on reaching home, sonia went immediately to her room, and sent word to her aunt that she was feeling ill, and desired not to be disturbed. her maid brought her a message of condolence in reply, and she knew that she was now safe in her solitude for the remainder of the day.

she undressed quickly, threw on a loose dressing-gown, unfastened the thick coil of her hair, and then, telling her maid not to come to the room until she should ring, she threw herself at full length on the lounge, and lay there with her eyes closed, profoundly still. she had caused the blinds to be shut and the curtains drawn. the beautiful spring sunshine flooded everything without, but about her all was gloom and darkness. she could hear the whir of innumerable wheels and the click of horses’ feet on the smooth pavement outside, and she knew that the streets were alive and abloom with{184} smartly dressed men and women in open carriages, driving between the long lines of flowering horse-chestnuts down the beautiful champs elysées to the palais de l’industrie.

long ago she had ordered a charming costume for this occasion, selected with much care and thought; and it had come home more than a realization of her expectations. she had fancied that she would have pleasure in joining a party of friends, and perhaps lingering about the neighborhood of her own picture to hear any comments that might be made upon it. she had not allowed herself to hope that it would be on the line; but there it was this moment, as she knew; and the pretty gown and bonnet and parasol, all so painstakingly selected, were neatly put away, and she was lying nerveless in this lonely room.

she lay on her back, with her arms, from which the sleeves fell, thrown over her head, and her face turned to one side, so that her cheek rested against the smooth flesh of one inner arm. the folds of her scant gown lay thin and pliant over her long, slim figure, and the pointed toes of her little gray mules showed at the end of the lounge where her feet were crossed one over the other. to-day{185} she had given up the long, long struggle for self-control and strength. she abandoned herself absolutely to the dark, unbroken grief which she felt to be her only natural and honest life. she did not even long for happiness to-day: she longed only for the peace of death—the nothingness of the grave. oh, to be taken so, without the need to stir or move, and lowered into a cool, deep, still grave,—breath, consciousness, hope, regret, memory, individuality, all, all gone,—and earth and grass and flowers over her! that instinct of weak self-pity, to which the strongest of us yield now and then, overcame the lethargy of her mood, and the springs of tears were touched. two large drops rose and forced their way between her close-shut lids.

“o, what have i done, what have i done, to have to suffer so?” she whispered—“to have to give up all, all joy, and take only pain and misery and regret for all my life! it was only a mistake. it was no sin or crime that i committed when i sent him away, and said that i did not love him. it was only an awful, fatal, terrible mistake. i have feared so for a long, long time; but, oh! i know it now! i want him back—i want{186} him back! i want his love, and his patience, and his care. i want him for my friend, and my protector, and my husband. and though i want him so, i am farther away from him than if i had never seen him. when this hideous divorce is got, and our beautiful marriage has been undone, any other woman in the world might hope to win his love. i shall be the one free woman on earth to whom that hope would be shame and outrage and humiliation. o my god, help me, help me! show me what to do. give me back at least my pride, that i may not have to suffer his contempt. o god almighty, if his love for me is quite, quite dead, in mercy let my love for him die too! oh, no—no—no! my god, i take it back! i do not ask it. i do not want to stop this agony of pain that comes from loving him. o god of pity and compassion, give me now a little help, and show me what to do. kill me now—strike me dead, o god—rather than let me do anything to cause him to despise me!”

she buried her face in her hands, and went on, speaking between her fingers in thick, sobbing whispers.

“god did not hold me back before from{187} cutting my own throat,” she said; “and yet i prayed to him with all my soul, as i am praying now! perhaps i was too self-willed, and wanted my own way too much, and so he would not hear me. oh, i want to do his will—i want to let him choose for me; but, oh, far more than that i want my love, my darling, my husband! we have been joined together by god, and he has not put us asunder, nor has man put us asunder. neither did he do it! it was i,—i myself,—out of my weak selfishness and self-will, because i wanted to make everything conform to me—because i wished him to love me by a rule and ideal of my own—to treat me according to my fancy—to make every sacrifice of himself and his nature and thoughts and feelings to me, and i was willing to consider him in nothing! but oh, my god, i have been shown my wickedness and selfishness! the scorching light of truth has come, and now i see it all. if i could have him back! if i could wipe out the past, and be once more in my wedding-dress and veil, and give him my vows again, o god, thou knowest whether i could keep them now or not! it cannot be, it cannot be! he pities me and would be{188} kind to me, but he does not love me any longer. o god almighty,” she cried aloud, writhing her body from the lounge, and getting on her knees, with her hands and her face lifted upward, “take me and work in me, and give light to my blinded eyes! give me the strength to do what is right—to give him up—to stop thinking of him! i cannot bear this tearing struggle any more. i can fight no longer. i beg thee only, only for this—that i may somehow grope and stumble through this time without the loss of the one thing that is left to me—my woman’s pride!”

she fell forward, with her face buried in the lounge, and great sobs shaking her body. gradually these subsided; but long after they had ceased she knelt there with her face concealed, alone in the silence and darkness.

at the same moment, only a little distance off, the sunlight was pouring down in floods upon the palms, the stuffs, the pictures, the statues, and the crowd of fashionable men and women who thronged the great exhibition of the spring salon.

voices of men and women rose melodiously, whether in praise or blame. lorgnettes{189} were raised, hands clasped in delight, and shoulders shrugged in disapproval. fans were waved in delicate, gloved hands, whose every movement stirred the air in waves of sweet perfume from flowers, or delicate odors wafted from women’s gowns. smartly dressed men and women stood about in groups, and now and then a hum arose as some great man, decorated with orders, and smiling with confident good humor, passed along, bowing to right and left, and receiving compliments—too familiar to be anything but gently stimulating—on the beauty of his latest pictures.

there were groups, larger or smaller, before many of the canvases; and in one of these groups, standing a little apart from the rest, were harold and martha keene.

the picture before which they had paused was a rather small canvas on which was painted a woman leaning with her elbows on a table, and her chin resting in her hands, which met at the wrists, and then closed upon the cheeks at either side. the little table before her was perfectly bare. there was a striking absence of detail. the one thing which was accentuated by careful and distinct painting was a plain gold ring on the third{190} finger of the left hand. the loose drapery which wrapped the shoulders, leaving bare the throat and arms, was simply blocked in with creamy white paint and heavy shadows. the hair was gathered in a thick coil at the top of the head. there was beauty in its coloring, and merit also in the flesh-tints of the face and throat; but the power of the picture was in the eyes, which looked directly at one. the brows above them were smooth, definite, and uncontracted. the lines of the face were youthful and round. the lips were firm and self-controlled. all the expression was left to the eyes, which, large, honest, courageous, and truthful, met those of the gazer, and gave their message—the message of despair.

“it is called in the catalogue simply ‘a study,’” said a man standing close to harold keene; “and certainly there is no need to name it. the artist’s name is given as ‘g. larrien.’ does any one happen to know it?”

no one did, and the group of people soon passed on; but harold stayed and looked. martha, who stood at his elbow, was palpitating with excitement. she knew the picture and the artist, but she was determined not to{191} betray, even by a look, the secret which she had promised her friend to keep. she saw that harold studied the picture with intent interest, and she schooled her face to express nothing, in case he should look at her. she was watching him closely, and she thought that his color changed a little, but he gave no other sign of feeling. he did not look toward her. indeed, there was neither question nor curiosity in his eyes, but a look of conviction and, she thought, a look of pain.

a man and woman had paused beside them now, and stood gazing at the picture.

“it’s quite a remarkable thing,” said the man; “and it appears to be by a new exhibitor. i do not know the name. it certainly tells its story.”

“yes,” said his companion; “i believe that it is only through marriage that despair comes to a woman. if one painted that look in a man’s eyes, one would have to invent some better explanation of it than a wedding-ring.”

harold glanced toward the speakers, and then began to move away, without looking again at the picture. martha waited to hear what he would say; but as to this particular picture, he said nothing.{192}

why was it that she felt a sudden certainty that he knew who had painted it? it seemed absurd to suppose that he could, and yet she had a conviction about it impossible to shake off.

the picture, as martha knew, had been the hasty work of a few days, and had been painted at home. when sonia had brought it to show to etienne, he had been so surprised and delighted at it that he had insisted upon substituting it for the careful and painstaking piece of work which she had done in the atelier on purpose for the exhibition. it was evident that he recognized some rare quality in this picture, and that others had now recognized it also. martha, looking back, saw that another group had formed in front of it, and that animated comment was in progress.

it came over martha now—a thing she had not thought of before—that in spite of the different contour and coloring of the whole face, there was a certain vague resemblance to sonia in it. it was not the eyes themselves, for they were blue in the picture; but there was something in the shape and setting of them which suggested sonia. she wondered if the lovely princess could have been aware of this{193} herself, for she had shown a strong reluctance to exhibit this picture, and had required of etienne and herself a very strict promise of secrecy about it, saying that it had been seen by them only. martha, who knew that her friend was unhappy, and that her sorrow had come to her through her marriage, felt in her heart that sonia had painted this picture from the look of her own eyes in a mirror when off her usual guard. she wondered if by chance harold had had the same idea.