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Waiting for the Dawn.
BY IRENE INGE COLLINS.
CHAPTER XXIII.
‘The occupants of the picturesque villa in
which Eloise had found a home were a widow and
her two daughters, together with a young son who
was studying art in Rome, but was now at home
for a short holiday. Mrs. Marchfield—a pretty
English girl traveling in Europe with her father,
had met the young American artist whom she
married in Rome where he was pursuing his art
studies. Her father recognized the talent of
the young man and permitted him to paint his
daughter’s portrait. The sequel was that the
young pair mutually loved each other and after
some demur and considerable delay, her father
consented to the union and they were married.
After six years of wedded life the young artist
died, just as his star of fame was rising. He
was genial and generous in nature and had
many friends. Among those who loved him
and had aided him by buying his pictures, was
the rich merchant from whom Eugene Bertram
had obtained the letter of introduction for
Eloise, to Mrs. Marchfield: Consequently Eloise
met with distinguished consideration at their
hands. Afterwards they valued her for her own
worth. Her gentle, obliging nature, her culti
vated mind, her grace of manner and person
won their admiring regard. Mrs. Marchfield
took warm interest in her hopes concerning her
voice. The family were delighted with her
singing. The young girls Carmina, and Ninene
thought it perfect, and young Victor Marchfield
declared that nothing sweeter than the vesper
hymns sung by Eloise had ever greeted his ear,
and that her expression while she sang was an
gelic. ‘I shall paint you as a Madonna when I
get to be an artist,’ cried the young student en
thusiastically. Mrs. Marchfield was more just
in her praise.
‘Your singing is very sweet my child,’ she said
‘but your voice needs training as you say, and I
think I know just the master you desire. Sig
nor Carlini is said to be the finest vocal teacher
in Italy. My sister, Countess Angelo, sent her
daughter to Carlini rather than to the masters
in Rome. He is not gruff and boorish like
many of the music masters either. He is
painstaking and courteous. He is enthusiastic
about his profession, and when he finds you are
gifted in that way, you will be his pet and favor
ite.’
‘Will you go with me to see him Madam ?’
‘Willingly, I will go to-morrow. We can make
Victor drive us. He has been wishing for some
thing to do.’
They went to the Signor’s studio next day,
waiting in the aDte-room while he finished giv
ing a lesson to a class of young girls and boys.
They found him tired and worried with his exer
tions when they were at last ushered into his
presence. He had an annoyed, heated look on
his face, and Eloise felt it was a wrong time to
impress him in her favor. But Mrs. Marchfield
explained her young companion’s situation with
much grace and feeling and the master turning
his keen, black eyes upon her with more atten
tion than before, was struck by her classic puri
ty of features, and addressing himself to her in
execrable English was agreeably surprised to be
answered in his own tongue, with an accent it
is true, but a very piquant and charming one.
‘Will you let me judge of your voice this even
ing Senora? ’ he asked.
•Certainly,’ Eloise answered. ‘I wish to begin
with my lessons at once. Time must not be lost
in my case. What shall I sing? ’ k friends, Count and Countess Angelo and the
niihs turned to tho great- pile r/V**»ic tb)f#*^frjsly Cf re. Adc*ratioD-<»llowsd her wh^reverf,
cumbered a desk and ta^le near tho(piano. She; she moved. She had several lovers, wbo laid
all, (and gave her mind to her art. Thoughts
would not be controlled, and Eloise passed many
a bitter hour.
While Countess Angelo was with her sister
Eloise took part through an invitation,obtained
for her by the professor,in an oratorio at a church
festival. She had seyeral times before sung in
public, on similar occasions, and was already
spoken of as •la belle cantafrice.’ This time she
sung a solo which excited the music-loving peo
ple to extacy. Even the sacredness of the church
could scarcely restrain their enthusiasm. A few
nights afterward the catastrophe Carlini had
predicted, came to pass. The prima donna en
gaged for the season, by the lessee of the opera
house,suddenly failed while singing at a rehear
sal of La Favorila, which was due in four days.
In the rendering of the final duet, her voice,
strained to its utmost, suddenly gave way, and
a rush of blood came from her lungs. The ver
dict of the physicians was, that perfect rest and
immunity from singing could alone restore her.
