- 
 es from the table where he had left 
 them, and fled with them to the door. 
 
 " Give them to me at once !" shouted 
 Frank, holdins: out his hand for them, 
 but still looking at the picture. 
 
 Margery gave one long-drawn breath 
 of pain and horror when slie looked at 
 Frank's face, and then, a blessed sense 
 of humor coming to her aid, she broke 
 out into a light laugh — half hysterical 
 and half amused. 
 
 "Oh, Frank," she cried, "you look 
 exactly like Irving in 'Macbeth' when 
 he says, ' This is a sorry sight ! I never 
 saw a sorrier.' " 
 
 At the sound of her voice, more par- 
 ticularly at the sound of her laugh, he
 
 137 
 
 turned and looked at her, and the hor- 
 ror faded from his face. 
 
 "What have I been saying ?" lie asked. 
 
 " You said, ' Give me the daggers !' 
 — oh no, Lad J Macbeth says that. Well, 
 here they are. Come to me, Frank, and 
 I'll give you them." 
 
 Frank walked obediently up to her, 
 as she stood in the entrance to the 
 passage, and as soon as he was out- 
 side the studio she banged the door 
 and stood in front of it triumphantly. 
 
 "Here are the daggers," she said, 
 "but you are not going to use them 
 now. You shall finish that picture, but 
 not like a madman. And if you look 
 like Macbeth any more I shall simply 
 die of it; or I shall behave like Lady 
 Macbeth, and then tliere will be a pair 
 of us. I shall walk in my sleep down 
 to the sea, and wash my hands all day 
 till it gets quite red. Now you're com- 
 ing out. Marcli !"
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 After lunch Frank and Margery 
 went down to the river and cruised 
 about in a little boat, exploring, as they 
 had explored a hundred times before, 
 the unexpected but well-known little 
 creeks which ran up between the hum- 
 mocks of the broad-backed hills, shut in 
 and shadowed by delicate-leaved beech- 
 trees. When the tide was high it was 
 possible to get some way up into these 
 wooded retreats, and by remaining very 
 still, or going quickly and silently round 
 a corner, you might sometimes catch 
 sight of a kingfisher flashing up from 
 the shallows and darting along the 
 lane of flecked sunlight like a jewel
 
 139 
 
 flung tbrongli the air. There had been 
 a frost, the first of the year, the niglit 
 before, and the broad - leaved docks 
 and hemlocks linins^ the banks had still 
 drops of moisture on their leaves like 
 pearls or moon -stones semees on to 
 green velvet. The woods had taken a 
 deeper autumnal tint in the last two 
 days, and already the five-ribbed chest- 
 nut leaves, the first of all to fall, were 
 lying scattered on the ground. Every 
 now and then a rabbit scuttled away to 
 seek the protection of thicker under- 
 growth, or a young cock pheasant, as 
 yet unmolested, stood and looked at the 
 intruders. 
 
 Margery was surprised to find how 
 great the relief of getting Frank away 
 from his picture was. The horrible 
 guilty look on the portrait's face, and, 
 more than that, the knowledge that it 
 was a terril)ly true realization of lier
 
 140 
 
 husband's expression, disturbed her 
 more than she liked to admit even to 
 herself. 
 
 But nothing, she determined — not if 
 all the ghosts out of the Decameron sat 
 in her husband's ejes — should make her 
 abandon her resolution of compelling 
 Frank to finish it. She did not believe 
 in occult phenomena of this descrip- 
 tion ; no painting of any portrait could 
 alter the painters nature. To get tired 
 and anxious was not the same as losing 
 your personality ; the first, if one was 
 working well and hard, was inevitable ; 
 the second was impossible, it was non- 
 sense. Decidedly she did not believe 
 in the possibility of his losing his per- 
 sonality. But with all her resolutions 
 to the contrary, she could not help won- 
 dering what the other fear, which she 
 had forbidden him to tell her, was. 
 Tao-uelv in her own mind she connected
 
 141 
 
 it with that strange shudder she had 
 felt when she saw him the night hefore; 
 and quite irrelevantly, as it seemed to 
 her, the image came into her mind of 
 something hidden rising to the surface 
 — of the sea giving up its dead. . . . 
 
