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

not heard a sound for hours She leaned
against the door, her ear to the panel, but
inside the room all was silent. Trembling
she sank down again on the stair. He must
be asleep. resting after his long toll.
She watched the evening light fade from
the landing window. 1t reminded her of the
sunset she and Mark had watched together
the day before their return to England. Ii
had been the sunset of her lfe-of joy. even
of love. But she had no regret for what
she had done She would have borne the
pain and disillusion of her marriage hun
dred times over for Marks sake. And If
this picture were a triumph. had she not
helped toward it?
Night crept round her coldly as she sat
there seeing the vision of Marks fame,
feeling the glow of the success she had
bought for him by the sacrifice of her life.
1t was she that had given him back to
art.
The house was very silent. BY and by
the noises in the street quoted down too.
There was a great stiffness in her heart.
She woke startled. Two o'clock was strik-
ing from every tower and steeple The hour
doomed out on the darkness like kneil.
She lifted herself, her cramped limbs hard
ly obeying her will. Midnight held the land
ing, except where the thread of light out
lined the studio door. A sudden fear of
the darkness and silence seized her. She
sprang to the door. 1t yielded and fell
back at her touch The light flooding out
caught her and drew her in to its life Her
half-dazed eyes saw only the emptiness
of the studio. and the wonder of the pic
ture that faced her. Blinded as she was.
she saw its greatness; the flash
ing power in it could not be hid
den. The pose of the Angel of Death
the strong, awful realism of the figure,
the stricken form at its feet, leaped to
the eye and claimed instant recognition.
Rizpah stood in the doorway held and fas-
cinated. Mark had indeed won Immortality.
She made step forward. Mark, Mark
she cried, with ringing triumph in her
voice. The hollow silence answered her.
He was not here then; she would look
once at the picture and then fly to him
to share his exultation. Softly she stepped
nearer, the light on her face meeting the
awful light on the angels face. 1t drew
her nearer, nearer, until it smote eyes
and brow and lips; until the woman's face
changed, and was the face of the dead
She stood in the clutch of the intolerable
thing, and its meaning froze brain and
heart and sense. In the lightning stroke of
Marks genius were revelation and accusa-
ton. 1t scarcely needed the two portraits,
himself Death, and Fawcett the victim at
his feet, to tell her that Mark had MUIR
dered Fawcett.
She did not swoon or cry, but she stood
smitten to death.
AT last, in strange, tingling, innumerable
points of pain the blood shuddered forth
from her heart and life returning stabbed
her anew. Swiftly came the thought; the
picture that would make the artists fame
would make the man Infamous. She stag
gered back and tottered away to the win
dow seat, where she fell on the carved
chest. What could she do? How was she
to prevent Mark from publishing his crime?
The picture was a confession of guilt
To reason with him would be useless. He
would not give up his fame and infamy,
his Immortality and death. The picture
would bring him ALL But what could she
do to prevent his giving it to the world?
He would not listen, though she entreated.
She struck her clenched hand against the
chest, and it fell against a knife buried
in the carving She gave a cry and
snatched it up and raised herself from the
chest and stood a moment holding the
knife, her eyes lifted, her air sacrificial
and devoted. Then she stepped to the can
vas, not trembling, not faltering.
From the place where he had fallen
Marks dying eye caught the CLEAN of her
appraised arm The last sounds of life in his
ear were the scream and shiver of the can
vas under blade that slashed and cut and
thrust through, Unsuitable