The opera had to be given up unless some one
could supply her place. Who would do this ?
In dispair the manager went to Professor Carl
ini, who said to him:
‘I have only one pupil who could fill the
place. She has studied this opera slightly; she
will be able to take the part; have no fear.’
He went straight to Eloise.
‘My child,’ he said, ‘I have done wrong. I
have promised that yon would take the part of
the prima who is ill. You can do so indeed,—it
will be a triumph for you, but it will be very
bad for your perfection as an artist. It will be
the occasion of your being drawn into public
life, and in the busy time that will follow, ii the
whirl of success and adulation, you will neglect
the patient study of your art.’
‘But clear Master, I cannot sing in that opera.’
‘You can; I have promised it. If you should
not succeed you will break my heart—but you
will succeed. Begin at oaoe to study the part;
then come to me to-night. To-morrow you will
have your first reheaisal. Then they will see I
know what I have promised.’
‘She thought too highly of her teacher to re
fuse. An hour from that time she began to
study the opera. The next afternoon at rehearsal
she astonished all present by her ability. Three
nights afterwards, in an opera house crowded
with the elite of critical Naples, she sang the
leading part of La Fauorita in a manner to bring
down applause from the coldest musical connois
seurs, while her beauty and grace threw the audi-
ince into raptures, It was as Carlini had pre
dicted. From that time she became the favorite
of Naples. Flowers and jewels were thrown
at her feet; the manager was delighted and offer
ed her an engagement for the season, in which
she would appear at Rome and in Venice. The
terms were liberal, and though Eloise regretted
giving up her regular studies under Carlini,
she accepted at once. For now, money was a
strong consideration. She had heard nothing
from Bertram nor received any remittances from
him. She wrote repeatedly; he was not dead,
for she had seen his name in a New York paper.
She became convinced of his perfidy. He had
induced her to come here that he might rid him
self of her forever. Her one hope now was, that
her noble gift of song would bring her money
enough to free her from all obligations to the
man who had blighted her life, and enable her {
to return independent to her native country,
and to resume a trust she had laid aside from
necessity, but which preyed more constantly on
her mind, sinoe she could no longer hear from
America. •
In Venice she had many friends among the
nobility, thanks to the generous regard of her
‘Madamoiselle, pardon, but I must tell you
that no one ever sings in these high regions with
out injury to their voice. Even much talking
is apt to produce hoarseness,’
‘Thank you,’ Eloise said, smiling. ‘I shall
only sing this one song. I find not the least
difficulty in singing.’
She began to sing again; her eyes sparkling,
her voice ringing out preter naturally clear.and
sweet and rich—a flood of melody that thrilled
her hearers. It was the last time that marvel
ous voice was to thrill and touch them. Sud
denly, while her voice trilled on an upper note,
she ceased to sing; her white throat still swell
ed with the effort, her lips were parted but no
sound came. Eloise’s voice had failed. She
turned deadly pale, as she made another vain
endeavor to sing. Was her voice really gone?
Sir Arthur Greville sprang to her side, but she
rallied, tears came to her relief, and she cover
ed her face with her hands as she sank into a
seat upon the rock. Her friends gathered around
her, trying to console her with the assurance
that her loss could only be temporary, that she
would recover her voice as soon as she was again
in the valley, or at least as soon as she had got
ten over the cold and hoarseness which existed
prior to her ascent of the mountain.
Alas! it was a vain hope. Eleise’s worst fore
bodings were realized, her splendid gift was
hers no more. The castles in the air she had
built upon that glorious possession faded into
the dark mist of despair. Her Spanish lover de
serted her shrine, when he found that the gift
which would have biought her a golden dower
was hers no longer. The fair-haired English
man was faithful, but Eloise would not listen to
his pleadings. Sometimes his dark-blue eyes
reminded her of a pair, true and tender that
had looked into hers as though they would read
her soul and pierce the mysterious barrier that
banned her from love and hope; but she was ob
durate and he left her at length, convinced
there was no love in her heart for him.
