But now a contract for certain portraits that were to come from the Rubens studio had been drawn up by the Jesuit Brothers, and in the contract was inserted a clause to the effect that Van Dyck should work on each one of the pictures.

“Pray you,” said Rubens, “to which Van Dyck do you refer?  There are many of the name in Antwerp.”

The jealousy germ had begun to develop.

And about this time Van Dyck was busying himself as understudy, by making love to Rubens’ wife.  Rubens was a score of years older than his pupil, and Isabella was somewhere between the two—­say ten years older than Van Dyck, but that is nothing!  These first fierce flames that burn in the heart of youth are very apt to be for some fair dame much older than himself.  No psychologist has ever yet just fathomed the problem, and I am sure it is too deep for me—­I give it up.  And yet the fact remains, for how about Doctor Samuel Johnson—­and did not our own Robert Louis fall desperately in love with a woman sixteen years his senior?  Aye, and married her, too, first asking her husband’s consent, and furtherance also being supplied by the ex-husband giving the bride away at the altar.  At least, we have been told so.

Were this sketch a catalog, a dozen notable instances could be given in which very young men have been struck hard by women old enough to have nursed them as babes.

Van Dyck loved Isabella Rubens ardently.  He grew restless, feverish, lost appetite and sighed at her with lack-luster eye across the dinner-table.  Rubens knew of it all, and smiled a grim, sickly smile.

“I, too, love every woman who sits to me for a portrait.  He’ll get over it,” said the master.  “It all began when I allowed him to paint her picture.”

Busy men of forty, with ambitions, are not troubled by Anthony Hope’s interrogation.  They glibly answer, “No, no, love is not all—­it’s only a small part of life—­simply incidental!”

But Van Dyck continued to sigh, and all of his spare time was taken up in painting pictures of the matronly Isabella.  He managed to work even in spite of loss of appetite; and sitters sometimes called at the studio and asked for “Master Van Dyck,” whereas before there was only one master in the whole domain.

Rubens grew aweary.

He was too generous to think of crushing Van Dyck, and too wise to attempt it.  To cast him out and recognize him openly as a rival would be to acknowledge his power.  A man with less sense would have kicked the lovesick swain into the street.  Rubens was a true diplomat.  He decided to get rid of Van Dyck and do it in a way that would cause no scandal, and at the same time be for the good of the young man.

He took Van Dyck into his private office and counseled with him calmly, explaining to him how hopeless must be his love for Isabella.  He further succeeded in convincing the youth that a few years in Italy would add the capsheaf to his talent.  Without Italy he could not hope to win all; with Italy all doors would open at his touch.