 It was on this point alone she dis- 
 trusted herself and all the resolutions 
 she had made. She did not yet know 
 clearly what she feared, but she realized 
 dimly that there was a possibility of its 
 becoming clearer to her, and that when 
 it became clearer she would have to de- 
 cide afresb. At present her one desire 
 was that he should finish the portrait, 
 and finish it as quickly as possible. But 
 at any rate she had Frank with her 
 now, as she had known him and loved 
 him all their life together. That love 
 she would not risk, but at present she 
 did not see where the risk could come 
 in. With her, and away from the por-
 
 143 
 
 trait, he was again completely himself. 
 He looked tired and was rather silent, 
 and often when she turned from her 
 place in the bow (where she was looking 
 for concealed snags or roots in the 
 water) to him, as he punted the boat 
 quietly along with an oar, for the stream 
 was narrow to row in, she saw him 
 standing still, oar in hand, looking at 
 her, and when their eyes met he 
 smiled. 
 
 ''It is like that first afternoon we 
 were here, Margy, isn't it?" he said on 
 one of these occasions. "Do you re- 
 member ? We got here on a September 
 morning, after travelling all night from 
 London, and after lunch we came up 
 this very creek." 
 
 "Yes, Frank, and I feel just as I did 
 then." 
 
 " What did you feel ?" 
 
 " Why — why, that I had got you all
 
 143 
 
 to in3'self at last, and that I did not 
 care about anything else." 
 
 " Ah, my God !" cried Frank, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " What is it ?" asked she. 
 
 Frank ran the boat into a little hol- 
 low made in the side of the creek by a 
 small stream, now nearly summer dry, 
 and came and sat down on the bank just 
 above her. 
 
 "Margy dear," he said, "I want to 
 ask you something quite soberly. I am 
 not excited nor overwrought in any way, 
 am I? I am quite calm and sensible. 
 It is not as if that horrible thing were 
 with us. It is about that I want to talk to 
 you — about the picture. All this morn- 
 ing, as I told you, I knew I ought not 
 to go on with it, but I went on because 
 it had a terrible evil fascination for me. 
 And now, too, I know I ought not to go 
 on with it. It is wicked. This morn-
 
 144 
 
 ing I thonglit of that afternoon we 
 spent here before, and I knew I was 
 sacrificing that. Then I did not care, 
 but now joii are all the world to me, as 
 you always have been except when I 
 am with that thing. It was that first 
 day we came here to this very spot that 
 was fixed in my mind. And now we are 
 here in the same place, and on just such 
 another day, let us talk about it." 
 
 " Oh, Frank, don't be a coward," said 
 Margery, appealingly. " You know ex- 
 actly what I think about it. Of course all 
 my inclination goes with you, but, but — " 
 
 She raised herself from the boat and 
 put her hand on his knee. 
 
 " Frank, you don't doubt me, do you? 
 There is nothing in the world I could 
 weigh against you and your love, but 
 we must be reasonable. If you had a 
 very strong presentiment that you would 
 be drowned as we sailed home I should
 
 145 
 
 very likely be dreadfully uncomfortable, 
 but I wouldn't have you walk back in- 
 stead for anything. There are many 
 things of which we know nothing — pre- 
 sentiments, fears, all the horrors, in fact 
 — and it would be like children to take 
 them into our reckoning or let them 
 direct us. It is for your sake, not mine, 
 that I want you to go on with that por- 
 trait. If I followed my inclination I 
 should say, ' Tear it up and let us sit 
 here together for ever and ever.' " 
 
 Frank leaned forward and spoke en- 
 treatingl3\ 
 
 " Margy, tell me to tear it up — ah, 
 do, dear, and you may do with me what- 
 ever you wish — only tell me to de- 
 stroy it !'* 
 
 Margery shook her head hopelessly. 
 
 "Don't disappoint me, Frank," she 
 said. " I care for nothing in the world 
 compared to you ; but what reason 
 
 10
 
 146 
 
 could I give for doing this? I think 
 you often get excited and upset over 
 your work, but that is worth while, be- 
 cause you do good work and you are 
 not permanently upset. You wouldn't 
 give up being an artist for that. And 
 if I saw any reason for telling you to 
 stop this, I would do it. It is because 
 I care for you and all your possibiHhes 
 that I tell you to go on with it." 
 
 iVIargery thought for a moment of the 
 portrait and the terrible likeness it bore 
 to her husband, and she hesitated. But 
 no ; the whole thing was too fantastic, 
 too vaojue. She did not even know what 
 she was afraid of. 
 
 ^'It isn't the pleasant or tlie easy 
 course I am taking," she continued. 
 " That wasn't a pleasant look on your 
 face when, you shouted at me to give 
 you your palette this morning?" 
 
 Frank looked puzzled.
 
 147 
 
 '' What did I do ?" he asked. " When 
 did I shout at you?" 
 
 " This morning, just before we came 
 out. You shouted awfully loud, and 
 you looked like Macbeth. It is just be- 
 cause I don't want you to look like 
 Macbeth permanently that I insist on 
 your going on with it. I want you to 
 get Macbeth out of your system. That 
 fantastic idea of yours, that you would 
 rnn a risk, was the original cause of 
 all this nonsense, and when you have 
 finished the picture and seen that you 
 have run no risk, you will know that I 
 am right." 
 
 Frank stood up. 
 
 " To-morrow may be too late," he said. 
 "Do you really tell me to go on with it?" 
 
 " Frank, dear, don't be melodramatic. 
 You were just as nice as you could be 
 all the way up here. Yes, I tell you to 
 go on with it."
 
 148 
 
 Frank's arms dropped by his side, 
 and for a moment he stood qnite stilL 
 The leaves whispered in the trees, and 
 the rippling stream tapped against the 
 boat. Then for a moment the breeze 
 dropped, and the boat swung round with 
 the current. The water made no sound 
 against it as it moved slowly round, and 
 there was silence — tense, absolute si- 
 lence. 
 
 Then Margery lay back in the boat 
 and laughed. Her laugh sounded strange 
 in her own ears. 
 
 "I am sure this is one of the occa- 
 sions on which we ought to hear only 
 the beating of our own hearts ; but, as 
 a matter of fact, I don't. Come, Frank, 
 don't stand there like a hop-pole." 
 
 Frank slowly let his eyes rest on her, 
 but he did not answer her smile. 
 
 Margery paused a moment. 
 
 "Come," she said again, "let us go
 
 149 
 
 a little higher. There is plenty of 
 water." 
 
 Frank pushed the boat ont from the 
 bank and jumped in. 
 
 "Then it is all over," lie said. "I must 
 go home at once. I must get on with 
 the portrait immediately. I cannot last 
 if I am not quick. There's no time to 
 lose, Margy. Please let me get back at 
 once." 
 
 He paused a moment. 
 
 "Margy, give me one kiss, will you?" 
 he said. "Perhaps, perhaps — Ah, 
 my darling, cannot you do what I 
 ask?" 
 
 He had raised himself and clung 
 round her neck, kissing her again and 
 again. But she, afraid of yielding, 
 afraid of sacrificing her reason even to 
 that she loved best in the world, un- 
 wound his arms. 
 
 "No, Frank, I have said I cannot.
 
 150 
 
 Oil, my clear, don't yon understand ? 
 Frank, Frank !" 
 
 But lie shook his head and took up 
 the oar. 
 
 "Why are you in such a hurry?" she 
 asked, after a moment, seeing he did 
 not look at her again. " What time is 
 it ?" 
 
 "I don't know," said Frank, quickly. 
 "I only know that if I am to finish it 
 I must finish it at once. It will take us 
 i>early an hour to get home, and it is too 
 dark to work after five." 
 
 The wind, since that sudden lull, had 
 blown only fitfully by gusts, and by the 
 time they had emerged into the estuary 
 it had died out altogether. 
 
 " The wind has dropped," said he. 
 " The winds and the stars fitrht a^rainst 
 me. We sha'n't be able to sail." 
 
 He took up the sculls, and rowed as 
 if he were rowing a race.
 
 151 
 
 *' Wliat's the matter?" asked Margery. 
 "Why are you in such a hurry? It is 
 not late." 
 
 '' You don't understand," he said. 
 " There is a hurry. I nuist get back. 
 Oil, why can't you understand ? I must 
 have you or it, and you — you have 
 given me up." 
 
