Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1884-05-22
New Series-Vol "a. No. 81

But still | worked on at my picture. and
her presence cheered me in spite of my
self. Her sprightly laugh and quaint
sayings drove away the shadows from my
brow each day she came.
The winter passed and the spring came
on with its balmy gales and opening buds.
My picture was almost finished, and I
required Lily as a model no longer. / had
made up my mind to part from her.
Well remember that last day. She came
as usual ate clock, but her face was
very pale and set, and she hardly spoke
word all the afternoon. 1 only needed
her for few hours to touch up some
points in her figure, and in the twilight l
saw her home across the churchyard.
We scarcely exchanged a word-our
hearts were so full. All expectancy
seemed to have died out of Lily's face,
and there was hopeless expression in
her eyes which touched me to the quick.
More than once was on the verge of
taking her to my heart and vowing that 1
would never part from her, but felt the
act would be selling me to ruin, and
kept the words back. At length we came
to the wicket leading from the church
yard into the lane, and here she stopped
and said with tremor in her voice:
EDO not come any farther, Mr.. Morley"
Lilly" pleaded, my dear child, let
me go home with you"
NO" she said; "it's better not" and
she held out her hand.
l remember the scene as well as il it
happened yesterday-the overarching
elms of the old churchyard, the budding
quickest of the hedgerows, the rotted
sycamore leaves lying at the borders Of
the path, the cawing of the hOmeward-
bound rocks, and the red sunlight from
the glowing west, which kindled the ivy
on the gray church tower.
l took her hand in one of mine and
with the other l drew her to my bosom.
Long PRESSED her there, for there was
not a soul passing, and her tears fell sic
luntly on my shoulder, where she sobbed
in peace.
"My darling" said, Eve have learned
to love one another, but love is not
enough. Forgive me- (fUr l felt sense
of guilt at leaving her, which 1 can
scarcely even now justify, forgive me.
will never forget you"
For awhile longer l stood there, do
uO huO" uO" OACC vi lWICC ou0
made feeble effort to escape, but could
not bear to let her go. There was ia
tai bliss in her embrace, which l could
not relinquish.
At last the clock on the church struck
I, and Lily struggled to be free. re-
leased her from my arms, and dried her
,ears with my handkerchief. Then L
helped her over the stile-and she was
gone. | watched her as she hurried
away, like poor wounded bird, and
never shall 1 forget the unutterably
nournful expression of her face as she
urned to take last look at me before
round a bend in the lane.
Lily was gone. For weeks the thought
launted me,and all the sunshine seemed
o die out of the world. My picture was
by only hope and consolation; my hope,
or l fOndly thought it would prove sue
essful; my consolation, for it preserved
o me the living image of poor Lily, who
lad become sacred to me now l had re
igned her. | was free, / might be IA
uOus, but l bad bought my fame and
reedom at terrible cost, price often
bought too dear.
My picture was hung, and praised by
II the critics, admired by all the public.
.ily's beauty was the theme of many re-
parks, net only frem the crowd but
rom my brother artists, who often asked
le where l got the model, and where
be could be found. There was for
lne in her.
But jealously guarded that secret in
~ breast. Lily was mine, and for me
lone. l was offered high price for the
icture, but l would not sell that first
opy. painted another from it and sold
lat. NV career was opened, but in the
Iidst of my triumph there came heavy
low. One day letter came from Llly's
Other telling me that she was very i'll
I'D wished to see me. wen to the lit
e shop that morning, and was shown
, Mrs. Maynard to her bedroom. 1t
as small and plainly papered room,
.antily furnished, with an iron bed in
Ie middle of it. As soon as / entered
caught the poor child's eyes eagerly
led Upon me with a thirstiDg look.
er face was wasted and pinched, aud
sr bright gold hair was hid away beT
nd her sleeping cap, bat the old de-
yhted look beamed all over her face at
eing me. took her thin, frail hand
mine and pressed it teDderly. z
OcCs SilC odlu, L NO sOt SuN P@fNhO
re with the notices of our picture
70 had always called it our picture ),azd
e laid her hand on mass of newspa-
II cuttings lying on the coverlet before
#. 81 read them every day.
Then she told me about her illness;
w the doctors could not lind the seat
it, and of her longing to see me, which
luld not be satisfied until | had come.
nd told her of my success, and the
W pictures | meditated, and what
hoped to do. Mrs. Maynard stayed
tn us in the room. and after promls-
g to cone again, said good BY. But
was for the last lime. Lily. my paie,
'eet primr"Ss, died sOnn after, and
mot out think that she sen, iOr me
AT day to take last farewell. There
is something IN the lingering pressure
her haad Ihat might have told me
at.
| have never married. My art has
en- NV wife, and she has smiled upon
AS YOU see. "SpringIime" was my
st work and my dearest. You asked
where got my model from, and
We told you.
What the Children are Saying.