"Queen Guinevere" was a success far beyond Ronald's dearest hopes. Artists and amateurs, connoisseurs of all ranks and degrees were delighted with it. The great charm of the picture was the lovely young face. "Whom was it like? Where had he found his model?" "Was ever any woman so perfectly beautiful?:"
Such were the questions that people never seemed tired of repeating.
The picture was hung in the gallery of the palace, and the Prince di Borgezi became one of Ronald's best patrons.
The prince gave a grand ball in honor of a beautiful English lady, who, with her family, had just arrived in Florence.
Countess Rosali raved about her, wisely ****** a friend where any one else would have feared a rival.
Ronald had contrived an invitation, but was prevented from attending. All the elite of Florence were there, and great was the excitement when Countess Rosali entered the ball room with an exceedingly beautiful woman--a queenly blonde--the lady about whom all Florence was interested--an English heiress, clever as she was fair, speaking French with a courtly grace and Italian with fluent skill; and when the prince stood before her he recognized in one moment the original of his famous "Guinevere."
The countess was in danger--a fairer, brighter star had arisen.
Valentine Charteris was the belle of the most brilliant hall ever given in Florence.
When the prince had received his guest, and danced once with Miss Charteris, he asked her if she would like to see his celebrated picture, the "Guinevere," whose fame was spreading fast.
"Nothing," she said, "would please her better;" and as the Countess Rosali stood near, the prince included her in the invitation.
"Certainly; I never tire of the 'Guinevere,' never weary of the artist's triumph, for he is one of the most valued of my friends."
Prince di Borgesi smiled, thinking how much of the fair coquette's admiration went to the artist's talent, and how much to his handsome face.
They entered the long gallery, where some of the finest pictures in Italy were hung. The prince led the ladies to the southern end. Valentine saw before her a magnificent painting--tall forest trees, whose thick branches were interwoven, every green leaf distinct and clear; she saw the mellow light that fell through them, the milk-white palfrey and the jeweled harness, the handsome knight who rode near; and then she saw her own face, bright, smiling, glowing with beauty, bright in innocence, sweet in purity. Valentine stared in astonishment, and her companion smiled.
"There can be no doubt about the resemblance," said the countess.
"The artist has made you Queen Guinevere, Miss Charteris."
"Yes," said Valentine, wonderingly; "it is my own face. How came it there? Who is the artist?"
"His name is Ronald Thorne," replied the countess. "There is quite a romance about him."
The countess saw Miss Charteris grow pale and silent.
"Have you ever seen him?" inquired the countess. "Do you know him?"
"Yes," said Valentine, "my family and his have been on intimate terms for years. I knew that he was in Italy with his wife."
"Ah," rejoined the countess, eagerly, "then perhaps you know all about his marriage? Who was Mrs. Thorne? Why did he quarrel with his father? Do tell us, Miss Charteris."
"Nay," said Valentine; "if Mrs. Thorne has any secrets, I shall not reveal them. I must tell mamma they are in Florence. We must call and see them."
"I was fond of Mrs. Thorne once," said the countess, plaintively, "but really there is nothing in her."
"There must be something both estimable and lovable," replied Valentine quickly, "or Mr. Thorne would never have married her."
Prince di Borgesi smiled approval of the young lady's reply.
"You admire my picture, Miss Charteris?" he asked.
"The more so because it is the work of an old friend," said Valentine; and again the prince admired the grace of her words.
"Any other woman in her place," he thought, "would have blushed and coquetted. How charming she is!"
From that moment Prince di Borgezi resolved to win Valentine if he could.
Lady Charteris was half pleased, half sorry, to hear that Ronald was in Florence. No one deplored his rash, foolish marriage more than she did. She thought Lord Earle stern and cruel; she pitied the young man she had once liked so well, yet for all that she did not feel inclined to renew the acquaintance. When Valentine asked her to drive next morning to the little villa on the banks of the Arno, she at first half declined.
"I promised to be Ronald's friend years ago," said Valentine, calmly; "and now, mamma, you must allow me to keep my word. We must visit his wife, and pay her every attention. To refuse would imply a doubt of me, and that I could not endure."
"You shall do as you like, my dear," replied Lady Charteris; "the young man's mother is my dearest friend, and for her sake we will be kind to him."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It was one of those Italian mornings when the fair face of Nature seemed bathed in beauty. The air was full of the music of birds; the waters of the Arno rolled languidly on; oleanders and myrtles were in full bloom; birds sang as they sing only under the blue sky of Italy.
It was not yet noon when Lady Charteris and her daughter reached the little villa. Before they came to the house, Valentine caught one glimpse of a pretty, pale face with large dark eyes.
Could that be pretty, smiling Dora? There were the shining rings of dark hair; but where were the smiles Ronald had described?
That was not a happy face. Care and sorrow were in every line of it.
