Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1884-05-13

through the mist that had risen. AMT
shared the walk with me.
found a telegram telling ME of m
fathers very serious illness at Baden Baden
and was busy packing and driving throug
the chill, early morning toward the neares
railway station, so that had no chance
look up Eaton. I remember that l toll
my driver something about an artist,
friend of mine who had turned I'D. VIII
seemed wrong in his mind, and ought to b
looked after. I believe 7 wrote a line t.
the same effect 10 Gleason. l know
meant to do so. But the anxious voyag
and more anxious weeks in Europe put al
other thoughts from my mind.
i =
1t was after my fathers death late in tn
fall that I sailed for home. Taking up
paper that came out on the pilot-bOat sav
the notice of the Salmagundi exhibition
Coupled with it was the announcement 0
the death Of poor Tom Eaton, who had diet
in the mad-house the week before. "Al
unsuccessful but painstaking artist" th'
review went on to say, sit is somewhat sur
prising that the only work he has left o.
any strength should now be hung at thu
black and white exhibition. This sketcI
was made after the madness was fairly
upon him. This picture is in grays, oddly
colored, but in composition and drawing
quite full of certain weird power. Not tC
be funny at the dead mans expense, thi;
gives the poor fellow good send-of at any
rate as friend of his remarked the Other
day. The picture taken in connection with
the tragic death of the artist, has created
!some little stir, more particularly as the
faoe in the sketch is strikingly like that of
of young Boston beauty who is making
her debut in New York.
So poor Eaton was dead, and his picture
my picture-was q success, and Anita
had lived in Boston when she was 12!
| | buried TO the black and white that
very afternoon, and found quite a
group collected about my picture-Ea-
toms picture. | laughed somewhat ner-
vously as stood before it. Some one be-
hind me spoke. 1t was Gleason. "You
needn't laugh, man, am glad to see you
back, by the way. There is some force in
that, and l am glad for poor Toms sake
that he has left this sketch behind him. |
give you my word and | had no idea he
could do SO well. He couldn't have while
he was sane. Every one is surprised. How
are you? You look pale. Have you come
back TO stay?" etc., etc. fingered around
| iOl NNiLS esiiA 1Ouiti oCiI pe1Oh
and again before my picture (Eaton's pic
ture), the picture never to be claimed as
his now. 1t chanced I had told the story
tono one. There had been no opportuni-
ty. Now, OF course, [ never must. As
stood looking at it, and somewhat moved,
perhaps more by the remembrance of that
night than by anything actually before my
eyes, two girls and an elderly woman ap-
preached and stopped.
SIT certainly is like her, mamma; Won
der if she will see it herself 1t is quite
time she were here, by-the-by She prom
ised to meet us at 3, you know"
| 81 don't think it does her Justice" re-
Piled the elder lady, looking through her
glasses critically. "She is very beautiful
creature, and this face is less So" she add
ed rather indefinitely, and with no hesita-
tion in her voice, so that fancied the pic
ture grew on as she looked; and that she
might yet reverse her decision.
The other girl spoke now. She had a
discerning face, as | could see, and that
long upper lip that goes with speech-facul-
ty. at is like she said, ''more like her
soul than her body. It is like the way she
will look 10 her guardian angel--her lover" +"
! She turned abruptly to greet some people
who were walking toward US.
I was sngularly excited. The maniac in
the boat had no such paralyzing power
over me as this potentiality in soft grey
gown, with q long gray glove outstretched.
My heart beat and the picture swan before
my eyes, for this might be, might it not,
Anita herself? | heard voice exclaim.
''This is the picturev A lady in black
with the gray girl began an apology; "We
are late. As usual Signor Boldini had
some new music. Ahr' interrupting her
self; it is like-why, yes, very. Don't you
think SO yourself? f?'-the name at last, sure
| iy-but no--''don't you think so yourself,
dear?"
eyes, do tell us whatgyou think. Isn't
she weird and can You look like that? ?''
cried the girls.
"Ah, the other mer' said new voice
softly, voice with low thrill in it. 'It
is like what | might have been, I'm sure.
Some one told me once when l was child,
| remember, that | was like the moon, but
having lived eight years since then in q
flood of sunshine''--and the gray hand
touched the black glove near hers, CRATE
full touch, felt sure--''why, I am not SO
much like it now as I was.'
"ln spite of the smile that you always
will and always won't smile outright.
That is in the face in the moon, too, you
see. Did you ever meet Mr.. Eaton ?''
"And do you think the girl very beauti
| full, and very like amaniac's dream?' broke
in the shorter girl. ''Do tell us, Anita
SO then 1t was Anita. | turned, and as
| walked away faced the blue-gray eyes,
like violets, and the hair like shaded moon
beams, and the smile Not the little 12
year-old Anita this, but beautiful, sunny
creature, with the other Anita somehow
G. fOrrrn tod Oh -
more of the world, with saU0ire fdire ly-
ing over the moonshine. had meant, il
it were she, to speak to her at once and
boldly. AS it was l simply gazed, and
when her eyes met mine l fear il was I, not
she, who blushed. But she recognized me
My identity wasall in my face, was sure.
saw puzzled look in her eyes, and / seiz
ed my chance. bowed; l spoke:
:" ears ago you knew me, Miss Grayson
when I was boy in Boston, and when You
were like the moon.''
| | was introduced to the aunt in black
My father had been one of the old family
friends. So in few moments | was talk
ing like an old friend myself Mrs. Gray
son touched on my recent loss, and then, as
| turned to leave, said:
II should beAglad to know your fathers
son. Can you dine with us on Sunday
next?"
y < \ \
So the golden gates were opened for me
and Sundays came and Sundays went and
was fathoms deep in love. could not paint
l could not talk. l heard a good deal O.
music, and I suppose-alack and alas-read
poetry. Fatal habit of lovers. And SO al
last it came to the point when I must tel
her. Armed with a~shield of violets l me-
her in her aunt's drawing-room one Sunday
again toward twilight. A day in April il
was, and spring was in the air.
The aunt was out on an errand of charity
would soon be at home, Anita hoped.
said nothing. Talk tagged in consequence
eff those violets are for this house, why
do you hold them?" asked Anita; "why d(
you not give them to me?''
1hold them because you will soon toucI
them yourself (Which was an asinine
speech. Wasn't it?
"That is stupid" she laughed frankly
land like other men, and not like you"
But am like other men," I answered
abruptly, for II Then I paused, gave
her the violets, and conversation Tagged
again: We tried various subjects-Rus
sian dynamite, Scalchi; all failed.