Misfortunes never come singly. Count Angelo
Eloise’s kind and noble protector, died soon
atter that fatal ascent of Mont Blance; the fa
tigue of which, initiated tho disease that caused
his death. His large fortune was so bound by
a will that if he died without male issue.it would
go to the Catholic Church. Grief at the loss of
her husband and knowledge that her beautiful
and delicately-nurtured daughter was left almost
penniless, preyed on the mind of the Countess;
she was reduced to a weak state that suffered
her easily to fall a prey to the malarial or ‘Ro
man fever.’ Poor desolate Clare determined to
enter a convent. She ever resolved to take the
black veil and become a recluse, withdrawing
herself utterly from the world. It was in vain
that Eloise sought to dissuade her. Society had
no charms for her. Beautiful and admired as
she was, her affections had long been weaned
from the world. The lover of her early youth
had fallen in battle, and since then,she had liv
ed only for her parents. She begged Eloise to
accompany her to the convent,and remain there
during her year of novitiate. After she took the
black veil she would not be permitted to have
any more intercourse with her friends of the
outside world, but until th6n she might enjoy
the comfort of her friend’s society,
Eloise had ceased to expect a letter from Amer
ica. She had received no remittances from Ber
tram since the first year of her stay in Italy,and
she had now been away from her native country
nearly three years.
She had thought repeatedly, since she had
lost her voice, about telling her history and re
lying on the kind hearts to accept her ‘just as
she was, without one ‘plea;’ or of joining per
manently the sisterhood of charity. She would
took a piece in her hand. ‘Not that,’ he said.
•You will find that too difficult. It is a fugue
of Bach’s.’
‘I think I can sing it,’ Eloise answered simply.
Holding the music in her hand, she began trem
ulously at first, but gathering confidence, she
sang with a clearness a compass and a melody
that evidently took the old master by surprise.
He said nothing but he placed another piece iu
her hands—a combination of his own—full of
trills and appoggiatura’s designed to test the
voice. She ran her eyes over it, struck the key
note on the piano and then sang it through.
Her voice as she gave the final trill rang so pure
and true, that the master involuntarily clapped
his hands.
,1 have not heard so pure a voice'since my most
promising pupil, Anna Alferidi—you knew her
"onora Marchfield—was lost to me through
marriage. You must never split on that rock,
my dear Miss Ennis. Your voice, in the upper
register is wonderfully true; let ns try the lower
notes. Run the scale for me if you please.’
Elcise did as she was requested and had the
satisfaction of seeing the professor delighted.
‘I shall have a pupil after my own heart in
you,’ he said. ‘Your voice is tclassio, none of
the vulgar rococo about it that is fashionable for
the moment. Come to-moirow at this hour for
a lesson, and practice constantly, my dear child.
You have some faults I shall point out to yoa,
and your voice is a little veiled, as it were, in
some of the notes. It needs practice to clear it.
Your method, too, is wrong in some respects.
But we shall set all this right in time. To sing
well one needs a life-time of study and prac
tice.
Eloise returned home with Mrs. Marshfield,
much encouraged. She knew the value of the
master’s commendation. Then began a severe
course of study and practice. Every day gave
her fresh insight into the science of music, ev
ery day disclosed new beauties and new difficul
ties. Her progress was something wonderful.
Her inborn love for music and her natural indus
try were stimulated by an ever-present purpose.
She spent many hours of every day and night
in practice. It was long before her teacher
would permit her to learn any opera, or similar
composition. He strengthened and perfected
her voice by the practice of exercises especially
designed for that purpose.
One night he took her to hear a prima donna
who sang in ll Trovatore. She listened with
profound interest. The lady who sang the part
of Leonora had a fine voice, but in parts calling
for sustained effort her voice seemed on the
point of failing; one could see it was strained to
the utmost.
‘Some day she will suddenly break down,’
said the maestro. ‘She will have hemorhage.’
With them at the opera was the young Clare
Angelo—the only daughter of Mrs. Marehfield’s
younger sister, whose beauty had won her a cor
onet. Clare had inherited her mother’s loveli
ness—a slender, willowy figure, warm auburn
hair, and a dazzling complexion. The Count
ess was visiting her sister and bad become great
ly interested in Eloise. Claire had also conceiv
ed a romantic attachment for the young Ameri
can girl. Another bond was their similarity of
faith. Both were Roman Catholics, and the
Countess was a believer in the same Church.
