Litchfield enquirer., 1881-03-24

But do not accept your decision as final. " added M. Vanderhaven as he rose; I give you to the end of the month to reconsider it. Bernhardt followed him to the door, and held back. the tapestry, looking wistfully into his face.
 1t would be easy to decide if I had only myself to think of he muttered; but there is Annette-I mean there is some one else who has right to be considered
 The old gentleman stopped short on the threshold. 'A-ah?' he said interrogatively. And who is Annette" if you please?'
 She is-her name is van Elven,' he stam mered.
 The daughter of that van Elven who died bankrupt few years ago?
 Bernhardt coloied. He was an honorable man, though unfortunate. He left name as stainless as our own.'
 Have 1 said to the contrary? But he died bankrupt, and left his wife and daughter to live on charity-or starve.'
 They do neither, Monsieur. Annette maintains herself and her mother by lace making
 The ether made a sort of grimace. And you propose to make this little face girl your wife?'
 # With your permission, Monsieur
 Or without it was the dry addition. You
 
 been discussing suppose ?
 1-yes, shall certainly consult her.
 And let her decide for you,' the old mer- chant recommended. glanclng shrewdly at him under his heavy brows. I will wage: she takes my view of the subject when she knows what is at stake. Women are wonderfully clear sighted and reasonable where their own interests are concerned. I leave my cause with perfect confidence in MademeiselIe Aunette's hand And with an ironical bow and smile. he passed over the threshold, and closed the door.
 Left to himself the young man paced the room with face of troubled thought. Yes, Annette would take his grandfather's view of the case, he supposed, though not, as the lat ter had cynically suggested, from interested motives. It was not poverty she would fear, but the separation which was inevitable if he were cast at once on his own resources It might be years before he could ask her to share his lot, and he had no right to expect that she should waste her youth in waiting for him. And yet, to give up the one purpose and ambition of his life: to turn his back on the luminous heights that rose before him, and descend to the gray and level plain It was hard indeed. The sound of the chimes reused him from bis troubled reflections. He glanced at his watch. "A quarter to seven! I did not know it was SO late. I promised to meet Annette on the Pont du Beguinage at sunset He put aside his brushes and palette, and exchanging his blouse for coat left the house and took his way to one of the innumer- able bridges which give the old city it's Flemish name. He was first at the trysting- place.
 The golden summer evening, the gently flowing water. the softly chiming bells all blended together in a charm that soothed and cheered him. He took out his pocket sketch book, and was dotting down the outlines of the scene, when the sound of light footstep made him turn. It was Annette She did not see him at first, and he watched her. as she advanced, glancing about her with her soft, short-sighted eyes. How sweet she looked he thought. with her pretty, pensive mouth and dreamy eyes; those eyes which had always 8 shade of tender melancholy, even when her lips smiled, as they did most brightly when he came forward to meet her.
 Yes, she was worth any sacrifice, he decided. His mind was made up now as to the course he should take.
 Have kept you waitfng?' she asked, gv- ing him dainty little hand that a duchess might have envled. I have been very busy finishing some work. Daylight grows prec- ious after midsummer
 1Ou try yOuT cyCS GOO uuCu, ut6T, Sdlu, looking at her tenderly. You know they are not strong, and if you overwerk them they may fail you altogether some day. Do not suggest anything 80 terrible she said with little shiver, passing her hand over them. Have you been drawing ? she contin- ued, looking at his sketch-book.
 1t is only an outline, he returned, showing it to her.
 The view from here would make beauti- full picture, she remarked; you must paint it some day for me-
 I shall paint no more, Annette
 She looked up, startled. What do you mean?'
 I mean he returned with a forced laugh, that in future am to be slave of the quill instead of the brush. You remember I told you my grandfather wished me to enter the business when 1 was of age?'
 And you have consented!'
 Not tyet, but must. He tells me if re- fuse he will turn me adrlft; then you and I must part. This is not to be thought of, is it, darlingT
 So it is for my sake you are giving up your art ? she said respectfully.
 No for my own, because can live without art, but 1 can't live without you,' was hls re- ply, as he drew her hand through his arm.
 And you are quite sure it does not grleve you to relinquish all your dreams of fame ? she questioned. with a wistful smile. Per- haps, after all, it would not have made you happier, if you had won it. ''Laurels have a bitter taste, the old poet says
 Yes, but true artist does not work for ''laurels" only The service of art is it's own reward. I should hardly care for fame if felt that had produced good work, which would live when l was forgotten-as 1 once hoped to do. An we'll, he added, with a quick sigh, I must forget my old dreams. and outlive my old self, if can. Perhaps I shall develop an unsuspected genius for commerce who knows?' He laughed rather heavily, ana looked straight before him, as if he were gazing down the long gray vista of the new life on which be was to enter. That look and tone were revelation to his companion She realized for the first time what the sacrifice cost him.
 'Bernhardt, you will not be happy, she ex- clain.ed with sudden conviction. You can never adapt yourself to life so unsuited for you, in which all your talents and capabilities will be wasted. Your nature must be crushed to fit it. Your grandfather does not under stand this, but l do, and I dare not accept such sacrifice. Tell me, dear, she went on, laying her hand on bis arm, what would you do if you were free-if it were not for me. mean ? t 4
 I should borrow few hundred francs of my cousin and go to Rome,' he answered.
 Yes; you could live cheaply there, and you would have congenial companions, and learn all that the great masters could teach you Why should you not go?'
 And leave Yon, Annette?'
 Not for long, hope. Dearest she added earnestly, I would rather part from you for ever than live to feel that 1 had been the means of spelling your life. You shall go to Rome'
 No, no! do not tempt me, he interposed, turning his head aside.
 Yes; for my sake she persisted That you may win name shall be proud to bear some day.
 That day may never come Annette
 .EverYth ing comes to those who can wait she quoted, smiling, though her eyes were full Of tears; and you would not have to wait long for success; am sure of it. His face flushed and paled; he looked troubled and wavering Well he said at length, I need not decide now. l have A whole month to cOne der