The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1909-12-08
His Masterpiece.
By Genevieve M. Boice.

ID the nlmy lnISC CQaC arose from the
blazing logs.
The tense silence that had fallen
between them lasted several moments
and the girl clutched ~nervously at the
folds of her gown.
Now that the first outburst of emo
ton was over, in which she had told
him plainly her opinion regarding his
lazy mode, Of life and idle pursuit of
pleasure, her courage fed, and she
stood by the great organ in the
library, one hand resting on It's
worried keys, trembling and afraid.
Meanwhile a mighty struggle was
going on in Paul Worthington's mind.
Had he not been born to the purple
and fine linen, fate might have made
of him a artist Of nc small rspute, for
during his college days he had given
evidence of an unusual talent along
these lines, but once free from the
influence of the halls of learning, the
goddess of pleasure had claimed him
for her own, and binding him with
her silken cords had banished all use
full occupations from his mind.
But now under M~arguerite's scorn-
fsl discourse on the utter uselessness
of his life. ambition stirred within
his heart like the flames that some
times burst from a seemingly burnt
out log, and although he appeared to
be watching with lazy interest the
sparks dancing up the chimney like a
million golden butterflies, he was Sc
cretly admiring the slender gray-eyed
girl who dared to tell him the truth
even at the cost of their friendship.
His farewell that night was cool
and almost formal. He barely
touched Marguerite's icy little hand,
and entirely ignored the appeal in
her wide gray eyes. She longed to
speak some word of encouragement
to him, but pride held. her silent, and
thus they parted, she tremulous and
frightened, he stern and proud.
Society gossiped for the proverbial
nine days when the news Of Paul
Worthington's sudden departure to
Europe became known, and looked to
Marguerite Chantrey for an explana-
ton; but none was forthcoming, and
no one dared to question the heiress
CT the Chantrey millions, the girl who
held the social sceptre in the hollow
of her hand.
Days came and went and Marguer-
lite heard no word from Paul Worth
ington. She tried to persuade her.
self that she was perfectly Indifferent
to his whereabouts, but her tremul-
Gus lips and misty eyes bore evidence
to the contrary when his first letter
arrived.
=. =, L have found my life
work." he wrote, "and I am deter
mined to carve a name for myself in
the world of art. My n ambition
now is to paint a canvas worthy of
being hung in the Royal Academy,
and for this I am working from early
morning until almost twilight. Daily
the picture grows under my touch,
until I could almost believe it is by
magic"
Marguerite's eyes shone with pleas
ure. After all, was it not worth the
many lonesome moments she had
spent since he had left her in yappar-
ent anger to know that he was to
make something Of his life, and she
poIy ~ d,o,Ynino ~ fho tipoa wbcnr hic
picture would hang in the Royal
Academy, and the world would speak
his name with reverence.
Eagerly she watched for his letters,
and the disappointment was keen that
they were so few and irregular. At
another time he wrote:
"The work is progressing rapidly.
Daily the canva grows more beauti-
full, but in this I must accord a share
of praise to the girl who is posing
for the figure in the picture, for it is
often her quick, kindly smile and soft
glance of encouragement that urges
me to bring the best art there is in
me to the surface. Like myself, she
is an American; and when the shad-
ows\ thicken and it grows too dark
to paint, wo sit by the studio fire and
chat about old friends and home,
sweet home,
Spring found the Chantreys in Eu-
rope. They fingered longest in fair
Italy, the land Of azure skies and
golden sunlight, and the home of the
old masters. Their ancient paintings
had a peculiar fascination for Mar
guerite, and she often found herself
thinking of Paul Worthington with
a wistful tenderness, and wondering
if his name would, ever be classed
among the great painters of pictures.
Upon their arrival in Rome they
found the city ringing with the
praises of an unknown artist named
Clyde, whose picture was on exhibit
ton in the Art Gallery. Even the
critics we're silent before it; there
was not a flaw in the exquisite paint
ing.
At the first opportunity Marguer-
tie Chantrey visited the gallery and
waited patiently until the crowd per-
mitted her to stand in the line that
viewed the famous painting. These
were other pictures by the same artist
hanging in the room, but it was be-
fore this one that the crowds lin
gered. This is his masterpiece"
they said softly, almost r%everently.
Gradually the crowd melted away
and Marguerite stood before the won
derful picture. Like a dream sea