Eloise had now been a year in Naples. Study
had greatly trained and strengthened her voice.
She now sung the most difficult arias. Remit
tances had come regularly from Eugene, and
brief letters, in which he told her what he knew
of her friends in answer to her eager inquiries.
When the anniversary came, upon which Bhe
had almost determined to disclose the secret to
her brother, her courage failed her.
‘I cannot write it,’ she said to herself. ‘I will
wait till I return, a successful artist, worthy for
him to take pride in. Now I have nothing to off
set his anger, his jnst indignation. I will wait
till I have acquired that fame whiohwill oertain-
orown my efforts.’
she made no disclosure, remained dead to
their hearts and fortunes at her feet. What a
mockery this teamed to her! She who sang of
love so passionately on the stage, seemed cold as
marble in real life. Not a blush rose to her
cheek when words of love were whispered into
her ear by these dark-eyed, courtly Italians and
the stately, fair-haired English gentlemen, who
visited at the Count’s beautiful palace, and with
whom she often floated in gilded gondolas along
the watery streets of the City of the Sea.
When her engagement terminated in Venice,
the troup visited Florence and Genoa. Before
the close of the season, Eloise. who had hoarded
her earnings, had money sufficient for her pres
ent purpose, but she was completely worn down
and needed recreation. Count Angelo and his
family, on their way to Switzerland, called upon
her and induced her to join their party. Sir
Charles Greville, the young Englishman, who
had been so devoted to Eloise that he could not
see her indifference, wai also of the party, to
gether with a romantic-looking Spaniard, who
had followed the lair cantatrice wherever she
went. Clare’s infatuated admirer—a Russian
officer of mark, whom her parents wished her to
marry, joined them in Chamouni Valley. An as
cent ot Mount Blanc was arranged for the next
day. In the cool of the early dawn they started.
All but Eloise were in high spirits as they set
out. with their alpen-sticks and guide, and serv
ants with well-filled lunch baskets. Eloise had
not been well for several days. A cold had given
her hoarsness and a slight fever that burned in
either cheek aud shone glitteringly in her eyes.
She had never looked handsomer, and her two
lovers looked admiringly at her slender figure in
the short dress of the mountain tourist, display
ing her tiny, beautifully shaped feet and outlin
ing her lovely limbs. Clare too, was bewitching
in her climbing dress. With her golden curls
and dazzling fair oomplexion, she was a striking
contrast to the dark, brilliant Eloise.
The climbing began. On and on they went
over stone boulders, and leaping rocky clefts and
clutching fir branches as the ascent became more
difficult. Along narrow ledges of rock, on the
brink of frowning precipices, the guide led
them. At each stopping place the view widen
ed and became more sublime. At last, they
reached a broad ledge of rock shaded by a clump
of pines. Here, as they sank down to rest, the
guide said.
‘Travelers usually go no farther than here.
At least, this is the customary stopping place of
ladies. The rest of the way is far steeper and
more difficult.’
‘Pray let us go no farther then,’ said the old
1 count, who had dropped into his seat, panting
and half exhausted. How far have we gone?’
‘Three miles and something over.
‘And we have the same distance before us on
our return. My dears, at my time of life, I
must say of this mountain climbing, that the
game is not worth the candle.’
‘I am sorry we did not dissuade you from
coming,’ the Countess said with affectionate
concern, while Clare stood by and fanned him
gently.
‘I ordered the mules brought to the half way
house,’ said the guide.
‘Ah!' returned the Count, with evident re
lief, ‘that is good news. We will restand refresh
ourselves here. You have brought the sherry
I see. Come my pet’ to Eloise. ‘I will give
you a toast and you shall thank me with a song.
Here’s to the future Maiibran—the fair star of
the west, just rising above the horizon of fame.
Now will yon sing me the Vale of Chamouni?
This grand view will inspire you.’
The view was indeed inspiring. Far, far
below the mighty pile of rock and precipice and
jutting ledge lay the green vale of Chamouni
with, itB picturesque hamlets and pretty cha
lets and grazing herds, all diminished by dis
tance to miniature proportions. Eloise’s dark
eyes kindled as she looked, and she sang with
enthusiasm a few lines of the Vale of Chamouni.