 ^' Frank, what do you mean ?" asked 
 Margery, bewilderedly. 
 
 " You have given me up for it — it, 
 that painted horror you saw, that — 
 that — Margery, do listen to me just 
 once more. You don't understand, dear, 
 but I don't mind that. Only trust me; 
 only tell me to stop painting it — to de- 
 stroy it !" 
 
 He leaned on his oars a moment, 
 waiting for her answer. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ?" she 
 asked. *' Why do you speak to me like 
 that? AVhat nonsense it all is! I can't
 
 15-^ 
 
 advise you to give it np because I tliink 
 it much better for you that you should 
 go on with it." 
 
 He waited for her answer, and then 
 bent to the oars again. Tiie green wa- 
 ter hissed by them as the light boat cut 
 through the calm surface. Margery was 
 sitting in the stern managing the rud- 
 der, and it required all her nerve to 
 guide the boat among the rocks that 
 stood out from the shallower water. 
 Frank's terrible earnestness troubled 
 her, but it did not shake her resolu- 
 tion. Look at it what way she might, 
 her deliberate conclusion was that it 
 was better he should go on with it. 
 There was no reason — there really was 
 no reason why he should not, and there 
 was every reason why he should. She 
 wondered if he had better see a doctor. 
 That he was in good health two days 
 ago she knew for certain, but the mind
 
 153 
 
 can react upon the body, and his mind 
 was certainly out of sorts. However, 
 she bad decided that the best ultimate 
 cure for his mind was to finish the pict- 
 ure, and she determined to let things 
 be. 
 
 "When will it be done?'' she asked, 
 after a pause. 
 
 ''To-morrow," said Frank, without 
 stopping rowing, "and the part that is 
 important will be done to-night. Don't 
 come into the studio, please, till it is too 
 dark to paint. I can't paint with you 
 there." 
 
 Margery felt a little hurt in her mind. 
 She had meant to sit with him, as he 
 had asked her to that morning. How- 
 ever, it was best to let him have his way, 
 and she said no more. 
 
 It was scarcely half an hour after 
 they liad left the creek that they came 
 opposite the little iron staircase leading
 
 154 
 
 down to the rocks. The tide was out, 
 and Frank beached the boat on the 
 shingle at the bottom of the rocks, 
 jumped out, and drew it in. His pale 
 face was flushed and dripping with 
 sweat. 
 
 " You'd better change before joii be- 
 gin work," said Margery, as he helped 
 her out, "or you'll catch cold." 
 
 Frank burst out with a grating, un- 
 natural laugh. 
 
 '' Change ! I should think I am go- 
 ino^ to chan<i^e ! I wonder if you'll like 
 the change I" 
 
 He walked on in front of her, and 
 when he reached the terrace broke into 
 a run. Margery heard the door of the 
 studio bang behind him.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Margery followed Frank more slow- 
 ly up to the house. She had won her 
 point ; she had refused in the face of all 
 her own inclinations and his feelino^s to 
 tell him to leave the picture unfinished 
 or to destroy it, and having succeeded 
 in that for which she had been so in- 
 tensely anxious, the reaction followed. 
 Left to herself, she wondered if she had 
 been right; whether she were wise to 
 trust to reason rather than instinct; 
 whether she had not perhaps in some 
 dim, uncomprehended way put Frank 
 in a position of terrible danger. But 
 where or what, in the name of all that 
 is rational, could the danger be ? Yet
 
 156 
 
 there rose up before her, as if in answer 
 to her question, the remembrance of 
 Frank's face while he was painting. 
 Could she account for that rationally? 
 She was bound to confess she could 
 not. 
 
 It was a great relief to know that it 
 would soon be over. The important 
 part Frank had told her would be done 
 to-daj, in an hour or two. In the whole 
 range of human possibilities she could 
 think of nothing which could happen 
 in an hour or two which would justify 
 Frank's fears. lie was not well, she 
 thought ; but she regarded the finishing 
 of this portrait as a sort of slight sur- 
 gical operation which would remove 
 the cause of his mental disease from 
 which his bodily indisposition sprang. 
 
 For the present she had to get through 
 an hour or two alone, and she busied 
 herself with small, unnecessary duties.
 
