The Jersey City news. (Jersey City [N.J.]) 1889-1906, 1890-07-11

The Story Of a Young Englishman's
Cruel DesertiOn.

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and in Florence. The sunset rays lin
gered lovingly it seemed ON the broad
valley of the Arno, touching in a rosy
kiss the spurs of the Apennines and the
hills ON its banks. The quiet, t~oo,--for
the work Of the day was over-lent its
charm, impressing in particular a traveller
who was walking toward IN unpreten-
tious inn not far from the river. The
stranger, an Englishman his dress pro-
claimed him, WA pleasant to look at in
way. He was tall and well formed,
with very blonde hair and blue eyes, and
his features, too, unusually good, but
the mouth, which a light mustache al
most concealed, was a selfish one when
seen without its smile of almost effemi-
nate sweetness. Is it not DIR. Holmes who
tells us that God made all the features
but the mouth, and we alone are respon-
sible for that?
The hand bag he carried bore the name
Paul CORTLAND, but let us take a cur
sorry glance at the owners early history
and see what has brought him to Flor
ence
Though ill-starred in being born a
younger son in an English family Of
rank, nevertheless ON attaining his ma
jority he came into a goodly fortune left
him by a relative for whom he was
named. This did not last long. Paul
CORTLAND was weak and in Paris most
Of the time, but for a while all went
well; his winning smile earned him many
friends. The men courted his society
for his ready wit, and the women, whose
hearts he so easily won, pitied his mis-
fortunes. At last, however, the day
came when he awoke to the fact that he
must work for his daily bread. He was
gifted with much talent and an almost
insane love for painting, so he concluded
to set out for Florence, the cradle and
grave of SO many Of our great masters;
there, far away from his old wild life, he
would start afresh; the teachings of his
dead mother occurred to him and a
touch of holy shame crept into his heart.
He would reform, and, in fact, he be-
gan already to look upon himself in that
light; it pleased him from its very nov
city.
Arriving there, IS we have said, just
at dusk, his eye was charmed with the
simple grandeur of the city. To the
north Of the river Arno the reader may
remember the picturesque bits of ruin
thatare standing, remains Of once mighty
walls. As he approached one Of these
he paused. Was it the glory of the
southern sky that pleased him? Was he
dazzled by those wondrous ruby tints?
His glance was not toward the heavens,
but rested on an Italian girl leaning
against the crumbling gray stones. A
rarely beautiful face it was, Swallowed
by the heavy black hair; her lips were
slightly parted in a smile, and the warm
glow of the sunset lighting up the clear
olive skin fairly made him tremble lest
this lovely vision should fade away,
leaving only the ruin in the background.
Cautiously. almost reverently, Paul
Courtland advanced, but still the girl did
not move. Across her scarlet peasant
dress fell a trailing vine of ivy, and in
one little brown hand she held loosely a
bunch Of dropping water lilies. AS the
young stranger drew nearer he saw that
the child was fast asleep.
"Who is sheg' he asked in Italian of q
passer by.
"'Tis Beatrice Gonzani, our little
flower girl. Surely, signor, you have
not been in Florence long? All, naughty
child! see, she has fallen asleep! What
will the poor old grandmother be think
ing? Beatrice! Beatrice Mia, wake up
and before CORTLAND could prevent him
he had caught her by the arm.
The young man turned away; he want
ed to remember the picture as he had
first seen it, toned into wondrous har-
mony by the setting sun. Securing a
room at the inn he retired early, not to
sleep peacefully, though, but to dream
of Beatrice. The artist had found his
ideal, he would paint a great work,
that would make him famous not only
in Florence but throughout Europe.
Early the next morning he once more
directed his steps toward the ruin in the
hope of again seeing the beautiful flower
girl. Whose fate was it that led him,
Beatrice's or his own?
She was in her usual place, and as the
artist approached he raised his hat cour-
teously.
"Good morning, signorina," he said in
her native tongue, II have come to buy
some of your pretty flowers"
''Thank you, signor, which will you
have, roses or liliesT'
81 prefer the lilies, but what is the
matter with them, their heads droop?"
"'Tis because they are sleeping, sig
nor; when the sun comes out brighter
they will open their little golden eyes.
See what a fine bunch this is; thatin the
center l call the queen and cae others are
paying court to her."
"a pretty idea, Beatrice; / will take
The lilies and the roses also; can you not
tell me some story about them"
And so Paul CORTLAND talked On; it
was not the face nor the passionate
beauty Of the great Italian eyes that
charmed him now: in their place he felt
the influence OF tho lew, musical voice
and the childike ar~tlessness of her ways.
This was but one of the many visits he
paid her; nearly every morning he would
meet her at the old ruined wall, and grad
ually Beatrice began to look for his COM
ing-it made the day seem less long.
When at last he asked her to pose as q
model for him she did not think Of refus-
ing; she was glad to please the signor, who
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