She was stopped by the guide, who respectfully
touching her sleeve with his fingers, said :
•have- boeeask-o ’t.'iee—^vitb Cia-rejV-bas-sesiew'
thing in her pafi| forbade it. A confession sh9
must make wouid bar her from the holy vows.
Then she still felt that life had duties for her,
and that her own land held a sacred trust, she
could not forget.
»«••••
The time drew near when the two must part
forever. The year of novitiate had passed.
For a week Eloise had not seen Clare, she was
busy preparing to assume the responsibility of
renouncing the world,and had much to arrange.
About twelve o’clock the last night of Clare's
period of fasting and prayer, Eloise heard a tap
at her domitory, knowing it was the knock of
a sister answered instantly. She told Eloise to
go quickly to Clare, as this would be her last
conversation with her. Eloise hastily threw
something over her shoulders and sped like a
frightened deer down the long hall to Clare’s
cell.
Eloise turned silently the bolt and entered,
shivered at the sight of the pale, slender nun
in her long black robe and white veil. Giving
her a ghastly look, Eloise almost stepped upon
the beads of jet with the cross attached. As she
entered, Clare was kneeling upon the bare floor.
Eloise could not speak, but gathered the frag
ile, trembling form of the sister in her arms and
wept silently.
‘Eloise, young English friend, do not weep
for me. 1 am quietly happy; there is a sweet
feeling of rest and peace,a sense of duty fufilled.
I will seem nearer my lost ones by renouncing
the world and becoming a holy sister. Ah, El
oise, think of it. At sunrise I will be prepar
ing to become a bride of the Church.’
They talked of joys past, each loving word
was recalled, and then a long, sad farewell was
spoken. Eloise thought it best to leave Clare
a few hours alone. She knew she must nerve
herself for the trial on the morrow. She must
leave the Convent, although Clare had begged
the Sisters to allow her to stay if she desired.
But there was no longer any tie for her here
and she determined to leave the Convent, only
waiting to see the young novitiate become a re
cluse. Eloise did not close her eyes, but wept
upon her low couch.
The next day was cloudless and rich in gold
en sunbeams. At an early hout the vast cliapel
connected with tho oonvent was darkened and
lighted with myriads of wax tapers, thousands
burned upon the altar which was decorated
with white flowers.
Silver censors swung by white-robed acolytes
before the altar filled the building with a subtle
perfume from the mosaic floor of blue and white
to the fretted roof above. The dark robed Sis
ters and nuns stood on one side motionless as
statues. Yet there arose from their midst a sol
emn chant of plaintive sweetness. Eloise was
one of that audience assembled composed of
the grandees of Rome and Venice, and all who
could obtain admittance. Eloise knelt before a
crucifix near where Clare would enter—holding
her breath—praying for her friend. Saddenly
the tapers were almost extinguished until a sol
emn light filled the Chapel and one sweet tremb
ling voice was heard sobbing as Clare entered
upon the arm of the Mother Superior, followed
by many bishops, priests and laymen of the
Church. On a raised platform, glittering with
cloth of gold, sat the Pope in his superb robes,
and on either hand, bnt seated lower down, was
a cardinal in his splendid vestments. Eloise
reached forth her hand as though to detain Clare
—but on she walked until at the altar; kneeling
before the mitred Pope and gorgeous cardinals.
Clare was well known in Rome—and many Ve
netians also were present and the man who
thought the beautiful rose ‘with soarcely a leaf as
y.et unfolded’ should have been his bride—watch
ed her with cold eyes and with every muscle of
his face looked into rigidity. It was the last
time she would be seen by the world—and a
costly attire suiting her former wealth had been
selected and according to her own suggestion.
A long trailing robe of lnstrons white satin, a
tight, close-fitting boddice, with flowing sleeves;
her own fingers had embroidered the lilies of
the Valley, and the long, slender leaves with
silver thread mingled with gold.
