Juniata sentinel and Republican. [volume] (Mifflintown, Juniata County, Pa.) 1873-1955, 1895-04-17

Dalte0, cOulQ 1Orco nef INTO conn
dence or self-betrayal. We calle
her Mrs. Delaporte. Her nam
was Musette, she told me. he
mother had been q Frenchwoman; @
her father she never spoke. Sh
worked very hard, often putting m
20 shame, but still she would not lie
ne see the picture, always skilfull..
turning the easel 80 that the canva
was hidden whenever Jasper or mysel
entered ths o.udio. We were neve
permitted t<- do so in working hours
but when the daylight faded and tn
we'll known little tea table was set out
We often dropped in for cup of tel
and a chat. It was all SO pleasant, 81
ihomelike. The studio with its drap
cries and its bowls of flowers, it
plants and books and feminine trifies
[ wonder how it is that some womer
seem to lend individuality to their sur
roundings. The studio has neve'
ooked the same since she left.
He paused and laid down the sketch
The usual gayety and brightness Of
us face was subdued and shadowed.
.I-well, it's no good to dwell on il
al now, "he said abruptly. "Of cours'
I fell madly in love with her. WHIT
could help it? bet any of you fel
lows here would have done the same
I neglected work. could only moor
and dream and follow her about, wher
she let me, which am bound to say
was not very often. I'm sure I usee
L T,1--ak1, ooncf1opohl hlr- a..
that time, though he was patient. And
sho was just the same always; calm.
friendly, gracious, absorbed in heI
work, and to all appearances uncon
scious of what mischief her presenc.
had wrought. AS the third month
drew near to its end I grew desperate
l thought she avoided me; she never
let me into the studio now, and I mus
confess I had great curiosity to see the
picture. But she laughingly evaded
all my hints, and would only receive
me at the farmhouse. l believe
Trenoweth was equally unsuccessful
At Last I could stand it no longer. !,
spoke out and told her the whole
truth. OF course" and he laughed
somewhat bitterly, sit wss no use. L
she had been my mother or my siste,
she could not have been more serenely
gracious, more pitiful or moro sur
prised. II had made fool of ny.
self, as We men call it, and all tt
no purpose. It was maddening, but
I knew it was hopeless. I had al
most known it before my desperate
confession. T couldn't bear to Set
her again. I felt hated the place, il,
was SO full of memories. So, sui.
denly without word to Trenoweth OF
herself, packed up my traps and
started off on = sketching tour through
Cornwall. When I came back tn,
studio was closed, and Trenoweth hat
gone away. The man left in charge.
and who made the arrangements fol
letting them, told me that q new rule
had been made by the landlord. They
were never to be let to women artists
That is all my part of the story. Thh
this sketch is only the figure re
member. She was standing snce JUS
like that, locking at the wall of the
studio, as If to her it was peopled
with life, aud form and color. Il
IVES fancying myself at the Academy,
she said to me, az asked her at wha
she was gazing, at the Academy, ant
my picture on tho line do not know
if she ever attained her ambition" h.
added 'Ihave never seen or heart
Of her since"
He glanced at Jasper Trenoweth,
who silently held out his hand for thu
sketch.
For a moment silence rcignet
throughout the room. The eyes o
oil were on the bent head and sad
grave face Of the man who sat there
them, his thoughts apparently fa
away, so far that he seemed to hav,
forgotten his promise to finish tn.
Nory which Denis O'Hara had begun.
At last he reused himself. ''There ii
not much more to add," he said slowly.
Call that Dennis has said of Musetts
Delaporte is true, and more than true.
She was one of those women who are
bound to leave their mark on q mani
life ard memory. After Denis left SC
abruptly saw very little of her. She
seemed restless, troubled and dis
turbed. Her mind was absorbed il
the completion of her picture. Tha,
unrest and dissatisfaction which is even
the penalty of enthusiasm had nov
taken the place of previous hopeful
ness. If it should fail, sEe sad t.
me. 'Oh, you don't know whs. tn
would mean. You don't know what
have stakcd on it.
"Still she never offered to show il
to me, and I would not presume to ask.
l kept away for several days. thinking
she was best undisturbed. All artists
have gone through that phase of ex.
perience which she was undergoing.
1t is scarcely possible to avoid it, if,
indeed, one has any appreciation 70,
or love of art in ones nature.
'At last one day walked down t.
;he studio. I knocked nt the door.
There was no answer. 1 turned the
handle and entered. In the full light oil
the sunset as it streamed through the
window, stood the easel, covered nc
longer, and, facing me, as I paused or
the threshold, was the picture. stood
there too amazed to speak or move.
1t was magnificent. If had not knowr
that only woman's hand had con.
'erted that canvas into . living,
breathing history I could not have be.
lieved it. There was nothing crude,
Or weak or feminine about it. The
power and force Of genius spoke out
like living voice, and seemed to de.
mand the homage it so grandly chal.
lenged. Suddenly I became aware OF
= sound in the stillness-the low, s.i.
hed sobbing of a woman. saw her
then, thrown face downward on tie
couch at the furthest end of the room,
her face buried in the cushions, beI
whole frame trembling and convulsed
with a passion of grief. 'Oh. Mau.
,icc!' she sobbed, and then again only
:hat 'Mauricei Maurice DIau
'ice!'
II closed the door softly sud wen.
tTay. There seemed To ba som eff,inc