MY LADY Or THE FIELD OP BLOOD
Lola, his subject, always came to sit for him in the morning for
an hour or more. At first he laughed and talked with her with
all the spirit of good-fellowship. But as the work progressed he
grew morose and silent, until at last Lola came to dread the hour
of sitting.
Thus a month and more passed by, and still the artist lingered,
while the portrait daily grew under the deft touches of his brush.
Then one morning he announced that it was all but finished, and
that he would show it to them on the morrow.
That evening, as Lola was going to her room, she heard a voice
speaking in the studio. She stepped inside the open door, expect
ing to find Carl and her father there. But at the first words she
heard she paused. For it was Carl, alone, and he was talking to
himself. From where she stood, motionless and silent, she could
see him. But a screen hid the picture from her sight. The artist
was on his knees before the easel, a flickering candle held high
above his head, and this he moved from side to side so as to throw
light on the canvas to the best possible advantage.
" Done," he was saying, " done. And I dreamed that I could
never do it. How mistaken I was. And yet," a note of sadness
coining into his voice, " I am not satisfied. It is not just as I
had wished. Oh, you are very beautiful," addressing the por
trait now, " but so is a snow crystal. Ah yes, without doubt there
is something lacking. There is beauty, divine beauty, but it is
cold and lifeless. What, oh, what have I failed to grasp ? What
is this elusive something I have missed ? Beauty, innocence,
truth, grace—you have them all. And yet you are incomplete."
The candle fell from his hand, rolled upon the floor, and then
went out. But by the light of its momentary plunge, Lola had
seen his face. It was white and drawn with pain. And in the
darkness she heard him sob aloud. But at that moment he
seemed more human than at any time before. The fact that he
could feel sorrow seemed to 'draw him closer to her, and deep in
her heart she pitied him. And the desire was strong upon her to
go to him with soothing words and touches. But instead of fol
lowing this impulse, she turned swiftly and noiselessly, and crept
to her room, her cheeks and ears tingling yet with the hot blood
that coursed through them. She lighted a taper and set it by the
mirror. Then she loosed her luxuriant hair and let it fall in a