ON THE MORROW. Did you know they say her waving, golden hair Half is blighted by a sorrow's early frost And all lost Is the maiden flush of beauty in the face, Vanished, like her youthful faltering dimple's sweet Do the wrinkles in the face o'ercast with care Linger there And grow deeper, and the smile-as some have said- And they say I shall not know the mournful eyes How their loveliness faded years ago -Well, I know. When I meet her when the waiting all is past, Gone at last, And the fond heart with its throbbing, pause and pain I shall long to find her changed, to see the trace Of the suffering and the shadow of the grief And the moving lips that quiver and grow dumb And if Time has harshly touched the color weak Plucked the rose and left the pure white lily there, In the deep, deep eyes of blue, I am content Nor lament: Naught can change them; ah, I see them smiling now Knees to pray, and feel those clear depths, as I kneel, Chauncey Wetmore Wells. THE NEW COUNTESS DE VERNEY. "Do you notice anything peculiar in the conception of that picture," asked my friend, pointing to the portrait of an extremely beautiful woman. We had been walking through the halls of one of the most picturesque chateaux of Normandy, and examining the many interesting curiosities and paintings which decorated the walls. From discussing these mementoes of almost every country, our conversation had naturally drifted to the man who had collected them. He had been very extravagant in his youth, the old servant told us, but as to his life now he knew nothing. The Count de Verney seldom remained at home, and was now away on his wedding journey. After learning so much of our absent host, we had been left to wander through the vast maze of rooms by ourselves and so happened on the picture in question. It was the portrait of a young woman, richly dressed in a wedding gown. And yet there was something in her eyes that told you she was not a bride, and made you wonder what it was she represented. The heavy drooping eyelids were those of one in sorrow, they could not mean joy or happiness. And why should a bride be in tears, and what denoted the look of pain that the artist had so truly expressed? There was some mystery there that I could not understand, and I looked to my friend for explanation. "The portrait was exhibited in the Salon at Paris a year ago," he continued in reply, "and attracted much attention through its strange history. It was there that I saw it for the first time." "And what was its history?" I enquired with interest, trying still to harmonize the expression of those eyes with the white veil thrown so lightly over the shoulder. "It is rather a sad story," was the answer. "The artist was a poor man but possessing in his own opinion no inconsiderable talent for his art, he worked unceasingly, hoping against hope, until almost reduced to starvation. Finally he was assisted by a French nobleman, who took compassion on him rather as a man than as a painter. Introducing him among his family, he allowed the unfortunate artist to teach his daughter the art of the brush. For this generosity the teacher rewarded his patron by falling desperately in love with his pupil. The daughter, at first perhaps through pity and then through love, did not discourage his advances. Her father, however, had already betrothed her to a gentleman, selected by himself, although most repulsive to his daughter. Persuaded by her lover as the time approached for the unwelcome ceremony, the girl left home on the night that the wedding was to have taken place. In the hurry of her flight she had not even been able to change her bridal robes, and was thus appropriately attired for her marriage with the poor painter. "Outraged at such an unceremonious and improper union, the father, on his daughter's return, refused to grant his forgiveness. "But the unfortunate lovers were not able to care for themselves. The artist made no headway in his profession and sank gradually through want and despair, into a most feeble condition. His wife, brought up in luxury and accustomed to have everything done for her, could be of little help. She was only another for whom to provide. And it was for her that the poor man was chiefly anxious. He realized how miserable she would be when he was no longer there; he wondered who would give her even the poor support he thus far had struggled to obtain. In one of the attics of Paris, among the other unsuccessful artists and actors, they tried to get a living. The wife, although despairing of her husband's recovery, made an effort to keep him cheerful, and as far as possible to save him from despondency. She talked to him of a future success in his art, and taught him to ignore his present troubles. One day while looking over with him the contents of an old chest, some valued relics that had not been sold, they came upon the wedding dress in which she as a bride had first left home. Her husband asked her to put it on and renew the old associations of those days when they were so happy together, so hopeful for the future. At this she remonstrated; she could not bear to do it now! Those days were gone, and she, at least, knew that they could never be recalled. But persuaded at last by his entreaty, and fearing to anger him while in such a feeble condition, she unwillingly consented. The painter was strangely affected by her appearance. That sad face and the bridal gown came to him as a picture. She seemed the bride of death, sorrow clothed in the robes of joy. The idea struck him so forcibly that he felt an irresistible desire to paint it, to paint her, just as she was in that costume. His wife did her best to dissuade him; he was too weak and the effort would be dangerous! Her words were of no avail. He had never before felt so much the artist's impulse, and he could not resist. Besides, this was a last chance to provide for her. If the picture was a success, she would be independent, if a failure-it could be no worse than that! "Thus they sat through the weary hours of the day, the wife forced to see her husband's strength gradually giving out, while she was posing in a position of enjoyment as though triumphing over his misery. The artist on the other hand was accomplishing a work which might save his wife from need, perhaps might even make himself famous. Nothing could stay the ardor of his purpose. From the first light of the morning until sunset, until both were exhausted by the strain, he toiled on. The picture was at last finished and the artist died." "And this is the portrait?" I remarked, understanding now the look of pain so noticeable at the first glance. "It turned out to be a remarkably fine work," my friend continued, "and helped by the strange circumstances connected with it, created a great deal of interest. Finally it was bought at an enormous sum and probably by the Count de Verney." "And what became of the artist's wife?" I asked. "Did she recover from the effects of her husband's death?" "That I have not heard," was the answer. "Since the ast Salon I have not been in Paris. I imagine, however, she is still living, and probably on what was obtained for her own portrait." "How long has that picture been here?" I enquired, turning to the old servant who had just returned to see us out. "That! Oh, only a short time," was the reply. "That is the portrait of the New Countess de Verney." Roger S. Baldwin. WHISPER. Whisper, shy child of meditation, Who with faltering step scarce From the sheltering arms of Sister Silence dare advance, 'Tis thy sweet lot to nestle near the heart, And learn to lisp in accents, tender, soft, While yet thy tongue is but released from its mute infancy, William A. Moore. |