The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1900-01-21


the steps slippery with ice. Fawcett's i'm
petuosity, made a setting obvious enough
for the verdict OF accidental death. Life
concerned itself with the latest murder;
earth received Fawsett, and men forgot
him.
But his death had built stronger bar
rier between his wife and Mark than the
one his life had raised Rizpah could not
forget that Fawsett had forbidden her
friendship with Mark She feared disloyal-
" when. in these first days of widowhood,
her heart turned instinctively to her old
friend. She longed for his presence, and
the longing kept her from seeking 1t. He
knew OF Fawcetts death, and he would
come to her.
But Mark was busy in his studio. put
ting a screen of work between himself and
the thought of Rizpah. The oak chest. with
it's carving of Rizpah keeping the vultures
from her dead, was hidden in the window
seat He would have nothing to remind him
of the love Fawcett's deceit had stolen
from him. She was free now; yet he
worked early and late striving to forget
her But he could forget her as little as
the picture that haunted him. 1t was al
ways before him-his sudden wrestle with
Fawcett, the slippery steps. the chang
ing face under the street lamp, the silence.
That silence had surged around him
then like triumphant strain; now it
struck into his own life and made it dumb
c'he night had waved banners over the
dead man; now 1t threw a pail across
Marks days. Under the pail was Faw-
cett's face, a horror intolerable.
lie m
thing was too ironical. He heard how
hardly the three months wife took the
blow, how she fretted and dropped; but if
he had known she was grieving for his alb
sence and not for Fawcett, he would still
have remained away.
He was very busy. His great picture was
almost finished. and it was another irony
that its subject dashed his memory into the
remembrance he was striving to forget.
81 Am the Resurrection and the Life the
title was written at the foot of the canvas
Above it the white splendor of the angel
shone out, a marvellous presentment OF life.
1t was a great picture, and Mark knew it,
1t needed only the finishing touches before
he could send 1T out to make his name and
fame.
He was still working at II, dissatisfied
that he had not reached the ideal with
which he had started, and while he worked
to express the triumph of life over death
Fawcett held his hand, and the dead tri-
umphed over the living.
To escape from the face that was always
with him Mark only worked more feverish-
ly He painted out the motto, but still Il
Am the Resurrection gave point to the
he
grim humor Of the thing would seize Mark,
and he would throw down palette and
brush and laugh uncontrollably. When the
mood was over he would paint with
fury of madness to get away from the mad
ness he feared. But work as he might, he
could not forget the man he had hustled
out of his way and out of the world.
Meanwhile the picture came no nearer
completion. The later work was only
blotting out meaning from the conception.
The longer he worked the further from
him was the IDEAL the nearer to him came
the hooking face he could not escape.
Stacey, the r. A, frowned when he saw
the picture again. He walked about the
room, and. head on one side. looked at IL
from every point of view.
Your first idea was the best-undoubt-
eddy better than this In my opinion, you've
ruined the thing"
what is wrong with it?' said Mark
roughly, biting his mustache. Stacey
pursed up his lips. There's no poetry, no
suggestiveness in il as 1t now stands. And
why in the world did you take poor Faw-
cett as your model? Such as face mis-
strikes false note"
Mark interrupted him by a sudden step
forward.
There's no suggestion of Fawcett any,
where" he cried. sharply.
MY dear fellow. the likeness is only too
striking OF course 1t is Fawcett, And
Fawcett, poor devil. as the Angel of Life!
Pooh, it's too ridiculous
The two men looked at each other, and
Stacey's easy smile died away as he saw
Marks face.
'Hullo. old chap. you are i'll. or some
thingr'
Mark shook his head and pulled himself
together. The blood lit its fire among the
ashes on his face. His eyes. like two
flames swept the canvas, searching for the
likeness Stacey had seen. AS the hated
features sprang to his gaze he gave a
short laugh. snatched up a knife, and
slashed is across the Angels face blotting
outS>iife and death at strike.
Are you mad?" Stacey shouted. seizing
hisSarm.
But he was too late. Laughing again,
Mark flung the knife from him. 1t sped
across the room and pierced the figure Of
Rizpah on the carved chest.
You have done 1t now!' Stacey said.
rrrfuo hot
picture meant fame. You'll not paint an
other so good
Mark did not answer. He was going
round the studio. peering with his short
sighted eyes at every canvas. He came
back 10 the easel with face to which
the life had returned Some horrible fear
had been removed by his inspection OF the
pictures. His laugh was awkward as he
net the other mans eyes.
"Poohi the thing was no good" he cried.
Ell always felt that it was sentimental
and clap-trap. I'm glad / had the courage
TO put end to it,
You've put an end to more than the
picture" said Stacey. looking at him
curiously. II advise you to go into the
country for rest. You're bit run down,
you know"
Mark rubbed his hands nervously.
Never was better in my Hfe." he
laughed