Alpena weekly argus. [volume] (Alpena, Mich.) 1871-1893, 1884-04-30
CARRADINE'S LOVE.

CARRADINE'S LOVE.
Carradine sat alone at his easel paint
ing; and rs he painted he thought.
Eight years before, when he was poor,
struggling boy, just entering on that
race which must be run 10y every aspir-
ant to art and its honorS, there hap
pcncd TO him something which neither
time nor toll had ever been able to eff
face from his memory. As he was pass
ing along the streets q wreath of fra
grant roses suddenly fell on his head,
and, looking up in wonder, he behold,
reaching out from the embroidered dra-
pcrics of an exchanging window, II
child, with fairy-like proportions, with
great dark eyes and long, curling black
locks, who stood smiling and throwing
him kisses from her curved lips, colored
like pomegranatc. While she still
gazed, % nurse had come forward and
drawn the child away; the curtains were
closed, and he saw the little creature no
more. Such was the vision that the
artist had carried so long in his memo
ny; in his memory only, for he had no
second glimpse of the child. That very
day an accident occurred which kept
him prisoner in his room for several
weeks, and when next he went out the
house was empty, and n placard with
great flaring letters, announcing it for
sale, stared him in the face, from the
same window in which the little white
robed elf had stood waving her hand
and smiling to him. In course of time
other faces appeared there, but they
were strange faces, and among them
was never the one for which he looked.
Now, rs Carradine sat painting alone,
he thought of all this; of the struggle
that had ended at length in success; of
his hard, unfriended boyhood, and of
the beautiful child with her fragrant
rose crown, which had seemed almost
like a prophecy. That rose wreath, dry
and withered now, was all that was left
to him of the fair vision but when that
morning, in turning over an old port
folio, he had come upon it by chance, it
spoke TO him of that by-gone day just as
eloqucntly as when its blossoms were
fresh and full.
Eight years ago." he said, thought
fully, letting the shrivcled circles slip
through his fingers slowly. "She must
be sixteen now-if she lives. If? No,
do not doubt her living presence
somewhere. / wonder where she is
now, and what she is like at sixteenp"
With that lie placed the wreath beside
his easel and began to paint. The face,
rs il grew on his canvas, presented n
young girl in the dewy morning blush
of first youth, with shadows in the great
dark eyes and half-smile about the
bright curled lips, like an embodied
summer sun-showcr. 1t was thus that
the artist pictured his ideal of the child
woman, whose infantile look and smile
for eight long years had been his own
dream of love.
Carradine had not had an easy life
An orphan from his earliest years, poor
and unfriended, he had studied hard for
tho means TO crafty that inherent
idolatry for art which was always clam
oring to find expression in form and col
oring. He had fought and he had won;
but now, at twenty-siX, he stood in the
place which he had gained for himself
almost as much alone at the very heart
as he had been eight years before, when
the child's gift came to him rs q
prophecy.
1t was not that he was friendless.
There were men who liked and sought
him, women who would gladly have
taught him TO forget his loneliness in
their affection. But though his nature
responded rapidly TO any kindness,
there was one chord, deeper than all,
that remained untouched, and from the
sweetest glances his thoughts went
back to the unknown child that had
smiled down on him so long ago.
The ideal head became his great
source of enjoyment, and dreamy soft
ness shaded his dark-grcy eyes, as line
by line and tint by tint took him back
into the past, which, all lifcSess as it
was, seemed TO him, in those moments,
more real than the busy present. Yet
now, in reviewing that one bright vision
of his memory, it was not so much the
lovely child that he saw in fancy as the
beautiful girl whose face, with fuller
depth and sweetness, looked out at him
from his own canvas.
Instinctively, he hardly knew why,
he disliked TO work on this picture in
any other presence, and he devoted to
it only his hours of solitude. So il hap
pened that it was nearly finished when
by some chance q friend discovered him
bending over it, too absorbed to hear
any approach. As the door opened
Carradine rose hastily turning his easel
to the wall, so as to conceal the face
upon il. This little stratagem, how
ever, was destined to be of no avail.
Having been marked by the intruder,
one of those cordial, weil-meaning peo-
pie, good-natured to q degree, but with
little delicacy of perception-the action
ut once aroused his curiosity.
AHA, master painter" he said, with
a laugh, "let us see what it is that
you work at by yourself till it steals
away your eyes and ears. Only one
peepp'
With that, he laid his hand on the
frame, and receiving no forbidding
word from Carradinc, turned il around.
The next moment he was loud in
praise.
"But who is IL, CarradineP II IL is O
portrait, tell me where TO find the orig
lnal, and will, il 1t is seven days
iouneyl'
Carradine smiled.
"If myself knew where to find such
an original should not be here to tel