A handsome belt embroidered with the many
devices of the Church and studded with jewels,
encircled her waist. A long gossamer veil of
white fell from a wreath of orange blossoms. A
gauzy scarf, Eloise had embroidered, fastened
on one shoulder with a cluster of orange flow
ers and diamonds, fell far back with splendid
effect; her hair of glossy auburn was parted
and thrown back, under a bandeau of pearls
strung on golden thread. The Abbess left her
at the Pope’s feet. They removed the veil and
cut her hair close to her head.
She knelt—a dark robe enveloped her. A
faint sickness came over, when she heard the
clash of the scissors through the bright locks
her father and mother had so prized. The next
moment a black velvet pall was thrown over her.
She sank on the floor. A low cry came from
the rear of the church. In a loud, distinct
voice came the words:
‘Dead to the world and dead to yourself;
henceforth you are the bride of the church and
dedicated sacredly to God.’
The vast concourse of spectators were silent
with awe. Through the whole building surged
the triumphant music, amid which Clare was
borne, almost fainting away.
The crowd were leaving; only Eloise was left
still kneeling before the crucifix as pale as Clare.
No one noticed the woman so affected or if
they did they thought she was doing penance.
Eloise bade adieu to those sacred walls that
for so long had sheltered her like the wings of
mercy.
Her fingers closed tightly over the tress of
hair Clare had given her the last night in the
cells. '
She obtained some light sewing, tried to eke
out a bare subsistence, day and night she work
ed, scarcely heeding the leaden hours.
One day as she was returning from carrying
home herwork.her madonna face caught the eyes
of a young artist and leaving the loiterers with
whom he was conversing crossed to meet her.
As he drew nearer, he uttered an exclamation
of delighted surprise, and Eloise saw that it was
Julius Marchfield, the young artist. He had
not seen her since she went upon the stage; and
at first sight he had not recognized her.
‘But,’he said, ‘I thought instantly. There
is the faoe that I need as a model for my pic
ture. Do you remember you promised to sit
for me when I became an artist ?’
He then told her as they walked toward a cool
garden that his mother had written him of Miss
Ennis being with Clare in the City of Rome.
He knew it was vain to seek admittance at the
Convent, and he had feared he would not meet
Eloise again. They seated themselves and talk
ed of all that had passed since they were last
together in Mrs. Marchfield’s pleasant home.
She accepted his offer to sit for his painting of
the Madonna.
Day after day, she would leave her attic and
with a woman come to his studio until disease
laid its hand upon her. Had it not been then for
Victor Marchfield’s kindness to her she must
have died, during her long weeks of helpless
ness. Then came long, kind letters from Mrs.
Marchfield begging her to come and spend her
days of convalescence with them.
Eloise did not know what to do. Not a word
from Eugene. Her illness, loss of voice and
other trials had left many palpable footprints
upon her still lovely face.
The painting was finished, and Eloise could
not but acknowledge it was the most expressive
Madonna face she had ever seen.
She went back to Naples. As she met her
many friends, tears filled her eyes, p ad her
'master'vPas deeply affected whem he looked into*
her pale face.
Her voice was the subject of much comment.
‘My dear pupil, he said, smoothing her dark
locks with his long, taper fingers, ‘the good God
only knows how deeply I grieved over your loss.
That splendid voice ! It was my pride. I have
received compliments from the highest sources
as the trainer of that voice. But really I did
little. It was a gift of Nature.’
‘Will I never recover it, do you think, mas
ter?’ Eloise asked with pathetic eagerness in her
tone.
‘It may be. It may come back as suddenly
as it went. Let us hope. Your health is not
gooh my child. Some anxiety preys upon you.
Perhaps it is the fear of poverty! If that be so,
I can help you a little. I can get you some mu
sic pupils on my recommendation, will you like
to have them?’
She thanked him warmly. She was glad of
any assistance, for she had almost reaohed the
bottom of her slender purse, and she wanted
money to pay her passage back to America. She
taught for six months, saving up every cent of
her earnings for Mrs. Marchfield would accept
no pay for her board. She had at last the sum
requisite and a little more. She then prepared
to return. She who had hoped to go back with
thousands that she might cancel her money ob
ligations to Bertram—obligations which made
her blush with shame whenever she remember
ed them; and resume the sacred trust, she had
been forced to desert. Oh! how utterly her
hopes were orushed, how all her plans were de
feated by fate!
She was going home—home—she had no
home unless like the Patriots she could call the
laud of her birth her home and Columbia her
foster mother.
How thoroughly now had she learned the bit
ter lessons of perfidy and deceit.
She returned with her voice gone, sick of life,
no friends, no money. She only craved a glimpse
of all what was once dear to her, she crossed
again the ocean, stood upon the shores of her
native land.
Her sw^et face was thin and marble white,
her dark eyes dim with tears; still she was beau
tiful. More than once she had been tempted to
better her condition. She might have been
even a countess and dwelt in the seven hilled
City of Rome. \et one tie back in her native
land saved her from perjury at the altar.
[xo bf. continued. ]
Cherry’s Picture.
BT STEPHEN BBENT.
‘I can paint a picture,’ said Cherry.
* Ton really think so ?’ queried her brother
Joe.
‘I know it.’
‘I always make it a point to believe whatever
people tell me,’ remarked Joe, ‘but when you
say, you can paint a picture, then I am forced
to doubt your word.’
‘Besides, you know nothing about pictures,’
said Judith, the elder sister. ‘You never saw a
dozen good ones in your life.’
‘Don’t be foolish, Cherry,’ said her father, re
provingly. ‘You never will be smart enough to
do anything useful.’
Cherry sighed.
‘I know no one ever expects anything of me.’
It was a fact. No one ever expected anything
of Cherry Olmstead. She was a blank in the
busy world. Her vagaries were reproved, or
laughed at in her practical country home. The
family treating her as a mild lunatio, and Cher
ry herself began to think she must be the fooL
of the family. It was only at times, she would
speak of her passionate love of art and her firm
belief that she coaid paint a picture.
She was tall and flight, with rippling dnn
brown hair, violet Shadowed gray eyes, like
pools of liquid light, and a hint of intellectual
power in the broad, well-shaped brow.
‘A girl that would develop into a noble wo
man if properly appreciated.'
That was what Allan Torrence said to himself
after he had been boarding at the Olmstead’s a
week. Mr. Torrence was eight and twenty. A
true patrioian by birth and breeding, and pos
sessing a kindly grace, and nobleness, that was
truly the best of all.
There was nothing about the country girl that
shocked his fastidious tase. She was like some
dainty, wild flower, looking with shy eyes out
on the world.
One morning, Cherry was down in the orch
ard drawing. She was so absorbed in her work,
she did not know any one was near, until a
pleasant voice said:
‘A very good likeness, Miss Cherry. Who
taught you to draw so well ?'
Cherry gave a little startled cry, and tried to
hide her drawing, but a firm hand drew it from
her grasp and Allan Torrence examined a sketch
of his own face with eritical calmness.
‘It is extremely well done,’ he said at last,
■and again I ask, who taught you to draw so
well ?'
Cherry’s cheeks were flushed with shame and
vexation.
‘ I took a few lessons in drawing two years
ago.’
‘You are a real artist.’
A sudden light broke over the girl’s soul, like
a rift of sunshine. The lovely gray eyes filled
with radiance.
‘Do you think I could paint a picture ?’
Mr. Torrence looked down into the eager,
young face and smiled.
‘Yes, I think you could. Have you ever tried?’
‘No, not anything worthy of a passing glance.’
‘Well, I want you to paint one this summer.
You are no genius child, but you have that
which is sometimes better; you have great tal
ent.’
There was a new beauty in Cherry’s face after
that—the beauty of hope. These few kindly
words had broken the bands that held her soul
and set it free.
So Cherry turned her room into a studio. No
one was to see the picture until it was finished -
Joe and Judith laughed at her and her mother
denominated the whole thing as ‘a pack of non
sense, and she did wish Mr. Torrence would let
the child alone, and not be putting such ideas
into her head; she was foolish enough as it was.’
The long summer days passed, and a new
trouble came to the Olmsteads. Years before,
Mr. Olmstead had borrowed a large sum ofmod-
ey. The debt had always hung over him like a
black shadow, and now he was unable to pay
the interest. Mr. Torrence offered him the
money, but he refused.
‘No, that would be only a new debt. If I had
the money of my own, I would gladly pay the
interest; but I can’t do it, and the old place
will have to go,’ and the farmer sighed heavily
as he thought of leaving the home to which he
had brought his bride.
