University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

Any secret embarrassment that there might have been,
in the meeting of Paul with the bride and bridegroom,
was quite overlaid by the grateful pleasure with which
they acknowledged the success of his delicate mission to
Casa G—. Tetherly had been made fully aware of the
importance of it, and it was a new tie between him and his
friend; for the possibility of a cold reception by the most
influential member of the family into which he had married,
had been the phantom of unrest to his honeymoon,
thus far—his particularly sensitive nature dreading nothing
so much as the position of a just tolerated intruder. In
spite, however, of interested reasons why there would have
been objections to Miss Winifred's marrying at all, and in
spite of the bridegroom's disadvantages of family and position,

the meeting with Miss Mildred, on their arrival in
Florence, was every way cordial and satisfactory. The
truth was, that Paul had touched the secret spring of
family pride with which he had confidentially been made
acquainted by the niece herself, dwelling mainly on the
perfection of manly proportion, in Tetherly's person, and
on his rare loftiness of nature as to all qualities that contribute
most to form the inborn nobleman.

The finishing of the portrait of the bride was now a
pleasant side-current of occupation; and the deferred
sitting of Miss Ashly, at her aunt's apartments, followed
in due course, as previously arranged. But this latter
part of his artistic engagement was, in more than one way,
a critical trial of Paul's self-control. The footing of distance
and ceremony on which he now stood with Miss
Mildred was very difficult to harmonize with the confiding
intimacy of the Tetherlys, and still more with the influence
of Miss Paleford's presence, she coming to town most
commonly with her friend. The watchful discrimination
necessary to suit his words and manner to such varied
degrees of intimacy, promised at first to be fatal altogether,
to that concentration of thought so important to the success
of his pencil. Between his genius, too, and his feeling
toward Miss Ashly, there was a struggle as to the phase of
character which that picture was to portray. In fact, after
the first sitting, he found it indispensable that there should

be some other object of attention than himself in the room
—something to scatter the focus of all eyes and thoughts
bent upon his work—and it occurred to him, at last, that
the presence of his friend Bosh might serve this purpose.
It was not uncommon for two artists to make drawings
from the same subject; and, on Paul's requesting the
privilege—as a favor to a brother student in whom he
was interested, and who was to profit especially by the
comparison thus made instructive between his own work
and his friend's—the ladies at once assented.

As a fresh drop of oil upon Bosh's sorest annoyance,
this was incidentally useful. He required soothing, from
time to time, upon the point of Paul's having friends and
acquaintances who were not also his own. The presence
of Mary Evenden, lately, in the studio of “Signor Valerio,”
had been also a conciliatory advantage; for, with the
atmosphere of sainted purity which the presence of this
fair creature threw over the room, the jealous artist was
safely introduced to the model-bust of his lady-love,
without taking offence. And the knowledge that it was
the work of a female hand (of “Signor Valerio,” a lady
in disguise) was so certified to Bosh by Mary's familiarity
with the place, that he was less reluctant to forego a
presentation to the princess herself, which, though it would
have better pleased his dignity, might have been an objectionable
intrusion upon her highness's privacy of pursuit.

With his easel in the rear of Paul's, at somewhat a
different angle of light, but getting pretty much the
same view, Bosh went industriously to work, on the
morning of the second sitting. There was great relief,
both in the amusing study which he himself afforded
to the ladies, and in the interest of the two pictures.
But Paul soon began to discover that he was to draw
an unforeseen advantage from the twin portraiture.
Blivins was a literal artist, as to expression. He had
neither imagination nor penetration into character. While
he flattered the complexion and features, therefore, as
far as was any way reasonable, he told the most uncompromising
truth as to the superficial impression. It was
how his sitter looked, to people in general. Of course,
between his likeness and Paul's there was all the difference
of a lady painted with a mask or without one.

