The artist's friends in the rose garden, again, stopped involuntarily.
Sibyl uttered a low exclamation.
Conrad Lagrange looked at Myra Willard. "I think," he said in a low tone, "that the time has come. Can you do it?"
"Yes. I--I--must," returned the woman. She spoke to the girl, who, being a little in advance, had not heard the novelist's words, "Sibyl, dear, will you go on home, please? Mr, Lagrange will stay with me. I--I will join you presently."
At a look from Conrad Lagrange, the girl obeyed.
"Go with Sibyl, Czar," said the novelist; and the girl and the dog went quickly away through the garden.
In the studio, Aaron King gazed at the angry woman in amazement. "Mrs.
Taine," he said, with quiet dignity, "I must tell you that I hope to make Miss Andres my wife."
She laughed harshly. "And what has that to do with it?"
"I thought that if you knew, it might help you to understand the situation," he answered simply.
"I understand the situation, very well," she retorted, "but you do not appear to. The situation is this: I--I was interested in you--as an artist. I, because my position in the world enabled me to help you, commissioned you to paint my portrait. You are unknown, with no name, no place in the world. I could have given you success. I could have introduced you to the people that you must know if you are to succeed. My influence would insure you a favorable reception from those who make the reputations of men like you. I could have made you the rage. I could have made you famous. And now--"
"Now," he said calmly, "you will exert your influence to hinder me in my work. Because I have not pleased you, you will use whatever power you have to ruin me. Is that what you mean, Mrs. Taine?"
"You have made your choice. You must take the consequences," she replied coldly, and turned to leave the studio.
In the doorway, stood the woman with the disfigured face.
Conrad Lagrange stood near.
XLI
Marks of the Beast
When Mrs. Taine would have passed out of the studio, the woman with the disfigured face said, "Wait madam, I must speak to you."
Aaron King recalled that strange scene at the depot, the day of his arrival in Fairlands.
"I have nothing to say to you"--returned Mrs. Taine, coldly--"stand aside please."
But Conrad Lagrange quietly closed the door. "I think, Mrs. Taine," he remarked dryly, "than you will be interested in what Miss Willard has to say."
"Oh, very well," returned the other, making the best of the situation.
"Evidently, you heard what I just said to your protege."
The novelist answered, "We did. Accept my compliments madam; you did it very nicely."
"Thanks," she retorted, "I see you still play your role of protector. You might tell your charge whether or not I am mistaken as to the probable result of his--ah--artistic conscientiousness."
"Mr. King knows that you are not. You have, indeed, put the situation rather mildly. It is a sad fact, but, never-the-less, a fact, that the noblest work is often forced to remain unrecognized and unknown to the world by the same methods that are used to exalt the unworthy. You undoubtedly have the power of which you boast, Mrs. Taine, but--"
"But what?" she said triumphantly. "You think I will hesitate to use my influence?"
"I _know_ you will not use it--in this case," came the unexpected answer.
She laughed mockingly, "And why not? What will prevent?"
"The one thing on earth, that you fear, madam"--answered Conrad Lagrange--"the eyes of the world."
Aaron King listened, amazed.
"I don't think I understand," said Mrs. Taine, coldly.
"No? That is what Miss Willard proposes to explain," returned the novelist.
She turned haughtily toward the woman with the disfigured face. "What can this poor creature say to anything I propose?"
Myra Willard answered gently, sadly, "Have you no kindness, no sympathy at all, madam? Is there nothing but cruel selfishness in your heart?"
"You are insolent," retorted the other, sharply. "Say what you have to say and be brief."
Myra Willard drew close to the woman and looked long and searchingly into her face. The other returned her gaze with contemptuous indifference.
"I have been sorry for you," said Myra Willard slowly. "I have not wished to speak. But I know what you said to Sibyl, here in the studio; and I overheard what you said to Mr. King, a few minutes ago. I cannot keep silent."
"Proceed," said Mrs. Taine, shortly. "Say what you have to say, and be done with it."
Myra Willard obeyed. "Mrs. Taine, twenty-six years ago, your guardian, the father of James Rutlidge won the love of a young girl. It does not matter who she was. She was beautiful and innocent That was her misfortune.
Beauty and innocence often bring pain and sorrow, madam, in a world where there are too many men like Mr. Rutlidge, and his son. The girl thought the man--she did not know him by his real name--her lover. She thought that he became her husband. A baby was born to the girl who believed herself a wife; and the young mother was happy. For a short time, she was very happy.
"Then, the awakening came. The girl mother was holding her baby to her breast, and singing, as happy mothers do, when a strange woman appeared in the open door of the room. She was a beautiful woman, richly dressed; but her face was distorted with passion. The young mother did not understand.
She did not know, then, that the woman was Mrs. Rutlidge--the true wife of the father of her child. She knew that, afterward. The woman, in the doorway lifted her hand as though to throw something, and the mother, instinctively, bowed her head to shield her baby. Then something that burned like fire struck her face and neck. She screamed in agony, and fainted.
"The rest of the story does not matter, I think. The injured mother was taken to the hospital. When she recovered, she learned that Mrs. Rutlidge was dead--a suicide. Later, Mr. Rutlidge took the baby to raise as his ward; telling the world that the child was the daughter of a relative who had died at its birth. You must understand that when the disfigured mother of the baby came to know the truth, she believed that it would be better for the little one if the facts of its birth were never known. The wealthy Mr. Rutlidge could give his ward every advantage of culture and social position. The child would grow to womanhood with no stain upon her name.
Because she felt she owed her baby this, the only thing that she could give her, the mother consented and disappeared.
"Madam," finished Myra Willard, slowly, "a little of the acid that burned that mother's face fell upon the shoulder of her illegitimate baby."
"God!" exclaimed the artist.
Throughout Myra Willard's story, Mrs. Taine stood like a woman of stone.
At the end, she gazed at the woman's disfigured face, as though fascinated with horror, while her hands moved to finger the buttons of her dress.
Unconscious of what she was doing, as though under some strange spell, without removing her gaze from Myra Willard's marred features she opened the waist of her dress and bared to them her right shoulder. It was marked by a broad scar like the scars that disfigured the face of her mother.
Myra Willard started forward, impelled by the mother instinct. "My baby, my poor, poor girl!"