The Democratic advocate. [volume] (Westminster, Md.) 1865-1972, 1891-10-24
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A PHANTOM PORTRAIT.
From Cornhill Magazine.

going to dine with me at lne ciuo. Sah
stand an evening of him alone, but II you and
Teddy O'Brien will support me, with pipes
and rotations, think we shall be match
for him. Come early, and I'm your friend
for life. DICK ukANEs'
had nothing particular to do, so sent
word round to Dick that | should turn up,
having first made sure that Teddy D Brien,
whose studio was in the same block, would
90 also. CUTLER we knew of old, as all the
world knew him--a man who had seen
everything, done everything, been every
where-and these occasional visits OF his
were perpetual terror to Graves.
Dick Graves, who usually shone as a
host. was not at his best that evening. lie
was nervous at first, and rather silent, leav-
ing the burden of the talk to Teddy and
myself,
'sWill you fellows look over my Cornish
sketches p said Graves, suddenly jumping
up in desperation. II think there are
some you have not seen"-and he began
to rummage about among a pile of old can
vases. -,
Ouiller resumed his seat and sat half
absently, half contemptuously, watching
us as we turned over the paintings-pos-
sibly he was amused by our jargon OF
'stone" and quality" and the rest. At
length | picked up from the heap paint
ing that caught my eye and propped 1t on
the easel near the lamp. 1t was quite I'M
like Graves usual work, and | stood look
ing at it for a moment, not quite knowing
wby I did so. 1t was the head of young
woman, pale aud slightly worn. She was
leaning little forward, looking out of the
picture, her mouth parted by slight trem-
ulous smile, and in her eyes look that
was strange mingling of emotions, as If Il
new hope and happiness had come into
life Of sorrow-a look half wistful, half ex-
ultant. turned to speak to Graves, and
saw that CUTLER had got up and was stand,
ing gazing at the picture with look OF
fascination or of fear. Here at last was
something that interested him.
Where did you get that he asked
abruptly
what do you think of it?' said Graves
slowly.
ats good head, said Teddy y Brien.
Its wonderful model, said |.
"a face to haunt one, said CUTLER, IN
tone quite unlike his ordinary cynical
one.
"Ah, that's it, said Graves. Its more
than human.
sWho is it?'' said CUTLER, in his abrupt
way again. i
a'Pon my soul can't tell you, for |
don't known. It's queer story, and one
I'm almost ashamed to ask you to believe.
| shan't blame you if you think I'm hum
bugging.
We settled ourselves by the fire with
our pipes and Dick began his story In
manner, for him, so unusually grave and
impressive that it seemed to leave no room
for doubt as to his perfect good faith IN
the matter.
Il went into Cornwall, as you know, at
the end of the summer, and after loatinS
round Newlyn for awhile | went to the
south coast to try and find some place that
had been less painted. | stayed few days
at Poperro. but it was all so much like
the smaller exhibitions in town that | could
not stand it, and finally landed at -,
naming small seaport town, ''where there
were no painters and not many visitors.
stayed at the Ship Inn, and looked round
for some place to hang up my palette.
After some inquiries | found small cot
tage which had been empty for some time,
but which had evidently been used as a
studio, for there was wall knockc out at
one side and good sized room added,
with high north light. On the south the
kitchen and 'parlor, which opened one into
the other had a view of the loveliest little
harbor in the world The place was just
what | wanted, and the rent was absurd
only go year; so | took it for six months,
on the understanding | was to keep 1t on
if | chose. | bought few things to make
the place comfortable, and got an old wo-
man to look after it for me; but | lived
most of the time at the Ship Inn, and
Just at first | spent very little time at the
studio, only taking in my canvases at night.
When October set in cold and wet, | had
to do some work indoors, and then it was
began to think there was something queer
about the place. One day | had been
painting young girl from the village, the
granddaughter of my ancient dame, and |
was putting few touches to the background
when | heard sound close behind me,
like very gentle sigh | looked round
quickly, but there was no one in sight-no
one in the room, in fact. went on paint
ing. with an uncomfortable feeling Of some
thing uncanny, and in few minutes the
sound was repeated actually at my ear. |
dropped my brush with the start | made,
and then | went all through the house to
see if any one was in it. | knew that
Annie and her grandmother had gone
home. and | thought hoped-that some
poor soul had crept in to shelter from the
rain by the kitchen fire. Well, there was
not soul near the place. | locked up
carefully that night when | went back to
the inn, and in the solace Of glass Of grog
and a pipe before went to bed almost
persuaded myself there was nothing in it.
In the morning had really forgotten it,
| fancy; but when | got back to the studio
a curious thing had happened. Right
across the face in my picture were couple
of brush marks, such as you might make
if you were trying the tooth of canvas,
completely spelling my work of the day
before. called up Annie and her grand
mother, and accused them of playing
tricks They were indignant at the idea,
and finally had to apologize for my suspi-
eions. We reached the house together, but
could find no means by which any one
could have entered, and at last was obliged
to conclude that L must have done the
damage myself when l let my brushes fall.
In few days, however, it became impos-
sible to explain the thing by this-or any
other natural means; constantly my can
vases were tempered with, and | grew to
have the feeling that after twilight 1 was
never alone in the room, that faint sigh,
which had so startled me at first, came
TO listen for and expect, and began at last
to clothe it with personality, and to wish
| had some means Of comforting the poor
soul who had no other lanouape in which