Ziska: The Problem of a Wicked Soul Part 13

"Come," he said briefly, "I will show you my picture."

He straightened his tall, fine figure and walked slowly across the room to the table where Denzil Murray sat with his sister and friends.

"Denzil," he said,--"I have made a strange portrait of the Princess Ziska, and I'm going to show it to Dr. Dean. I should like you to see it too. Will you come?"

Denzil looked at him with a dark reproach in his eyes.

"If you like," he answered shortly.

"I do like!" and Gervase laid his hand on the young fellow's shoulder with a kind pressure. "You will find it a piece of curious disenchantment, as well as a proof of my want of skill. You are all welcome to come and look at it except ..." here he hesitated,--"except Miss Murray. I think--yes, I think it might possibly frighten Miss Murray."

Helen raised her eyes to his, but said nothing.

"Oh, by Jove!" murmured Lord Fulkeward, feeling his moustache as usual.

"Then don't you come, Miss Murray. We'll tell you all about it afterwards."

"I have no curiosity on the subject," she said a trifle coldly.

"Denzil, you will find me in the drawing-room. I have a letter to write home."

With a slight salute she left them, Gervase watching the disappearance of her graceful figure with a tinge of melancholy regret in his eyes.

"It is evident Mademoiselle Helen does not like the Princess Ziska," he observed.

"Oh, well, as to that," said Fulkeward hastily, "you know you can't expect women to lose their heads about her as men do. Beside, there's something rather strange in the Princess's manner and appearance, and perhaps Miss Murray doesn't take to her any more than I do."

"Oh, then you are not one of her lovers?" queried Dr. Dean smiling.

"No; are you?"

"I? Good heavens, my dear young sir, I was never in love with a woman in my life! That is, not what YOU would call in love. At the age of sixteen I wrote verses to a mature young damsel of forty,--a woman with a remarkably fine figure and plenty of it; she rejected my advances with scorn, and I have never loved since!"

They all laughed,--even Denzil Murray's sullen features cleared for the moment into the brightness of a smile.

"Where did you paint the Princess's picture?" inquired Ross Courtney suddenly.

"In her own house," replied Gervase. "But we were not alone, for the fascinating fair one had some twenty or more armed servants within call." There was a movement of surprise among his listeners, and he went on: "Yes; Madame is very well protected, I a.s.sure you,--as much so as if she were the first favorite in a harem. Come now, and see my sketch."

He led the way to a private sitting-room which he had secured for himself in the hotel at almost fabulous terms. It was a small apartment, but it had the advantage of a long French window which opened out into the garden. Here, on an easel, was a canvas with its back turned towards the spectator.

"Sit down," said Gervase abruptly addressing his guests, "and be prepared for a curiosity unlike anything you have ever seen before!" He paused a moment, looking steadily at Dr. Dean. "Perhaps, Doctor, as you are interested in psychic phenomena, you may be able to explain how I got such a face on my canvas, for I cannot explain it to myself."

He slowly turned the canvas round, and, scarcely heeding the exclamation of amazement that broke simultaneously from all the men present, stared at it himself, fascinated by a singular magnetism more potent than either horror or fear.

CHAPTER IX.

What a strange and awful face it was!--what a thing of distorted pa.s.sion and pain! What an agony was expressed in every line of the features!--agony in which the traces of a divine beauty lingered only to render the whole countenance more repellent and terrific! A kind of sentient solemnity, mingled with wrath and terror, glared from the painted eyes,--the lips, slightly parted in a cruel upward curve, seemed about to utter a shriek of menace,--the hair, drooping in black, thick cl.u.s.ters low on the brow, looked wet as with the dews of the rigor mortis,--and to add to the mysterious horror of the whole conception, the distinct outline of a death's-head was seen plainly through the rose-brown flesh-tints. There was no real resemblance in this horrible picture to the radiant and glowing loveliness of the Princess Ziska, yet, at the same time, there was sufficient dim likeness to make an imaginative person think it might be possible for her to a.s.sume that appearance in death. Several minutes pa.s.sed in utter silence,--then Lord Fulkeward suddenly rose.

