64. CHAPTER LXIV.
DIANA.
“Good-morning, Miss Hope.”
“Good-morning, Mr. Merlin.”
He bowed and seated himself, and the conversation seemed
to have terminated. Hope Wayne was embroidering. The
moment she perceived that there was silence she found it very
hard to break it.
“Are you busy now?” said she.
“Very busy.”
“As long as men and women are vain, so long your profession
will flourish, I suppose,” she replied, lifting her eyes and
smiling.
“I like it because it tells the truth,” replied Arthur, crushing
his hat.
“It omitted Alexander's wry neck,” said Hope.
“It put in Cromwell's pimple,” answered Arthur.
They both smiled.
“However, that is not the kind of truth I mean—I mean
poetic truth. Michael Angelo's Last Judgment shows the
whole Catholic Church.”
Hope Wayne felt relieved, and looked interested. She did
not feel so much afraid of the silence, now that Arthur seemed
entering upon a disquisition. But he stopped and said,
“I've painted a picture.”
“Full of poetic truth, I suppose,” rejoined Hope, still smiling.
“I've come to ask you to go and see that for yourself.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
She laid aside her embroidery, and in a little while they had
reached his studio. As Hope Wayne entered she was impressed
by the spaciousness of the room, the chastened light,
and the coruscations of rich color hanging upon the walls.
“It's like the garden of the Hesperides,” she said, gayly—
“such mellow shadows, and such gorgeous colors, like those
of celestial fruits. I don't wonder you paint poetic truth.”
Arthur Merlin smiled.
“Now you shall judge,” said he.
Hope Wayne seated herself in the chair where Lawrence
Newt had been sitting not two hours before, and settled herself
to enjoy the spectacle she anticipated; for she had a secret
faith in Arthur's genius, and she meant to purchase this great
work of poetic truth at her own valuation. Arthur placed the
picture upon the easel and drew the curtain from it, stepping
aside as before to watch her face.
The airy smile upon Hope Wayne's face faded instantly.
The blood rushed to her hair. But she did not turn her eyes,
nor say a word. The moment she felt she could trust her
voice, she asked, gravely, without looking at Arthur,
“What is it?”
“It is Diana and Endymion,” replied the painter.
She looked at it for a long time, half-closing her eyes, which
clung to the face of Endymion.
“I have not made Diana tender enough,” thought Arthur,
mournfully, as he watched her.
“How soundly he sleeps!” said Hope Wayne, at length, as
if she had been really trying to wake him.
“You think he merely sleeps?” asked Arthur.
“Certainly; why not?”
“Oh! I thought so too. But Lawrence Newt, who sat two
hours ago just where you are sitting, said, as he looked at the
picture, that Endymion was dead.”
Hope Wayne put her finger to her lip, and looked inquiringly
at her companion.
“Dead! Did he say dead?” she asked.
“Dead,” repleated Arthur Merlin.
“I thought Endymion only slept,” continued Hope Wayne;
“but Mr. Newt is a judge of pictures—he knows.”
“He certainly spoke as if he knew,” persisted the painter,
recklessly, as he saw and felt the usual calmness return to his
companion. “He said that if Endymion were not dead he
couldn't resist such splendor of beauty.”
As Arthur Merlin spoke he looked directly into Hope
Wayne's face, as if he were speaking of her.
“Mr. Newt's judgment seems to be better than his memory,”
said she, pleasantly.
“How?”
“He forgets that Endymion did awake. He has not allowed
time enough for the effect of Diana's eyes. Now I am
sure,” she said, shaking her finger at the picture, “I am sure
that that silly shepherd will not sleep there forever. Never
fear, he will wake up. Diana never looks or loves for nothing.”
“It will do no good if he does,” insisted Arthur, ruefully,
as if he were sure that Hope Wayne understood that he was
speaking in parables.
“Why?” she asked, as she rose, still looking at the picture.
“Because goddesses never marry.”
He looked into her eyes with so much meaning, and the
“do they?” which he did not utter, was so perfectly expressed
by his tone, that Hope Wayne, as she moved slowly
toward the door, looking at the pictures on the wall as she
passed, said, with her eyes upon the pictures, and not upon the
painter,
“Do you know the moral of that remark of yours?”
“Moral? Heaven forbid! I don't make moral remarks,”
replied Arthur.
“This time you have done it,” she said, smiling; “you have
made a remark with a moral. I'm going, and I leave it with
you as a legacy. The moral is, If goddesses never marry,
don't fall in love with a goddess.”
She put out her hand to him as she spoke. He involuntarily
took it, and they shook hands warmly.
“Good-morning, Mr. Merlin,” she said. “Remember the
Round Table to-morrow evening.”
She was gone, and Arthur Merlin sank into the chair she
had just left.
“Oh Heavens!” said he, “did she understand or not?”