Miss Ashly came round, from time to time, and informed
herself of the progress of the artists. But her manner
softened very perceptibly to Paul, as she saw the more
generous and nobler depths of her nature coming out
under his pencil. With a constant and self-denying effort,
he remembered her as she had looked when speaking to
him of Sybil Paleford; and, while he consulted her
present face for its lines and shadows, he drew only
upon the countenance in his memory for its language
and meaning. To the two artists, she was evidently as

different a creature as could well be imagined; but, in
feeling provokingly conscious of the fidelity of Mr. Blivins's
likeness, she was far more conscious of the truth of Mr.
Fane's. Her heart told her that he had profoundly read
what was written on its inmost page; and, by this proof
of his superiority of genius to what constituted a literal
copyist, like the other artist, she now understood by what
spell he had so controlled her. And, that the same
spell—rejected as it had been for a while—was now
resuming its power over her, Paul saw with an inexpressible
soothing of his pride.

Another subject, however, of far deeper interest than
either Paul or the two portraits of herself, began to
engross the attention of Miss Ashly. The different persons
who were present at these artistic matinées, were not
collectively aware how curiously each had some secret reason
for affectionate familiarity and intimacy with Paul. In
every heart (except Miss Mildred's own) he had a hidden
niche of grateful attachment—giving, in spite of all the
commonplace-ness of well-bred gossip, a deeper tone to
the words and manner with which he was occasionally
addressed. Her aunt's confidingness of look and voice, in
conversing with him, was simply an inexplicable wonder
to the observing niece. But all this might still have been
left to pass in silent surprise, as merely another exercise of
what she had herself experienced of Mr. Fane's power of

magnetism, but for the atmosphere of unreserve which it
created, and in which the unguarded nature of Sybil
Paleford expanded with unmistrusting simplicity. “The
unvoiced persuasion to show her heart,” such as the flower
feels in the air of spring, was in the manner of all around
her.

It was on the last day of the sittings, and the portrait of
Miss Mildred was finished, to all eyes but the artist's. The
approaching conclusion to what had so pleasantly drawn
them together, morning after morning, was regretted by
all; and to the manner of all, except one, it had given a
softer shade of thoughtfulness and sentiment. With each
succeeding day, to Miss Ashly, the unconscious betrayal of
Sybil's feelings towards Paul had become clearer; and,
with the kindly softening of the general key-note of conversation,
there was an outrunning sympathy, in the frank
girl's face and tone, which brought the long-resisted suspicion
almost to the full.

The effect which this unpleasantly increasing conviction
was producing on his subject, as she sat, grew embarrassing
to Paul's pencil, however. He was coming to the last
touch or two which should set the confirming seal and
cipher on the character of the expression. For this critical
point, more than for all the labor that had gone before,
he required that the face before him should be his copy.
But how different was it now, even from the countenance

which had been literally transferred to the canvas of his
friend Blivins! In the eye there was a more stony hardness
of concealment—in the nostril a scarce perceptible
line of more resentful inflation—and in the haughty lip a
curl of indomitable pride wholly unmistakable! To modify
or ignore characteristics so decided, seemed to have grown
suddenly absurd. The drawing scarce looked any longer
to be a likeness.

With his pencil wavering in the twirl of his fingers, and
his power of abstraction fast yielding to the more forcible
character of what he saw, Paul thought he would make a
last trial to forget the face before him, and recall, for a finishing
touch, the memory of its expression which he had
once treasured away. It cost a struggle, and he became,
for a moment, disregardful of all but his inner thought.
There was a slight wave of his hand, intended, half-consciously,
as a courteous intimation to his sitter that she
need no longer keep her chair; and he then stepped
quickly back and seated himself, and, with the effort to
rally his recollection, pressed his hand before his eyes.

But, to the watchful and beautiful mourner who had
seen his strength fail him, but a few days before, and who
had still, secretly, a tender care and remembrance of him
as an invalid, this sudden change of posture and the pressure
of the fingers on the eyelids, were signs of illness.

“Dear Paul!” she murmured, in sounds that just escaped

her lips, as she rushed with one bound across the room, and
clasped his head in her hands.

