The Argosy — page 155: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Playing with Fire. 143 through with what she had planned, and make Howard Scott suffer, even as Constance had done. When she entered the boudoir Scott was standing by the window, with his hands behind his back. He did not hear her quiet footstep till she was close to him, and holding out a sketch to him. It was a portrait of Constance in the heyday of her youth and happiness. Laura watched him intently as his eyes fell on it, but her close scrutiny only showed her a shadow of disappointment pass over -his face. Nothing more: no regret, no recognition. ‘ ‘Why, this is not you,” he said; “yet I think I have seen the face.” ‘It is Constance Harewood, my cousin.” “*Oh, I remember Miss Harewood perfectly now, but I did not know she was your cousin. I met her several times a year or two ago.” But even as he spoke his hand was impatiently stretched out for Laura’s own likeness. She put it into his hand. It was the best work of hers he had yet seen—a perfect image of her face, and into it she had conveyed her own soul. By some strange coincidence, her expression at the moment when Howard raised his eyes from the painting to her face was just that of the picture. A wave of passionate admiration broke over his soul, and he said impulsively : “IT don’t know how I dare to ask you for such a treasure, but may I keep this for a while?” he added, seeing her look of astonish- ment. A strange tumult seemed to stir within her, and she could hardly find voice to question : ce Why ? ” ‘* Because I love it!” he burst out. “Because I love you! Be- cause I would keep it always by me, as I would have you always by me. Oh, my queen! will you let me love you?” She had sunk into a low chair, and he was kneeling before her, clasping her hands and looking into her eyes ; and as she looked at him a tide of sweet madness flooded all her soul, and shut out all thought of her meditated revenge—all thought of Constance—all and every thought but this, that he loved her, and that every fibre of her being vibrated to the deep delicious joy of being beloved by him It was a moment of magnetic trance, but the revulsion of feeling was almost instantaneous. “Good heavens !” she almost shrieked, starting up. ‘ What sort of love can yours be? Here, look at this; and then tell me what such love is worth !” And she held before his eyes the picture of Constance’s dead face—the masterpiece of her painting—which she had destined to be an instrument of her revenge, and on which she now relied to speak for her and to crush Howard’s pretensions as she felt she her- comicbooks.conm