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

| again in new scenes.
They went from place TO place whipped
| on by the lash of his restlessness. Florence,
Venice. Munich offered no delight that
| could hold him, and Rizpah. following
breathless, saw the evil spirit again in
| possession.
She hid her trouble that Mark might be
pleased; but her cheerfulness was like the
| barking of the dogs that bounded him on.
If she had been subdued and saddened she
would have suited his, mood. and might
! have comforted him by sharing the burden
| he carried. He said to himself bitterly it
was nothing to her that his days were
| darkened; she found her happiness still
He had thought her deep-natured; but now
he told himself only shallow nature could
bury memory under the flowers of life
And all the time the woman was hiding
her tragedy under the guise of comedy.
He could not forget Fawcett in wonder
! that Fawcett's wife had so soon forgotten.
| Her presence was reminder from which
he could not escape. Soon he began to
| dread the sight Of her.
Rizpah's heart sank as she noticed his
| furtive. abashed looks. He could not meet
| her glance, and his avoidance gave a
shifty uncertainty to his eyes, which her
| fears read all too clearly. She put her
| terror aside, that she might lure him from
the threatening danger; but her arts and
| Requirements only aggravated his restless
ness.
They spent the winter in flight from city
| to city, Mark pursued by memory and
| growing dstrust of Rizpah. she flying from
the terrors that every day gained upon her
| Since their marriage he had not touched
brush, and Rizpah had been glad to take
him away from his work. But now she
| saw that idleness was not good for him.
| The ceaseless moving kept life in a fer
| ment; there was no rest for mind or body.
Let us go home" she coaxed. 81 long
| to see London again. 1 am tired of being a
bird of passage"
| She leaned her arm on his knee, and her
eyes pleaded with her voice. But Mark
| would not see the tender face lifted to his
Her words angered him. Here was he
| striving to get away from the scene of his
crime. and the woman he had taken to be
| with him tempted him back into it's
shadow. She had no heart. She pinned for
| the life whose threshold was stained by her
husbands blood. He remembered that she
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dead. Her touch tainted him with her in
| fanny. He shook off her arm, and jerked
himself up from his chair The studio at
| home offered a refuge from Rizpah's dis
turbing presence. The ghosts that met
him there would be less horrible than the
smiles of the woman who loved her hus-
| bands murderer.
Yes. let go home" he said eagerly
| II have idled too long. 1t is time began
| my work"
Her eyes sparkled at the quick accents,
| the gesture of decision. He only needed
| his work to rouse him, she told herself
| He had missed its interest and grown NOR
| bid. Men were not like women; love did
not satisfy them. Hope scared in her
| heart. Work would give back the Mark of
| the honeymoon. She would find her lover
again. She clapped her hands with gay
little laugh.
''We will go home tomorrow, Mark. /
| can't imagine how could be happy so long
away from England. And you will begin
your work at once. Ahi you must paint
your great picture again. 1 shall not be
| satisfied till my husband is famous
have married genius. and 1 want the
world to know it,
He laughed, and there was a bitter note
| in his laughter.
$50 you married me for ambition? This
explains it then; why you risked the dam
ger-practically put your head in the same
moose as mine"
He stopped incoherently. The light faded
from Rizpah's face. AT his strange words
fear set its fangs in her heart; but the love
G ha mil od
| bravely.
my dear, am very ambitious woman.
want to be remembered as the wife of a
| great painter"
Mark turned his face from her, and
| looked through the window at the flaming
crimson bars of the sunset He could not
meet Rizpah's smile.
When the studio door set barrier be-
tween himself and Rizpah, Mark became
| more tolerant of her. From the outset
| he had forbidden her to come into the
room; her presence would interfere with
his work. With wistful eyes she watched
| the door close upon him. Sk could not
bear to be outsider, having no share
| in his real life; but she conquered regret
| with hope. His strange mood, the baf-
| fling glance, the sudden passions, would
| yield to the interest of his art. She could
afford to miss his working hours if those
| he spent with her were free from dread.
But every day he gave her less and less
| of his time. He stayed in the studio far
| into the night, and she saw him only at
| their silent meals She had found out that
| quiet moods suited Mark best, and with in
| finite relief she had thrown aside the
| mask of merriment it had been so hard to
| wear.
| 1t would have been doubly hard to wear
| it now. Rizpah saddened, and her face
| aged time went on and she saw that
| Marks love was dead, and that her love,
| that was stronger than death, was power
| less to raise ii again. She bore the knowl-
| edge meekly, with noble patience. 1t was
| her punishment for the joy with which
| she had welcomed her release from Faw-
| cett.
AS the months passed Marks face grew
! thin, his eyes hollow, his manner still more
| restless. The long hours in the studio told
| upon him-the solitude as well as the work
| From her place in the background Rizpah
watched the signs of overstrain, noting
each one only to relieve it by some unob-
! trusive housewifely art. Occasionally her
gentleness lured Mark into somber recog-
| milton of her presence in the house, and he
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