The Sunday herald and weekly national intelligencer., 1891-03-01

work went on. AS | watched her the face
changed and the sorrowful, worn look gave
place to a kind of wondering happiness-he has
not quite got it in the picture: it was as if the
feeling were so intense it made a kind of ra-
dance round her. / don't know how long l
watched AT last sound made me turn and
look at the painter; he had thrown down the
palette and brushes, and was standing looking
at his work; then he turned slowly and
held out his hands with suppl1cating
gesture. She had risen, too, and came a step
forward, with wonderful light in her eyes,
and just as she put her hands in his cloud
crossed over the moon and blotted out the fig
ures from my sight. When it passed the patch
of moonlight was empty, and there was only the
painted head and the palette lying on the floor
to convince me L had not been dreaming. After
that l must have fallen asleep, for it was broad
daylight when | next remember anything, and
/ heard the welcome and familiar sound of my
old woman preparing my breakfast. The smell
of frying pilchards was refreshingly mundane,
and got up stiff and sore from my uneasy
couch, prepared to find that my phantoms of
the night before had been nothing but dream.
No; there was the picture, just as you see 1t,
and on the floor were the palette and brushes.
picked them up and looked curlously at them.
If you'll believe me, could never make up my
mind to clean the paint off that palette, and it
hangs there just as that fellow left it,"
We sat silent for some minutes when Graves
had done. / confess the story impressed me a
good deal, and glancing up | could sec that
Quiller was strangely moved.
Sand did you never have any explanation of
the thing 2" said at last.
"No," said Graves, 81 never had any eXplana-
tion, and / don't suppose | ever shall"
Quiller had risen and stood near the fire.
81 think can give it, }" he said knocking the
ashes out of his pipe.
Graves stared at him; no one spoke, and he
went on, as if unwillngly:
"That must have been Drake's cottage you
had; he was before your time-l daresay you
never heard of him. lie lived there with his
wife-and that's her portrait"
Gravess stare of surprise became more pro-
found, and Teddy and | looked on in silent
wonder. Quiller went on, speaking like man
that has been carried quite out of himself:
"There was tragic story told about Drake
and his wife. He was a good deal older than
she, and changeable and moody in his ways;
and she, poor child, was ambitious to help him
to be great. AT first he was tender and thought
full toward her, and then he seemed to forget
how fragile and sensitive she was-neglected
her, and grew more and more morose and
moody. He used to get very savage about his
models, and complain that it was impossible to
| get any one with intelligence enough to sit
| decently Once his wife asked him whether
she could not sometimes help him by sitting,
and he only laughed at her, remember. You
| your he said-that was all. Then the poor
| child had an illness, which, If she had been
| happier, might have ended differently, and been
! a new happiness to both of them; but she was
] too worn out with sorrow and disappointment,
and in the end she died. In her delrium she
was always calling to her husband: Let me
| help you, let me be of some use; only
once, dear; paint me only once;' and
poor Drake, who woke up to sense of his
loss, was heart-broken at his inability to
satisfy her. The tenderest and most passionate
tones of his voice never reached her, and she
| died without ever knowing him again. After
that Drake was a changed man; he seemed to
have only one idea-to paint the portrait of his
wife. Canvas after canvas he spoiled, and
when / went so see him he would say: 'She
cannot rest until 1 have done it, l must sue
coed; sooner or later l must satisfy her. AT
! length he became SO unmanageable, eating
| nothing, and spending long, sleepless nights