The will make her to God,     The partridge call her brood,
While I forget the heath I trod,
    The fields wherein I stood.
’Tis dule to know not night from morn,
    But deeper dule to know
I can but hear the hunter’s horn
    That once I used to blow.
 
—The Only Son.
 
It was the third day after Torpenhow’s return, and his heart was heavy.
 
“Do you mean to tell me that you can’t see to work without whiskey? It’s generally the other way about.”
 
“Can a drunkard swear on his honour?” said Dick.
 
“Yes, if he has been as good a man as you.”
 
“Then I give you my word of honour,” said Dick, speaking hurriedly through lips. “Old man, I can hardly see your face now. You’ve kept me sober for two days,—if I ever was drunk,—and I’ve done no work.
 
Don’t keep me back any more. I don’t know when my eyes may give out.
 
The spots and dots and the pains and things are crowding worse than ever. I swear I can see all right when I’m—when I’m moderately screwed, as you say. Give me three more sittings from Bessie and all—the stuff I want, and the picture will be done. I can’t kill myself in three days. It only means a touch of D. T. at the worst.”
 
“If I give you three days more will you promise me to stop work and—the other thing, whether the picture’s finished or not?”
 
“I can’t. You don’t know what that picture means to me. But surely you could get the Nilghai to help you, and knock me down and tie me up. I shouldn’t fight for the whiskey, but I should for the work.”
 
“Go on, then. I give you three days; but you’re nearly breaking my heart.”
 
Dick returned to his work, as one ; and the yellow devil of whiskey stood by him and chased away the spots in his eyes. The Melancolia was nearly finished, and was all or nearly all that he had hoped she would be. Dick jested with Bessie, who reminded him that he was “a drunken beast’; but the did not move him.
 
“You can’t understand, Bess. We are in sight of land now, and soon we shall lie back and think about what we’ve done. I’ll give you three months’ pay when the picture’s finished, and next time I have any more work in hand—but that doesn’t matter. Won’t three months’ pay make you hate me less?”
 
“No, it won’t! I hate you, and I’ll go on hating you. Mr. Torpenhow won’t speak to me any more. He’s always looking at maps.”
 
Bessie did not say that she had again laid siege to Torpenhow, or that at the end of our pleading he had picked her up, given her a kiss, and put her outside the door with the recommendation not to be a little fool. He spent most of his time in the company of the Nilghai, and their talk was of war in the near future, the hiring of transports, and secret preparations among the dockyards. He did not wish to see Dick till the picture was finished.
 
“He’s doing first-class work,” he said to the Nilghai, “and it’s quite out of his regular line. But, for the matter of that, so’s his infernal soaking.”
 
“Never mind. Leave him alone. When he has come to his senses again we’ll carry him off from this place and let him breathe clean air. Poor Dick! I don’t envy you, Torp, when his eyes fail.”
 
“Yes, it will be a case of “God help the man who’s chained to our Davie.” The worst is that we don’t know when it will happen, and I believe the and the waiting have sent Dick to the whiskey more than anything else.”
 
“How the Arab who cut his head open would grin if he knew!”
 
“He’s at perfect liberty to grin if he can. He’s dead. That’s poor now.”
 
In the afternoon of the third day Torpenhow heard Dick calling for him.
 
“All finished!” he shouted. “I’ve done it! Come in! Isn’t she a beauty? Isn’t she a darling? I’ve been down to hell to get her; but isn’t she worth it?”
 
Torpenhow looked at the head of a woman who laughed,—a full-lipped, hollow-eyed woman who laughed from out of the canvas as Dick had intended she would.
 
“Who taught you how to do it?” said Torpenhow. “The touch and notion have nothing to do with your regular work. What a face it is! What eyes, and what !” Unconsciously he threw back his head and laughed with her. “She’s seen the game played out,—I don’t think she had a good time of it,—and now she doesn’t care. Isn’t that the idea?”
 
“Exactly.”
 
“Where did you get the mouth and chin from? They don’t belong to Bess.”
 
“They’re—some one else’s. But isn’t it good? Isn’t it thundering good? Wasn’t it worth the whiskey? I did it. Alone I did it, and it’s the best I can do.” He drew his breath sharply, and whispered, “Just God! what could I not do ten years hence, if I can do this now!—By the way, what do you think of it, Bess?”
 
The girl was biting her lips. She Torpenhow because he had taken no notice of her.
 
“I think it’s just the horridest, beastliest thing I ever saw,” she answered, and turned away.
 