 157 
 
 and read more of the small, unnecessary 
 book, by a popular author, -which we 
 have referred to before. A little before 
 five the post came in, and among other 
 letters for her was a note from Jack 
 Armitage. 
 
 '' And how goes the portrait ?" he 
 concluded, "and am I to be summoned 
 to see a descent into Bedlam or an as- 
 cent into Heaven ? Oddly enough, there 
 is an artist here of transcendental ten- 
 dencies who holds exactly the same 
 views as Frank. He believes in the 
 danger of losing one's personality, but 
 he also believes in the danger of raising 
 ghosts from one's past life if one paints 
 a portrait of one's self. Luckily, Frank 
 feels only the danger of losing his per- 
 sonality, and does not think about the 
 ghost-raising. I am glad for his peace 
 of mind — and, perhaps, for you too — 
 that this is so. To fisrht two sets of
 
 158 
 
 ghosts simultaneously might well be too 
 much for one woman, even for you !" 
 
 Margery laid down the letter, and the 
 voice of reason w^ithin her became grad- 
 ually less insistent, and then died away. 
 Frank had spoken of another danger 
 more terrible than the one he had told 
 her about, and she w^ould not hear him. 
 There had been a look on liis face that 
 frightened and horrified her, and she 
 would not think of it. Once on the 
 beach at New Quay he had wished to 
 tell her something, and she would not 
 hear him. 
 
 But the thing was impossible. True ; 
 but she was afraid. She felt suddenly 
 unable to cope with his fears, now that 
 she had beo^un to share them. Then Ar- 
 mitage's last w^ords came back to her — 
 " Beach Hotel, New Quay. I will come 
 at once." 
 
 Margery felt ashamed of yielding.
 
 159 
 
 but she justified her yielding to lier- 
 self. The presence of another person 
 in the house would be a good thing. 
 She Ivuew the absolute necessity of l^eep- 
 ing her nerves in perfect order, and 
 there is nothing so infectious as disor- 
 ders of the nerves. 
 
 She got her hat and walked straight 
 off to the village in order to send the 
 telegram. She felt as if she did not 
 even wish her ow^n servants to know 
 she was doing it, and preferred to send 
 it herself than giving it to one of them. 
 The sun was already sinking to its set- 
 ting, but there would be plenty of time 
 to walk down and get back before it was 
 dark. Frank had said that the portrait 
 w^as terrible after sunset, and though she 
 tried to laugh at the thought, the laugh 
 would not come. Decidedly, Armitage's 
 presence would be a good thing. 
 
 It took her a minute or two to send
 
 160 
 
 the telegram satisfactorily, but event- 
 ually she wrote: "Nothing is wrong, 
 but please come. Frank is rather try- 
 
 ing." 
 
 She left the office and walked back 
 quickly up the village, only to run into 
 Mrs. Greenock, at the corner by the vic- 
 arage. Though she was anxious to get 
 back, it was impossible not to exchange 
 a few words. 
 
 " And how does the portrait get on ?" 
 asked that estimable woman. "I had 
 such a deeply interesting conversation 
 with Mr. Trevor about it when we dined 
 at your house. Is it wonderful ? Is it 
 a revelation ? Does it show ns what he 
 is, not only what he looks like?" 
 
 " Frank's very much excited about 
 it," said Margery, " which is always a 
 good sign. I think he is satisfied." 
 
 "And when will it be finished?" 
 asked Mrs. Greenock. " Your husband
 
 161 
 
 was so good as to tell me I luiglit see 
 it when it was done. I am lookino^ for- 
 ward to an intellectual as well as an 
 artistic treat." 
 
 "It ought to be done to-morrow," 
 said Marger3\ " He has been working 
 very hard." 
 
 "A giant," murmured Mrs. Green- 
 ock — " a gigantic personality. Are you 
 walking home ? May I not accompany 
 you a little way ? I too have been hard 
 at work to-da}", and I have come out to 
 get a breath of fresh air, and perhaps 
 an idea or two." 
 
 Mrs. Greenock walked with Margery 
 np to the lodge-gates, beguiling the te- 
 dium of the way with instructive dis- 
 course, and kept her several moments 
 longer there, bidding her observe the 
 exquisite glow in the western sky where 
 the sun had already gone down. 
 
 Margery saw with annoyance that
 
 162 
 
 Mrs. Greenock had been quite right — 
 the sun had ah'eady set, and tlie twi- 
 light was falling in darker and darker 
 layers over the earth when she reached 
 the house. She went quickly up the 
 passage leading to the studio and open- 
 ed the door. 
 
 Frank was standing on the other side 
 of the room, with his face turned tow- 
 ards her, a piece of crumpled paper in 
 his hands. The shadow cast from the 
 window fell on the right side of his 
 face, but in the dim light she could see 
 that there was that expression of guilt 
 and horror on it which she had seen 
 there twice before. 
 
 " Why, Frank," she said, " you can't 
 paint by this light!" 
 
 Something stirring at her elbow made 
 her turn round quickly. Frank was sit- 
 ting in a deep chair in the shadow, star- 
 ing blankly before him.
 
 163 
 
 She had mistaken the portrait for her 
 husband. 
 
 For a moment neither of them spoke 
 or moved. Then Frank got ont of the 
 cliair where he was sitting and crossed 
 the room to where the horrible fac-sim- 
 ile of himself stood against the wall, 
 and putting himself unconsciously, Mar- 
 gery felt, into the same attitude, turned 
 to her. 
 
 " I have worked quickly to-night," he 
 said. "I have almost finished." 
 
 Margery looked suddenly back at the 
 portrait, and noticed with a cold, grow- 
 ing horror that she had been the vic- 
 tim of some illusion. The light from 
 the window cast no shadow at all on to 
 it, and the shadow on the face was 
 painted on the left side, not the right. 
 
 Frank paused, and Margery knew 
 that her telegram would be useless.
 
 1&4 
 
 The matter was between lierself and 
 Frank. If help could reach him it 
 must come from her. In a moment 
 she understood all. The vague fear, 
 the disconnected hints, the thing he 
 had wished to tell her once at Kew 
 Quay, and once again that morning, the 
 guilty face, her own shrinking, formed 
 links of a connected chain. She had 
 shrunk from what was evil, as Frank 
 had shrunk from it and loathed it when 
 she was there ; but tlie fascination of 
 which, interpreted by his artistic pas- 
 sion, he had been unable to resist. His 
 own skill had raised the thing that he 
 had thought was dead into new life, 
 and now it asserted its old supremacy. 
 
 In a few moments he spoke again. 
 
 " Do you see how like we are ?" he 
 said, speaking slowly, as if he had some 
 difficulty in finding words. " Xo won- 
 der you mistook it for me. You can-
 
 105 
 
 not see it properly in this light ; in the 
 daylight the likeness is even more ex- 
 traordinary. Is it not clever of me to 
 have painted such a picture? There is 
 no picture like it in the world. It must 
 go to the Academy next year, Margery, 
 as a posthumous work. It is a crea- 
 tion. I have made a man !" 
 
 Frank paused, but Margery said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 " There were some things about me 
 you did not know before — things which 
 were part of me, and had been vital 
 to me," he went on. " Once or twice I 
 wished to tell you of them, but you 
 would not hear. Now you see them. 
 I think you cannot help seeing them. 
 You can see them in the portrait's face 
 and in mine — clearest in mine; but to- 
 morrow they will be quite as clear in 
 the other. They say that hearing fir- 
 ing brings corpses to the surface. I
 
 166 
 
 dare say it is true— at any rate, I have 
 brought corpses to tlie surface. They 
 are not pretty; corpses seldom are." 
 
 Margery came a step nearer to him, 
 though her flesh cried out against it. 
 
 "Frank! Frank!" she said. 
 