But, though the instant rise of Paul to his feet made
her mistake apparent, and there was a laugh of familiar
amusement among the less attentive company, the two
expressive words so indistinctly uttered had not escaped
the ear of Miss Ashly. Nor had the single instant's
exchange of looks between the two, as they stood together
by the easel, escaped her eye. It was a half-playful assurance
of Sybil's that such would be the loving earnestness
with which, if he were indeed ill or sad, she would forget
the whole world to spring to his side; it was an acknowledgment
of Paul's, that, with all his heart, for that moment
at least, he gratefully and fondly worshipped her.

There was an instant's parting and closing of the tightly
compressed lips of Miss Ashly, seen by Paul with a chance
turn of his head, at the next moment—the smothered
utterance of an outburst of impatient pride—but, though
wholly inaudible to all around, it was, to his sharpened
perception, as clear as if the vibration of air had written it
on the wall—the gasping admission that she knew, at last,
that Sybil loved him!

The game of cross-purposes of which Paul's life seemed
to be a most obstinately tangled example, was still played

on, in the few following days, and with a somewhat trying,
but more quiet variation.

With the finishing of the portraits for his friends, and
the success with which his genius for Art was now undeniably
stamped, the responsibility of the son to his mother,
as well as to himself, made its call upon him. He felt that
it was time to relieve her of the burden of his support—
that, with the timely seizure of opportunity, his ambition
demanded that he should commence his profession now.
There seemed to be both reasons and facilities for his trying
his wings first in Europe—deferring the return to his
own country for a couple of years, or till his views of Art
had become correctly and definitely confirmed—but, in the
question of where the scene of his first efforts should be,
or in what city he should first open his studio as a portrait-painter,
he found that his heart must have a share. Sybil
Paleford—it must be with reference to her that this movement
must be decided upon! To be near her, or far from
her—there was indeed a problem of happiness to be solved
by that! Prompt and uncompromising with himself as
Paul was, in his decisions for his own welfare only, there
was a few-days' struggle on this subject, which was, for a
while, of very doubtful termination. Before giving the
result to the reader, let us follow another thread that was
weaving, little regarded by him, at the same time.

The Tetherlys, since their arrival in Florence, had been

occupied very fully with receiving the hospitalities extended
to them as bride and bridegroom; but they seemed to have
but one mind as to the necessity of seeing Paul at their
table, at least once a day. He was very certain to pass
the evening with them, in company; but if they were not
to meet at dinner, he must breakfast with them—Miss
Mildred most commonly being one of the party. By the
pressure of the bride's engagements, too, or by some apparent
accident, it oftenest happened that the niece, after
dinner or breakfast, was left to Paul's attentions exclusively,
and a daily tête-à-tête for an hour or two, seemed,
somehow, curiously certain to come to pass.

As will be easily understood, Paul had only a portion of
a mind to give to Miss Ashly, with the struggle of his
tenderer interests going on beneath the surface—his companionship,
of course, amounting merely to an exercise of
the habitual civility of his manners, with the instinctive
earnestness of sincerity, and willingness to be impressed,
which formed the language of his nature. In proportion
to his retiracy and apparent willingness to withdraw from
any intricate reciprocation of thought or feeling, however,
his proud companion seemed to relax her reserve, and
grow kindly and genial. Paul became aware, without
reasoning upon it, at first, that his footing in Miss Ashly's
regard and confidence, grew daily more assured and agreeable.
But, while the growing discovery still reached the

hidden weakness at the bottom of his heart, it was, for
the time, at least, of very secondary interest. He hardly
realized it enough in fact, even to connect it with the recollection
of the good-natured proposal in Mrs. Tetherly's letter
—the thought of playing the lover to Miss Ashly having
been dismissed with a smile; but still, her aunt having
undoubtedly followed up her own wish at present, by the
exercise of secret influence in his favor.

It was a sunset with the promise of a coming spring in
its softness and warmth, and Paul sat with Miss Mildred in
the balconied window looking down upon the Arno. Mrs.
Tetherly, with whom they had dined, had pleaded an
engagement and taken her carriage to be gone for an
hour; Tetherly had strolled over to the English Embassy
for his daily gossip upon news and politics; and the two
younger guests were once more tête-à-tête, without any particular
willingness or contrivance of their own.

