Evening capital. (Annapolis, Md.) 1884-1910, 1891-07-15
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yCu had: he was before your tlme--i
dare say you never heard of him. lie
lived there with his wife-and that's hsT
portrait
Graves's stare of surprise became more
profound. and Teddy and l looked on
in silent wonder. Quiller went oa, speak.
ing like q man that has been carried
quite out of himself:
There was a tragic story told about
Drake aud his wife. He was 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 thoughtful
toward her, and then he seemed 20 for
get how fragile and sensitive she WAS
he neglected her, and grew more and
more moroSe and moody. He used 60
get very savage about his models. and
complain that it was impossible 20 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 delirium 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
heartbroken 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 changed
man; he seemed TO have only cne idea
TO paint the portrait of his wife. Canvas
after canvas he spoiled, and when went
TO see him he would say: She can not
rest until / have done it. / must sue
ceed; sooner or later must satisfy her.
At length he became so unmanageable,
eating nothing, and spending long, sleep
less nights walking about the country,
that his friends came and took him
away. He died some months after in an
asylum.
BY Jovei" said Teddy o'Brien when
Quiller had finished, and then relapsed
into silence.
l looked at Graves. but he WAS lost in
a wonderment too deep for words.
@The portraits very like her." said
Quiller, with strange awe in his tone
I'm glad poor Drake succeeded at
last ="
~You think" said l, and broke off.
Quiller was putting on his coat. He
answered my unspoken question with a
solemnity for which was not prepared
@For % years those two poor ghosts
have been waiting their opportunity.
Let us be thankful that in the end they
found it. +"
He seemed to forget to take leave Of us
in any way, and went without another
word. AS the door closed each of us
drew a deep breath of relief. Dick raised
his head with an air of stupefaction.
That's a rum story" said Teddy
O'Brien; why did you never tell il be-
fore?"
"The rummiest thing about it Is the
sequel, said 1. "Dick, old man, is your
part truef"
II don't know, ~ said Dick; II begin
TO think it must be-"
"Great Scotland Yardl" said Teddy
oBrien, "did you make it up?"
Every word Of it--on the spur Of the
moment.
~Did you know"
Not word. Quiller seemed struck by
that picture, and it was the only sign oi
human interest he had shown, so l
thought I'd humor him. didn't mean
a ghost story when began, but it some
how developed into that. would have
given a good deal to take rise out OF
him, but / never hoped for anything SO
complete as this.
Ii was a curious coincidence that you
should have taken brakes cottage, said
Mr.. 0Brien.
Yes, said Dick dryly; shut the most
curious part of it all is that the cottage
was made up too.
"Great Scotland Yardl" said Teddy
OBrien again.
And who painted the headf"
u Ipainted it myself, said Dick, land
begin 10 think it must be deuced good
picture. r-Cornlill Magazine.