The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1891-02-11

generally. The place became unbearable
and determined to camp in the studio
until they cleared ont. l made up big
fire, got my old woman to leave me some
hot water in the kettle, and with help of
a rug and pillow stuffed into the back of
my chair | made myself tolerably COM
Portable for the night How long | slept
l don't know. awoke suddenly, not as
one does in bed, with a drowsy feeling OF
relief that 1t is too early to get up, but
with every sense on the alert, and cur
ious impression that something unusual
was happening. The fire was still bright,
and made q glow on the opposite
wall but what made the room so
light was the moon shining in
through the square window in the roof
] could see everything In the room
quite plainly, but seemed oppressedtby
some weight that made me pOwerless 10
move sat there staring at what hap
pened as helpless as if / had been bound.
My painting things were just as | had left
them; my canvas, on which L had
sketched in head, on the easel, and close
by, on a stool, paints, brushes and palette.
They had been there. that is to say, for
now there stood ia front of the easel, with
his back to me, tall man with stoop in
his shoulders and dark gray hair; he had
my palette in his hand and he was paint
ing with a sort OF nervous intensity that it
thrilled one to see. looked to see what
he was painting, Tor 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 10 me, SO utterly weary and heart
broken as formerly; it was sigh almost
OF content And as | pondered on this
my eyes seemed TO become moro accus-
toned to the light; and there in the
moonlight, on the very chair in which
Annie had sat, was woman. leaning
slightly forward, young, beautiful 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 place TO kind OF wondering happi-
ness-he has not quite got it in the pic
ture; it was as il the feeling were so in
tense il made a kind OF radiance round
her. / don't know how long / watched.
At last sound made rue turn and look ut
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 a
| supphcating gesture. She had risen, too,
and came step forward with a won
derful light in her eyes, and just as
| she put her hands in his q
cloud crossed over the moon and blot.ed
out the figures from my sight. When it
passed, the patch Of moonlight was empty.
aud there was only the painted head and
palette lying on the floor to convince me l
had not been dreaming. After that Unjust
have fallen asleep, for it was broad day
/ light 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 l got up
! stiff and sore from my uneasy couch, pre-
pared to fird that my phantoms of the
! night before had been nothing but a
| dream. No; there was the picture, Just
as you see it, and OH the floor We're the
| palette and brushes. I picked them up.
| and looked curiously at them, If you'll
believe, never could make up my mind
to clean the paint off that palette, and 1t
! hangs there just es that fellow left it.
We sat silent for some minutes when
| Graves had done. confess the story i'm
pressed me great deal, and glancing up
| L could sec that CUTLER was strangely
| moved.
"And didvou never have any eXplana-
! ton OF the thing?" said at last.
NO" said Graves. az never had any
explanation, and l don't suppose l ever
shall"
CUTLER had risen. and stood near the
| fire.
Il think can give it," he said, knock
ing the askes out of his pipe.
Graves stared at him no one spoke, and
he went on as if unwillingly:
THAT must have been brakes cottage
| you had he was before your time-I dare
say you never heard of him. lie lived
| there with his wife-and that's her por-
| trait"
Graves stare OF surprise became more
profound, and Teddy and looked on in
silent wonder. CUTLER went on, speaking
like man that has been carried quite out
| of himself.
"There was q tragic story told about
Drake and his wife. lie was a good deal
| older than she, and changeable and moody
in his ways; and she, poor child, was am
bilious to help him to be great. At first
he was tender and thoughtful toward her,
and then he seemed to forget how fragile
and sensitive she was-he neglected her,
and grew more and more morose and
moody. He used to get very savage about
| his models, and complain that it was inn
| possible 10 get any one with intelligence
enough 10 sit decenty. Once mis- wife
asked him whether she could not some
times help him by sitting, and he only
! laughed Mt her, ] remember. 'You-vOuv
he said-that was all. Then the poor
child had an illness, which, ii she had
| been happier. might have ended differ
emily, and been a new happiness to both
of them; but she was too worn on: with
sorrow and disappointment, and in
the end she died. In her de
lirium she was always calling to her hus-
band: 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 to see him he
would say: She cannot rest until | have
done it. | must succeed; sooner or later L
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 Jovel" said Teddy O'Bren when
CUTLER had finished, and then relapsed
int. 81