"I'm going!" he said. "It's a beastly thing; it makes me sick!"

"Grand merci!" said Gervase with a forced smile.

"I really can't help it," declared the young man, turning his back to the picture. "If I am rude, you must excuse it. I'm not very strong--my mother will tell you I get put out very easily,--and I shall dream of this horrid face all night if I don't give it a wide berth."

And, without any further remark he stepped out through the open window into the garden, and walked off. Gervase made no comment on his departure; he turned his eyes towards Dr. Dean who, with spectacles on nose, was staring hard at the picture with every sign of the deepest interest.

"Well, Doctor," he said, "you see it is not at all like the Princess."

"Oh, yes it is!" returned the Doctor placidly. "If you could imagine the Princess's face in torture, it would be like her. It is the kind of expression she might wear if she suddenly met with a violent end."

"But why should I paint her so?" demanded Gervase. "She was perfectly tranquil; and her att.i.tude was most picturesquely composed. I sketched her as I thought I saw her,--how did this tortured head come on my canvas?"

The Doctor scratched his chin thoughtfully. It was certainly a problem.

He stared hard at Gervase, as though searching for the clue to the mystery in the handsome artist's own face. Then he turned to Denzil Murray, who had not stirred or spoken.

"What do you think of it, eh, Denzil?" he asked.

The young man started as from a dream.

"I don't know what to think of it."

"And you?" said the Doctor, addressing Ross Courtney.

"I? Oh, I am of the same opinion as Fulkeward,--I think it is a horrible thing. And the curious part of the matter is that it is like the Princess Ziska, and yet totally unlike. Upon my word, you know, it is a very unpleasant picture."

Dr. Dean got up and paced the room two or three times, his brows knitted in a heavy frown. Suddenly he stopped in front of Gervase.

"Tell me," he said, "have you any recollection of ever having met the Princess Ziska before?"

Gervase looked puzzled, then answered slowly:

"No, I have no actual recollection of the kind. At the same time, I admit to you that there is something about her which has always struck me as being familiar. The tone of her voice and the peculiar cadence of her laughter particularly affect me in this way. Last night when I was dancing with her, I wondered whether I had ever come across her as a model in one of the studios in Paris or Rome."

The Doctor listened to him attentively, watching him narrowly the while. But he shook his head incredulously at the idea of the Princess ever having posed as a model.

"No, no, that won't do!" he said. "I do not believe she was ever in the model business. Think again. You are now a man in the prime of life, Monsieur Gervase, but look back to your early youth,--the period when young men do wild, reckless, and often wicked things,--did you ever in that thoughtless time break a woman's heart?"

Gervase flushed, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Pardieu! I may have done! Who can tell? But if I did, what would that have to do with this?" and he tapped the picture impatiently.

The Doctor sat down and smacked his lips with a peculiar air of enjoyment.

"It would have a great deal to do with it," he answered, "that is, psychologically speaking. I have known of such cases. We will argue the point out systematically thus:--Suppose that you, in your boyhood, had wronged some woman, and suppose that woman had died. You might imagine you had got rid of that woman. But if her love was very strong and her sense of outrage very bitter, I must tell you that you have not got rid of her by any means, moreover, you never will get rid of her. And why?

Because her Soul, like all Souls, is imperishable. Now, putting it as a mere supposition, and for the sake of the argument, that you feel a certain admiration for the Princess Ziska, an admiration which might possibly deepen into something more than platonic, ... "--here Denzil Murray looked up, his eyes glowing with an angry pain as he fixed them on Gervase,--"why then the Soul of the other woman you once wronged might come between you and the face of the new attraction and cause you to unconsciously paint the tortured look of the injured and unforgiving Spirit on the countenance of the lovely fascinator whose charms are just beginning to ensnare you. I repeat, I have known of such cases."