“More than you will be of that way of thinking, young woman.—Dick, there’s a sort of murderous, suggestion in the of the head that I don’t understand,” said Torpenhow.
 
That’s trick-work,” said Dick, with delight at being completely understood. “I couldn’t resist one little bit of sheer swagger. It’s a French trick, and you wouldn’t understand; but it’s got at by round the head a trifle, and a tiny, tiny foreshortening of one side of the face from the angle of the chin to the top of the left ear. That, and deepening the shadow under the of the ear. It was flagrant trick-work; but, having the notion , I felt entitled to play with it,—Oh, you beauty!”
 
“Amen! She is a beauty. I can feel it.”
 
“So will every man who has any sorrow of his own,” said Dick, slapping his . “He shall see his trouble there, and, by the Lord , just when he’s feeling properly sorry for himself he shall throw back his head and laugh,—as she is laughing. I’ve put the life of my heart and the light of my eyes into her, and I don’t care what comes.... I’m tired,—awfully tired. I think I’ll get to sleep. Take away the whiskey, it has served its turn, and give Bessie thirty-six quid, and three over for luck. Cover the picture.”
 
He dropped asleep in the long chair, hid face white and haggard, almost before he had finished the sentence. Bessie tried to take Torpenhow’s hand. “Aren’t you never going to speak to me any more?” she said; but Torpenhow was looking at Dick.
 
“What a stock of vanity the man has! I’ll take him in hand to-morrow and make much of him. He deserves it.—Eh! what was that, Bess?”
 
“Nothing. I’ll put things tidy here a little, and then I’ll go. You couldn’t give the that three months’ pay now, could you? He said you were to.”
 
Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his own rooms. Bessie faithfully tidied up the studio, set the door ajar for flight, emptied half a bottle of turpentine on a duster, and began to scrub the face of the Melancolia viciously. The paint did not smudge quickly enough. She took a palette-knife and scraped, following each stroke with the wet duster. In five minutes the picture was a formless, scarred of colours. She threw the paint-stained duster into the studio stove, stuck out her tongue at the , and whispered, “Bilked!” as she turned to run down the staircase. She would never see Torpenhow any more, but she had at least done harm to the man who had come between her and her desire and who used to make fun of her. Cashing the check was the very cream of the jest to Bessie. Then the little privateer sailed across the Thames, to be swallowed up in the gray of South-the-Water.
 
Dick slept till late in the evening, when Torpenhow dragged him off to bed. His eyes were as bright as his voice was . “Let’s have another look at the picture,” he said, as a child.
 
“You—go—to—bed,” said Torpenhow. “You aren’t at all well, though you mayn’t know it. You’re as jumpy as a cat.”
 
“I reform to-morrow. Good-night.”
 
As he repassed through the studio, Torpenhow lifted the cloth above the picture, and almost betrayed himself by outcries: “Wiped out!—scraped out and turped out! He’s on the of jumps as it is. That’s Bess,—the little fiend! Only a woman could have done that!-with the ink not dry on the check, too! Dick will be mad to-morrow. It was all my fault for trying to help -devils. Oh, my poor Dick, the Lord is hitting you very hard!”
 
Dick could not sleep that night, partly for pure joy, and partly because the well-known Catherine-wheels inside his eyes had given place to crackling volcanoes of many-coloured fire. “Spout away,” he said aloud.
 
“I’ve done my work, and now you can do what you please.” He lay still, staring at the ceiling, the long-pent-up of drink in his , his brain on fire with thoughts that would not stay to be considered, and his hands crisped and dry. He had just discovered that he was painting the face of the Melancolia on a ribbed with millions of lights, and that all his thoughts stood hundreds of feet below his tiny swinging , shouting together in his honour, when something cracked inside his temples like an overstrained bowstring, the glittering dome broke inward, and he was alone in the thick night.
 
“I’ll go to sleep. The room’s very dark. Let’s light a lamp and see how the Melancolia looks. There ought to have been a moon.”
 
It was then that Torpenhow heard his name called by a voice that he did not know,—in the accents of deadly fear.
 
“He’s looked at the picture,” was his first thought, as he hurried into the bedroom and found Dick sitting up and beating the air with his hands.
 
“Torp! Torp! where are you? For pity’s sake, come to me!”
 
“What’s the matter?”
 
Dick clutched at his shoulder. “Matter! I’ve been lying here for hours in the dark, and you never heard me. Torp, old man, don’t go away. I’m all in the dark. In the dark, I tell you!”
 
Torpenhow held the candle............