<SPAN name="chap30"></SPAN>
<h3> CHAPTER XXX </h3>
<h3> "THE LADY PORTRAYED" </h3>
<p>"It has taken you long, Miss Gray. I nearly sent Simpson up, to find
out what had happened."</p>
<p>"I am glad you did not do that, Mr. Dalmain. Simpson would have found
me weeping on the studio floor; and to ask his assistance under those
circumstances, would have been more humbling than inquiring after the
fly in the soup!"</p>
<p>Garth turned quickly in his chair. The artist-ear had caught the tone
which meant comprehension of his work.</p>
<p>"Weeping!" he said. "Why?"</p>
<p>"Because," answered Nurse Rosemary, "I have been entranced. These
pictures are so exquisite. They stir one's deepest depths. And yet they
are so pathetic—ah, SO pathetic; because you have made a plain woman,
beautiful."</p>
<p>Garth rose to his feet, and turned upon her a face which would have
blazed, had it not been sightless.</p>
<p>"A WHAT?" he exclaimed.</p>
<p>"A plain woman," repeated Nurse Rosemary, quietly. "Surely you realised
your model to be that. And therein lies the wonder of the pictures. You
have so beautified her by wifehood, and glorified her by motherhood,
that the longer one looks the more one forgets her plainness; seeing
her as loving and loved; lovable, and therefore lovely. It is a triumph
of art."</p>
<p>Garth sat down, his hands clasped before him.</p>
<p>"It is a triumph of truth," he said. "I painted what I saw."</p>
<p>"You painted her soul," said Nurse Rosemary, "and it illuminated her
plain face."</p>
<p>"I SAW her soul," said Garth, almost in a whisper; "and that vision was
so radiant that it illumined my dark life. The remembrance lightens my
darkness, even now."</p>
<p>A very tender silence fell in the library.</p>
<p>The twilight deepened.</p>
<p>Then Nurse Rosemary spoke, very low. "Mr. Dalmain, I have a request to
make of you. I want to beg you not to destroy these pictures."</p>
<p>Garth lifted his head. "I must destroy them, child," he said. "I cannot
risk their being seen by people who would recognise my—the—the lady
portrayed."</p>
<p>"At all events, there is one person who must see them, before they are
destroyed."</p>
<p>"And that is?" queried Garth.</p>
<p>"The lady portrayed," said Nurse Rosemary, bravely.</p>
<p>"How do you know she has not seen them?"</p>
<p>"Has she?" inquired Nurse Rosemary.</p>
<p>"No," said Garth, shortly; "and she never will."</p>
<p>"She must."</p>
<p>Something in the tone of quiet insistence struck Garth.</p>
<p>"Why?" he asked; and listened with interest for the answer.</p>
<p>"Because of all it would mean to a woman who knows herself plain, to
see herself thus beautified."</p>
<p>Garth sat very still for a few moments. Then: "A woman
who—knows—herself—plain?" he repeated, with interrogative amazement
in his voice.</p>
<p>"Yes," proceeded Nurse Rosemary, encouraged. "Do you suppose, for a
moment, that that lady's mirror has ever shown her a reflection in any
way approaching what you have made her in these pictures? When we stand
before our looking-glasses, Mr. Dalmain, scowling anxiously at hats and
bows, and partings, we usually look our very worst; and that lady, at
her very worst, would be of a most discouraging plainness."</p>
<p>Garth sat perfectly silent.</p>
<p>"Depend upon it," continued Nurse Rosemary, "she never sees herself as
'The Wife'—'The Mother.' Is she a wife?".</p>
<p>Garth hesitated only the fraction of a second. "Yes," he said, very
quietly.</p>
<p>Jane's hands flew to her breast. Her heart must be held down, or he
would hear it throbbing.</p>
<p>Nurse Rosemary's voice had in it only a slight tremor, when she spoke
again.</p>
<p>"Is she a mother?"</p>
<p>"No," said Garth. "I painted what might have been."</p>
<p>"If—?"</p>
<p>"If it HAD been," replied Garth, curtly.</p>
<p>Nurse Rosemary felt rebuked. "Dear Mr. Dalmain," she said, humbly; "I
realise how officious I must seem to you, with all these questions, and
suggestions. But you must blame the hold these wonderful paintings of
yours have taken on my mind. Oh, they are beautiful—beautiful!"</p>
<p>"Ah," said Garth, the keen pleasure of the artist springing up once
more. "Miss Gray, I have somewhat forgotten them. Have you them here?
That is right. Put them up before you, and describe them to me. Let me
hear how they struck you, as pictures." Jane rose, and went to the
window. She threw it open; and as she breathed in the fresh air,
breathed out a passionate prayer that her nerve, her voice, her
self-control might not fail her, in this critical hour. She herself had
been convicted by Garth's pictures. Now she must convince Garth, by her
description of them. He must be made to believe in the love he had
depicted.</p>
<p>Then Nurse Rosemary sat down; and, in the gentle, unemotional voice,
which was quite her own, described to the eager ears of the blind
artist, exactly what Jane had seen in the studio.</p>
<p>It was perfectly done. It was mercilessly done. All the desperate,
hopeless, hunger for Jane, awoke in Garth; the maddening knowledge that
she had been his, and yet not his; that, had he pressed for her answer
that evening, it could not have been a refusal; that the cold
calculations of later hours, had no place in those moments of ecstasy.
Yet—he lost her—lost her! Why? Ah, why? Was there any possible reason
other than the one she gave?</p>
<p>Nurse Rosemary's quiet voice went on, regardless of his writhings. But
she was drawing to a close. "And it is such a beautiful crimson
rambler, Mr. Dalmain," she said. "I like the idea of its being small
and in bud, in the first picture; and blooming in full glory, in the
second."</p>
<p>Garth pulled himself together and smiled. He must not give way before
this girl.</p>
<p>"Yes," he said; "I am glad you noticed that. And, look here. We will
not destroy them at once. Now they are found, there is no hurry. I am
afraid I am giving you a lot of trouble; but will you ask for some
large sheets of brown paper, and make a package, and write upon it:
'Not to be opened,' and tell Margery to put them back in the studio.
Then, when I want them, at any time, I shall have no difficulty in
identifying them."</p>
<p>"I am so glad," said Nurse Rosemary. "Then perhaps the plain lady—"</p>
<p>"I cannot have her spoken of so," said Garth, hotly. "I do not know
what she thought of herself—I doubt if she ever gave a thought to self
at all. I do not know what you would have thought of her. I can only
tell you that, to me, hers is the one face which is visible in my
darkness. All the loveliness I have painted, all the beauty I have
admired, fades from my mental vision, as wreaths of mist; flutters from
memory's sight, as autumn leaves. Her face alone abides; calm, holy,
tender, beautiful,—it is always before me. And it pains me that one
who has only seen her as MY hand depicted her should speak of her as
plain."</p>
<p>"Forgive me," said Nurse Rosemary, humbly. "I did not mean to pain you,
sir. And, to show you what your pictures have done for me, may I tell
you a resolution I made in the studio? I cannot miss what they
depict—the sweetest joys of life—for want of the courage to confess
myself wrong; pocket my pride; and be frank and humble. I am going to
write a full confession to my young man, as to my share of the
misunderstanding which has parted us. Do you think he will understand?
Do you think he will forgive?"</p>
<p>Garth smiled. He tried to call up an image of a pretty troubled face,
framed in a fluffy setting of soft fair hair. It harmonised so little
with the voice; but it undoubtedly was Nurse Rosemary Gray, as others
saw her.</p>
<p>"He will be a brute if he doesn't, child," he said.</p>
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