One evening as Torrence lay on the grass smok
ing, Cherry came to him and said her picture was
finished. ‘I want you to see it first and pro-
rounce judgment on it,’ she said looking very
pale. Allan took the trembling hands in his
strong tender clasp, and said:
‘Don’t look so white child; I will not be a
hard critic.’
‘But I want you to be hard, justly hard,’ she
answered bravely.
The sunset light from the western skies fell
through the open window and across the easel.
The picture was ‘A Scene in the Autumn
Woods.’ Vistas of forest aisles streched away,
until lost in soft purpla shadows; a rain of
brown, and crimson leaves covered the ground,
! and a few still floated in the hazy air. A ereepbr
flung its dark green leaves and bells of crimson
fire around the dark trunk of an old oak.
Through the trees there was a glimpse of a wide
lake lying level and calm in the dim, veiled
light of the sun.
It was not a grand picture; but that it was
beautiful could not be denied. The mellow
autumn tints were blended together with won
derful delicacy and the air of stillness and
peace gave one a sense of rest.
For a time, dead silence reigned in the small
room, then Mr. Torrence turned to the waiting
girl and said:
‘Your picture is a success, Cherry. It is as
nearly perfect as a picture can be. Child, you
have found your talent.’
Cherry’s eyes brimmed over with happy tears.
The family looked, rubbed their eyes, and
looked again in wondering admiration.
‘Who would a thought it?’ said her father and
mother.
•We were mistaken after all Cherry,’ said Joe
with a laugh, ‘and instead of being a lunatic,
you are the brightest one in the family.
Mr. Torrence bought Cherry’s picture, paying
her two hundred dollars for it, and with a feel
ing of pride, such as she had never felt before,
Cherry gave it to her father.
‘It will pay off the interest on that bill wont
it ? ’ she asked eagerly.
‘Yes,’ and then drawing his youngest daugh
ter close to him Mr. Olmstead tremblingly said:
‘You must forgive us dear for always think
ing you were the fool; we were such clods our
selves, we had to wait for a stranger to find out
what a jewel we had.’
Cherry laughed, and kissed tho rough sun
burned cheek.
‘Never mind papa, let the past go. I am just
as happy as I can be now.’
Mr. Torrenoe was going back to the city, and
in her heart, Cherry took back the words about
being so happy. She had commenced another
picture, but all her fine enthusiasm was gone.
One evening she went out to the small bridge
lying across a large creek, to watch the sun set;
but there was no pleasure for her in the fine
coloring of earth and sky.
‘I do wonder if I am crazy ? ’
‘Why no, I thought we had proved that
false,' and Allan Torrence stood looking at her.
Waves of color crept up over the fair girl-face,
and the clear earnest eyes fell beneath his keen,
searching glance.
‘I am going home in a few days Cherry.’
‘Yes I know it.’
‘How proud you are my darling ! you will not
let me see one particle of your heart.’
‘I don’t know why you should want to see it
Mr. Torrence,’ lifting her head.
He took the small sweet face between his
hands, and said:
‘Because I want it all for my own. Can it be
so Cherry, or not?’ and Cherry found out she
was not crazy, but in love.
‘I—I don’t know,’ she stammered confusedly;
but Mr. Torrence seemed satisfied, for he took
her in his arms and kissed the innocent lips
tenderly.
*•*••••
Mrs Torrence is now really a good artist, and
she receives plenty of praise and appreciation.
‘And it all comes of your boarding at our
house that summer,’ she says to her husband,
and Allan, man-like, is pleased at the compli
ment.
Exhibiting a Dead Mubdebsr. —Pittsfield,
Mass., Ahg. 17.—After the body of John Teneyok
reached Chester it was exhibited for several
hoars in the freight-house of the Boston and Al
bany Railroad, at ten cents admission fee. The
reoeipts amounted to 15$. Two oolored men,
one of them the father-in-law of the deoeased,
had the body in charge. They said they were
forced to exhibit it by the clamors of the crowd.
Sheriff Kellog went to Chester to stop the exhi
bition, but arrived too late, the party *
atarted for Blandford.