 " Wait a moment," said he. " I wish 
 to tell you more. A critic has no right, 
 as I said, to criticise unless he knows 
 more about the picture than the artist, 
 but the artist may criticise his own 
 picture. This is m}^ picture — all mine. 
 And it is me. It is all true. Do you 
 remember last Sunday, Margy, when 
 Greenock read about the judgment 
 books being opened, and every man be- 
 ing judged by what was written in 
 them ? B}' - the - way, Mrs. Greenock 
 writes sonnets. He said she was an ac- 
 complished sonneteer. Well, do you 
 know what those books are ? They arc 
 nothing else than the faces, the real
 
 167 
 
 faces, of the men who are being judged. 
 "What chance do jou think I shall have, 
 for that is mj book you see painted 
 there — an illuminated manuscript. Why 
 did you wish me to do it so much ? 
 Can you read it all ? Can you see the 
 Cafe Chantant in it? Can you see 
 Paris, and the cruelty and the sweetness 
 and bitterness of it ? Can you see Claire 
 in it, petite Claire, and the end, the 
 wliole of it, the pleasure, the weariness, 
 the — the morgue ? Yes, that was where 
 I saw her last." 
 
 '• No, Frank, no," said Margery; 
 "don't tell me." 
 
 " It is not pleasant," said he. " It is 
 not amusing to go to hell, as I have 
 gone. This is not a nice book to read ; 
 I wish now I had never written it — 
 ' The Life and Adventures of Frank 
 Trevor,' by himself." 
 
 The liorror of great darkness had
 
 168 
 
 come on Margery. She felt the plivs- 
 ical result, which is stronger than all 
 things in the world except love. She 
 loved Frank and Frank loved her. 
 There was still a chance. 
 
 Frank had picked up from the table 
 the little yellow programme which he 
 had painted and held it in his hands, 
 turning it over and over. 
 
 "It won't break," he said, "it won't 
 bend. My God I what am I to do? 
 But — but I have written my judgment 
 book ; yet there are some chapters which 
 I have not written. I cannot remem- 
 ber them. They were some chapters 
 you and I wrote together about — But 
 you will have forgotten — you gave me 
 up. Margy, cannot you remember what 
 they were ? There was one chapter we 
 wrote down in that little creek where 
 we went to-day." 
 
 Frank stopped, and looked about the
 
 169 
 
 room as if lie were searching for some- 
 thing. In that pause love triumplied. 
 Margery went to him qiiickl}^ The 
 pliysical revolt was dead, for she loved 
 him. She laid her hand on his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 "Frank," she said, "do you remem- 
 ber that you asked me whether I wished 
 you to go on with that picture? I said 
 I did, but I am here to tell you that I 
 have changed my mind. ' I think you 
 had better not go on with it. Tear it 
 up, burn it. It is not good; it is dev- 
 ilish. And when you have done that 
 we will go and find those chapters you 
 spoke of, which we wrote together, you 
 and I alone. Did you think they were 
 lost ? Could you not remember them ? 
 I remember tliem all. I have them 
 quite safe. There are none of them 
 lost." 
 
 For a moment a look of intense re-
 
 170 
 
 lief came over Frank's face. Even in 
 the darkness Margery could see that it 
 had changed utterly. She ghmced Avith 
 sick horror at the portrait which only 
 five minutes before she liad thought 
 was actually her husband. But almost 
 immediately he shook his head. 
 
 "No, I must finish it now," he said. 
 "I do not believe in death-bed repent- 
 ance. There is very little more to do, 
 for I have worked quickly to-day. Just 
 one thing wants doing — a shadow is to 
 be deepened in the mouth. Do you see 
 what I mean ? Ko, it is too dark for 
 yon to see it, though I can see it quite 
 clearly. I wish I could explain to you 
 what I mean, but you will never under- 
 stand. Don't you see it is I who stand 
 there on that easel? This thing which 
 you think is me is nearly dead. It is 
 like Pygmalion, isn't it, only the other 
 way round ? He made his statue come
 
 171 
 
 to life, but I have put my life into that 
 picture. If ever the story of Pygma- 
 lion is true, I could have done that ; it 
 is easier than what I have done." 
 
 " Yes, dear," said Margery, " I knew 
 the picture would be a wonderful thing. 
 But it is too dark to look at it now and 
 too dark for you to paint. Let us come 
 away, and we will find those chapters 
 you spoke of. I have got them all, I 
 tell you. They seem to me very good 
 and very important — quite as important 
 now, and much better, than the chapters 
 you have written there." 
 
 She put her hand through Frank's 
 arm,and all her soul went into that touch. 
 
 " Come," she said ; " they are not 
 here." 
 
 For one moment she felt Frank's 
 arm tremble under the loving press of 
 her fingers, but he said nothing and did 
 not move.
 
 172 
 
 " You asked me to kiss you this af- 
 ternoon, " she said ; " and now, Frank, I 
 ask you to kiss me. Kiss me on tlie 
 lips, for we are husband and wife." 
 
 And standing by that painted horror 
 lie kissed her. 
 
 "And now come out for a few mo- 
 ments," said Margery, " for I cannot tell 
 you here." 
 
 Frank obeyed, and together in silence 
 they walked out on to the terrace. 
 
 "Let us sit down here," said she, 
 " and I will tell you what you have for- 
 gotten." 
 
 " Those other chapters ?" asked Frank. 
 "I want them, for the picture is not 
 complete." 
 
 " Yes, those other chapters. They 
 are very short. Just this, Frank, that 
 I loved you, and love you now. I see 
 what your fear was : it was fear for me, 
 not for yourself. You thought that if
 
 173 
 
 you painted this picture you would 
 have to put something into it which I 
 did not know — something you were 
 afraid of my hearing. I know it, and 
 I am not afraid. But the chapters we 
 wrote together are still true ; they are 
 the truest part of all. Your picture is 
 not complete. It wants the most essen- 
 tial part of all." 
 
 Once more she felt a tremor go 
 through his arm, but still he said noth- 
 ing. 
 
 "You told me I did not understand 
 what you meant," she said, " but I un- 
 derstand now. And you too did not 
 understand me if you thought that aji}'- 
 thing in the world could make any dif- 
 ference to my love for you. We have 
 all of us in our natures something not 
 nice to look at, but wdiat we stand or 
 fall by is our beautiful chapters. You 
 cannot destroy them, Frank, though you
 
 174 
 
 tliongbt you could, because tlicy belong 
 to me as well as you, and I will not 
 liave tbem destroyed. You tboiigbt 
 you bad lost tbeni, but you bave not. 
 Tbey are bere. You may read tbem 
 now witb me." 
 
 Margery paused, and on tbe silence 
 came tbe sudden, quick -drawn breatb 
 tbat opens tbe gates of tears. In a mo- 
 ment sbe felt Frank's arms round ber, 
 and bis bands clasped about ber neck. 
 
 '• Margy I Margy I" be wbispered, 
 ''bave you got tbem now, even now? 
 My God I bow little I knew! You 
 sbrank from me, and I tbougbt you 
 bad given me up ; tbat tbere was notb- 
 inof left to me but tbat — tbat borror. 
 But wbat can I do? My judgment 
 book is written. Is not tbat true 
 
 too r 
 
 '' Do you remember wbat you said ?" 
 asked Marirerv. '-Did vou not tell me
 
 175 
 
 that you loathed wliat yon were paint- 
 ing ? Why did you loathe it ?" 
 
 "AVhy did I loathe it? Why, be- 
 cause it was — something horrible, 
 wretched !" 
 
 " Let us go to the studio," said Mar- 
 
 " No, no !" cried he ; " anywhere but 
 there." 
 
 " Come, Frank," she said, "you must 
 come with me." 
 
 In the passage hung a troph}^ made 
 of knives and swords which Frank had 
 once bought in the Soudan. Margery 
 took down one of these, a thick steel 
 dagger, short and two-edged. On the 
 table below stood a lamp, and this she 
 took in her other hand. 
 
 " Open the door," she said to Frank. 
 
 Then she gave the dagger into his 
 hand, and with the lamp, she stood op- 
 posite the picture.
 
 176 
 
 "Xow!" she said. 
 
 He stood for a moment feeling the 
 edge of the dagger, looking at Margery. 
 Then with a sndden movement he 
 grasped the side of the easel with one 
 hand, and with the other plunged the 
 dagger througli the face. 
 
 ^' You devil, 3'ou devil I*- he &aid. 
 
 He cut and stabbed the picture in 
 fifty places. The torn shreds he ripped 
 off and threw on the ground, trampling 
 on them or picking them up to tear 
 them again, and in a few moments all 
 that there was left was a few shreds 
 hanging from the frame. 
 
 Jack Armitage arrived next day. He 
 never knew why Margery had sent for 
 him, but she thanked him so genuinely 
 for coming that he was not sorry he 
 came. 
 
 THE END
 
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