An inquiry after Miss Paleford, who had not accompanied
her friend to town that day, very naturally suggested
another question as to Mr. Arthur Ashly—a letter announcing
his intended speedy return to Florence having been
received a few days before.

And, apropos of Sybil and my brother, Mr. Fane,” said
Miss Ashly, in whose mind the mention of these two together
seemed to break down suddenly a barrier of reserve, “I was
silly enough not to remember, when I once sought your

influence for the prospering of Arthur's passion, that so
lovely a girl was most probably, also, a preference of your
own.”

“I gave you proof, I believe,” said Paul, with a smile,
that my interest in his behalf was quite sincere.”

“True—your admirable portrait of him,” she replied, in
a tone and with a look of apology, “but what is the work
of the pencil—most eloquent plea, as yours certainly was,
in a rival's favor—when the painter follows it up by outrivalling
the picture?”

“I had no thought of doing so at the time,” said Paul,
“allowing for the sake of argument, that your supposition
is correct. Mr. Ashly was absent, however, when his portrait
and I came into competition. Possibly, in a rivalry
with his more persuasive and living presence, the result
might have had less the appearance of being in my favor.”

Miss Ashly started, and gave Paul a quick and penetrating
look. The possibility he suggested seemed a new
thought to her, but she was doubtful of the willingness for
that different result which his words seemed to imply.

“You will pardon me, if I do you injustice,” she said
presently, with an effort at frankness, which he saw cost all
the self-mastery she possessed, “but I did not think you—
I do not think any human being in fact—capable of disinterestedness
toward a rival in love. To be frank with you,
I have talked this over with Colonel Paleford—differing

from him somewhat. He thought you sincere in your furtherance
of my brother's suit; though I believe, he has
been a little staggered in his belief of it—or rather the
probability of it—by since becoming aware of Sybil's own
interest in the matter. For—pardon me!—do you not
know that she loves you, Mr. Fane?”

“Allow me to alter your question a little,” said Paul,
“by the addition of the probability in your brother's favor
which I have just suggested:—Would Miss Paleford love
Mr. Fane—(a confession she has never yet framed into
words, I give you my honor!)—if Mr. Ashly had fairly
tried the winning of her, with the field to himself?”

The proud sister rose to her feet, and took one turn
across the room. The intensity of interest for her brother,
and for the cause on which she had so set her heart, was,
evidently, for the moment, less powerful than the haughty
refusal of soul to even accept what must be thus significantly
yielded. “From him!” “From an artist!” looked
her fierce eyes, as she turned away.

But there was a change, like the sky's clearness after the
passing of a thunder-cloud, in the smile with which she
returned. The hidden qualities of heart that Paul had
seen down to, and brought to the surface, in his portrait of
her, had surged uppermost, and were now shining brightly
through her features. He had said little—he had offered
nothing—but the whole book of his inner nature, and of

his feeling as to the subject before them, was read by her
at a glance.

“Inexpressibly generous to grant,” she said, taking his
hand with a warm grasp in both her own, “but I will ask
it of you!”

With a silent and respectful pressure of his lips to the
slight fingers drawn with such nervous closeness to his
own, Paul placed in her hand a letter which he already
held prepared.

“Here,” he said, “is what I have written on this very
subject to Colonel Paleford. For the last few days it has
been my one thought, sleeping and waking—with how
much of trial and effort, I need not say—but it is done!
I was to send it to him to-morrow, and it was written for
his eyes only; but our conversation has made me willing
that you should first read it, and you will, perhaps, take it
to him to-night, on your return. Let me leave it with
you!”

Paul bowed, and lifted once more to his lips the hand he
held, and in another moment was alone in the street—
alone in the whole world, it seemed to him—with his overcrowded
heart.

And, coming close to the balconied window, where she
could see by the lessening twilight, Miss Ashly read as
follows: