Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 2).djvu/463

 You don't care much for her opinion, surely?' I said.

Her opinion? Oh, no!' he said, with a somewhat odd smile, 'I only want to give her a surprise.'

"As he spoke, the door opened, and Cigarette appeared. She had thrown a scarlet cloak round her; the hood was drawn over her head. Her great dark eyes and flushed cheeks looked out from that glowing frame with rare and piquant beauty. Val looked at her critically, as he had a way of looking, and I saw her colour deepen as she met his eyes.

Will you have me for a model?' she asked.

Thanks, no,' he said coolly, 'I've a good memory.'

"With no further word he went to a corner of the studio, and, opening a cabinet there, took out a small square of canvas. This he placed on his easel, and turned it round so as to face us all. The lull light of the swinging lamp above fell on it. There was a cry of wonder from us; of rage and passionate indignation from the girl. She looked back at herself. Herself—to the life, with her petulant grace, and her flashing eyes, and her mutinous, lovely, riante face, and she sat there in the colour and life of the picture as she sits in that sketch, puffing a cloud of smoke into the face bent down to hers. It was very simple, but it was very lifelike and true, and the title, 'A Challenge,' said all that was needful. We burst into a chorus of praise and admiration. None of us had had the faintest idea of what Val had been doing, only—somehow, I looked not at the picture but at the original; and I was startled to see the life and colour die slowly out of the girl's face, till it grew cold, white, stern, as never had I dreamt it could look. She stood there—her breast heaving, her eyes veiled by their long lashes, the colour coming and going in her face. Val seemed somewhat uneasy. 'Come, Cigarette,' he said, 'don't look so angry. The others have painted you so often, why shouldn't I?'

"She only looked at him. I—well, I've often wondered how he felt. How does a deer look wounded to death, turning its eyes on its hunters? How might a child look torn from arms it loves, and seeing only terror and darkness around it? So she looked in that brief moment between his question and her reply. Swift as thought she seized a brush lying near her. One fierce gesture; one rapid sweep of the small, firm hand, and the face on the canvas was disfigured beyond all recognition! None of us spoke or moved. We were too astonished. 'There,' she cried, throwing the brush at Val’s feet, 'there is your "challenge" answered.'

And rightly answered,' he said very quietly. 'Thank you. Cigarette, I deserve your rebuke; I had no right to do it without your permission.'

"He went up to the picture, and turned its face to the easel.

"The girl stood there, silent and trembling, every vestige of colour gone from her face, as every trace of that moment's fiery passion had vanished in the shame and remorse that had followed its outbreak. Then, without a word, she drew the hood closely round her head, and turned to the door. She paused there for a moment and looked back at us. 'I came here to-night,' she said, 'to wish you all good-bye. I—I am going away to a school in London. I shall never see any of you again.' We sprang up and crowded round her. Val alone remained seated in the chair, smoking. One would have thought he had not heard her. She broke away from us with a sob—Cigarette, who never cried, who mocked at tears as something more than childish. Then she was gone, leaving us to wonder or comment as we might. How curiously silent Val was; how impossible we found it to draw anything from him that night. I remembered that afterwards.

"It happened that the next morning he and I were the first to enter the studio. We had to collect our sketches and implements, and pack our pictures. As we entered I saw that his picture had been turned again to its original position. 'Why, Val,' I said, 'someone has been here—look!' For on the edge of the easel lay a bunch of flowers, tied together by a long, soft tress of brown hair. He came forward and took them from my hand. A smile, half sad half tender, played around his lips.

What a child she is,' he said, 'and with all her wilfulness and passion, what a tender heart.'

I am glad,' I said, 'that you do her justice at last. It always seemed to me that you have been too hard on her.'

"He did not answer, and his lips still wore that musing tender smile, as he thrust the little bunch of flowers into the breast pocket of his coat.