Sistersville daily oil review. [volume] (Sistersville, W. Va.) 1902-1905, 1903-08-27
WAS As ONE IN A DREAM
BY MYRTLE REED.
A CRISIS IN THE CAREER OF JOE
HAYWARD.


was sure what it was. Even the critics,
who know everything, were at loss.
HAYWARD himself worked hard; study
ing the masters, patiently correcting
faults in color and perspective, and
succeeding after fashion. But ne
felt that art, in its highest and best
sense, was utterly beyond him; there
was a haunting elusive something
which was continually out OF ais
reach.
Occasionally, when he sold pic
ture. he would give "a time to
dozen artist chums from studios near
by, as they did whenever fortune laV-
ored them: after which he would paint
again, on and on, with really ire
mendous perseverance.
At length he obtained permission to
make an exhibition of his work In
single room at the Art Gallery. Inc
pictures were only ten in number, and
some of them were small, but they
represented hard years work. When
he superintended the hanging, on Sat
urday morning, he was more nearly
happy than he had ever been in his
life. The placard on the door, The
Hayward Exhibition Will Open Mon
day" filed him with pleasure. 1t was
not a conceited feeling of Importance,
but rather happy consciousness that
he had done his best.
At last he was suited with the ar
rangement. The man went out WIN
the ladder and wire, and he stood IN
the center of the room, contemplating
the result. The landscape in the cor
ner might be a little out of drawing,
he thought, but the general public
would not notice that And the wo-
man in white beside it, which he had
christened Purity" certainly showed
to very good advantage. He remem-
bered very we'll the day he had put
the finishing touches upon it, after the
night of revelry in which he had
helped Jennings and a dozen other
fellows from neighboring studios to
celebrate the sale of Jennings's Study
Of a Head" and how he had thought
at the time that he, who spent such
nights, had no business to paint a
figure like this of Purity"
AS he turned to leave the room. he
saw a gray gowned young woman,
who evidently did not know that the
pictures were not as yet upon pubic
view. She passed him as she came in,
with a rustic of silken skirts and a
cooling odors of violets. Seeing the
key of the room in his hand, she
turned to him and said:
Pardon me, but can you tell me
whose pictures these are?'
"These are Hayward's." he replied.
Harvard" she repeated after him,
as If the name were wholly new to
her.
Hayward Is young artist and OF
purely local reputation" he explained.
'sThis is his first public exhibition"
She surveyed the collection without
any strong show of pleasure, until he
remarked, You don't seem to think
much of his beginning
She was prompt in her answer. mo,
I do not. They seem to lack some
thing"
He sighed inwardly. That old, old
"somethingw Hayward's pictures all
lacked something as was commonly
said Of them; but what that something
was, his intimates his fellow artists,
| were not the kind to know.
What is it, do you think?' he
asked. -.
81 don't know" she replied slowly.
"If one knew the man, one might be
able to tell
For the first time she looked him
full in the face. He saw nothing but
her eyes, clear and honest, reading
him through and through.
Eyes" he answered, IF you knew
the man, | think you could tell"
I'm not at all sure" she laughed.
Its only a fancy of mine"
Drawing a watch from her belt, she
looked surprised and turned away. He
listened until the silken rustic had
completely ceased. Then lie too went
out. On the stair he found hand
kerchief. 1t was edged with la:e, deli
cately scented with violet, and min
utely marked in the corner: Con
stance Grey"
On Sunday night the studio building
where Hayward and others painted
glowed with light. The morrow's
opening of "The Hayward Exhibition"
was being celebrated with "a time"
at the expense of the artist. Glasses
clinked and the air was heavy with
smoke. Two women from vaudeville
theatre near by made merry upon an
impromptu stage. Everybody was
happy except Hayward. The owner of
the handkerchief was in his mind. He
felt that those eyes of hers, gray, deep
and tender though they were, might
blaze with anger at scene like this.
The handkerchief had no place in such
an atmosphere. He went over to his
bookcase and put it between the leaves
OF his Tennyson, smiling as he caught
the words on the opposite page: