The Portland daily press., 1891-03-18


plainly, but seemed oppressed bv some
weight that made me powerless To move.
sat there staring at what hannened ne
helpless as if l had been bound. NV
painting things were just as had left
them; my canvas, on which had sketch
ed In head, on the easel, and close by.
on a stool, paints, brushes and paletta.
They had been there, that is to saw. for
now there stood in front of the easel.
with his back to me, tall man, with a
stoop in his shoulders and dark gray
hair; he had my palette in his hand and
ne was painting with sort of nervous
intensity that it thrilled me to see.
looked to see what he was painting. for
he kept glancing over toward the patch
In the moonlight; but at first could see
nothing.
"Then heard that little, gentle sigh,
but not, it seemed to me, so utterly weary
and heartbroken as formerly; it YVES a
sigh almost of content. And as pom
dered on this my eyes seemed to become
more accustomed to the light, and there
in the moonlight, on the very chair on
which Annie had sat, was o woman,
leaning slightly forward-young, beau
tiful and very pale. But you have seen
the picture. looked at her now more
than at him, only CHANGING now and then
to see how the work went on. As
watched her the face changed, and the
sorrowful, worn look gave placeto kind
of wondering happiness has notquite
got it in the picture; it was as if the
feeling were so intense it made kind of
radiance round her. don't know how
long watched. AT last sound made
me turn and look at the painter. he
had thrown down the palette and brush
ca and was standing looking at his work.
Then he turned slowly. and held out his
hand with supplicating gesture. She
had risen, too, and come 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 figures 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 | had been dreaming. After that
must have fallen asleep, for it was broad
thing, and l heard the welcome and IA
mihar sound of my old woman prepar-
ing. my breakfast. The smell of frying
pilchards was refreshingly mundane,
and got up stiff and sore from my UNI
easy couch, prepared to find that my
phantoms Of the night before had been
nothing but dream. No; there was
the picture, just as you seerit. and ON
the floor were the palette and brushes.
picked them up and looked anxiously
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 some minutes when
Graves had done. confess the story
impressed me good deal, and CHANGING
up I could see that CUTLER was strangely
moved.
Sand did you never. havaany expizna-
ton of the thingr said Latlast.
"No," said Graves. "Inever had. any
explanation, and don't suppose ever
shall
CUTLER had risen, and stood near tho
fire.
II think L can. give it, he said, knock
ing the ashes outsof hspipe.
Graves stared stshim; no one spoke,
and he weut-on -asit unwiIlingly.
'"That must haye-been Drake cottage
you had; he was before your time-I
dare say you never heard Of him. He
hvedfthMe with mis- wife-and' that'ssher
portrait"
Graves stare. ofsmprise~ becamemore
urofound. and Teddy and 1ockedronsin
surnr'wonuer. e4utHer went ON, speak
ingsli man that has been carried
quite out of himself.
"There was a.tragic story told about
DRAKE and .his'wife. Hewas q good deal
older than she, and changeable and
moody in his ways and.she, poor child,
was<amttious to help hiIn'to begreat.
Atfnst he was tender and thoughtful
toward her, and then he seemedtoforget
how fragile and sensitive she was-he
neglected her. and grow more .and-m more
morose and moody. He used toget very
savage about his models, and complain
that it was impossible to get any one
with intelhge enough to sit ecemtly.
'Once his wife asked him4whether she
could not sometimes helphim bysiitting,
and he only laughed at her, i remember,
'FYou-your he said-that was an.
Thenthe poor child had anillness, which,
if she had been happier, might hayeend-
ed differently, and been new happiness
10 both of them; butshe was too worn
out with sorrow and disappointment,
and in the endshe died. In.herdalirium
she was always calling to her husband,
'tLet me help you, let me beof some use;
only once, dear-paint me only once;"
and poor Drake, who woke up to asense
of his loss, was heart broken at his in
ability'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 one idea--to paint the portrait of
his wife. Canvas aftercanvas he spoiled,
and when went to see him he would
say, "She cannot rest until have done
it. / must succeed; sooner or later I
must satisfy her." At length he became
so unmanageable, eating nothing, and
spending long, sleepless nights walking
about the country, that his friends came
and took him away. He died some
months after in an asylum"
''By Jovep said Teddy O,Brien when
CUTLER had finished, and then relapsed
into silence.
Hooked at Graves, but he was lost IN
a wonderment too deep for words.
''The portraits very like her," said
CUTLER, with strange awe in his tone.
''Fm glad poor Drake succeeded at last"
"You Think said I, and broke off.
CUTLER was putting on his coat. He
answered my unfinished question with
solemnity for which I was not prepared.
"For twenty-five years those two poor
ghosts have been waiting their oppor-
tunity. Let us be thankful that in tho
end they found it"
he seemed to forget to take leave Of
us In any way, and went without an
other word. AS the door closed each Of
us drew a deep breath Of relief. Dick
raised his head with an air Of stupefac-
ton.
'Thats a rum story" said Teddy
O'Brien; 'why did you never tell it be-
forer'
'The FUNNIEST thing about it is the
sequel" said I. 'Dick, old man, is your
parttrueY'
s'I don't know" said Dick; ct begin to
thinkit must be-"
'Great Scotland Yard" said Teddy