It was the 5th of August, two years after Clytie had resumed her
artistic life with Kent. The afternoon was hot and oppressive. Clytie
was tired and lay back on the couch by the window, for she had worked
unceasingly all through the summer and the strain was beginning to tell
on her.
They had just returned from the West End Gallery, where Clytie's picture
had been exhibited during the season. This was the closing day, and they
had gone to see the picture for the last time. A wealthy American had
purchased it for the art museum of his native city, and to-morrow it
would be packed up and sent over seas.
“It's like parting forever from the child that is dearest to you,” she
said with a little touch of melancholy. “That is the worst of painting.
A poet or a musician--even an etcher can keep his work by him, but a
painter loses all. Doesn't it seem hard?”
Kent acquiesced, comforted her, spoke with vague cheeriness of the law
of sacrifice which we must all obey. On the other hand, she must think
of all that the picture had brought her, the public fame, the homage of
those whose opinion was dear to her.
“Yes; in all that I have succeeded beyond my wildest hopes,” said
Clytie. “But what is it? At the Redgraves' the other afternoon crowds of
people stared at me, whispered each other requests to be introduced to
Clytie Davenant. The men praised all the wrong points in my picture, and
the women tried to get at the way I did my hair. I know it's flattering
to one's vanity, dear, and I like it. I honestly like it. But it is a
superficial little gratification. Now it is all over I begin to think of
what that picture has cost, what has gone to the making of it. Neither
money nor fame can pay me back.”
“It has cost you hours of work in which you have found happiness,” said
Kent. “You must not overlook that.”
“Oh, Kent!” cried Clytie, not seeing for the moment that he had
deliberately avoided the deeper elements in her thought. “Don't you
know what I mean? You who have been just now preaching to me the law
of sacrifice! Don't you know that to be the woman to paint that picture
there were sacrificed the traditions and formulas of my home--there were
sacrificed the first pure flush of a girl's love, the illusions of a
wife, the joy of motherhood, the dignity of a proud woman?”
She raised herself impulsively on her elbow and continued with flashing
eyes: