People And Patriot

THE ORIGINAL.
BY F. W. R.

The rays of the fast disappearing sun fell slantingly through the high windows of the art gallery, and rested lovingly upon one of its choicest paintings. Could old Sol have had an affection for the beautiful face and lingered to bid it good night? It was only the portrait of a woman, a woman in her early womanhood, and many might have given it but a passing glance; but there were those who knew its value. Artists and lovers of art came to see it and admire it, because it was the work of one of the most noted painters of the day. They praised the execution, the coloring, the pose, and all the minute details, which escape the eye of the uninitiated, and finally asked who had sat for it, as an afterthought.

But this afternoon the gallery was almost deserted. It had but one occupant. On the opposite side of the hall from the portrait, stood a young man, hardly more than a boy, his hands clasped behind him, his head thrown back, and his dark eyes gazing steadily at the woman's face before him. An observer would have expected to see him pass on to some other picture, but casting his eyes around and finding himself alone, he resumed his former attitude. He seemed to be watching for something. His face wore an expectant and waiting look, as though he was asking for her to answer his questioning eyes with her softly parted lips, and in truth she looked as though she was about to speak.

The artist had caught that expression almost impossible to represent, that one takes just before the words issue from the lips.

He moved neither eye nor muscle as the minutes passed on, but held his position of loving, waiting, fearing expectancy. The golden glow passed from the bands of shining hair, over the beautiful face and vanished. A darkness filled the room; something seemed to have left it; the portrait, looking down into the eyes of the man, changed its expression, and a shade of sadness fell on the brow, and the gazer shivered, and with a last lingering look, turned reluctantly away, and with lowered head, walked slowly from the building.

This was no artist. He visited the famous gallery from no love of art or muses. This was the second time he had entered its doors; he wore no velvet jacket and his hair did fall in luxuriant curls on his shoulders. His clothes, though neat and clean, were ready to fall to pieces, and bore testimony to the poverty of the wearer; his form was thin and his face pale and meagre, but his eyes held his soul. They were deep and dark, and told of heart, a strong, loving and noble, and a will, firm and unyielding.

His slow steps at last led him to a distant quarter of the city, and he passed in at the door of a tumble down old building, and up three flights of stairs to a corner under the eaves. It was nothing more than a corner, a little hole partitioned off from the rest of the garret, just large enough to hold an iron bedstead and a bureau and a chair, and this was all the room contained, no stove, no pictures, no comfort, barely the rudest necessaries of life.

Shutting the door behind him he threw himself upon the only chair, with a sigh that seemed to come from the very bottom of his heart.

"Oh! it was hard to leave her," he mourned to himself "and I can't go again until day after tomorrow. That will be Sunday and I can have the whole day," and a smile lit up his face, that made it sweet and good to look upon.

If we pick up a book lying upon the bureau we shall find his name written in a firm hand upon the fly leaf Norton Hasbrook, New York City.

His story is briefly this. His mother dying when he was a small child had left him to the care of his father, who was a cashier in one of the principal banks. He had been brought up in comparative luxury and received a college education; but just as he was about to begin the study of a profession his father had turned out a defaulter, and fled to Canada. Crushed by the shame, the young man, who was the soul of honor, himself, could not hold up his head among his former associates, and leaving all his father's and his own property in the hands of the bank, to make good as far as possible the former's theft, he went to Boston, penniless, friendless, heart broken. He was so overcome he cared for nothing. He was dead to ambition, and was satisfied, when, after long search, he found a position as clerk in a large store. His wages, hardly sufficed to pay for shelter and lodging. He felt that his father's shame was his; he bore a "scarlet letter" on his breast. It was a sad inheritance with which to begin life, especially to one of his over-sensitive nature.

A year had passed thus, and he had gone his quiet, unobtrusive way, seeking no friends, asking for no sympathy. His companions felt there was some mystery about him, something that kept him apart, and kindly let him alone.

One Sunday afternoon, the warm, sunny air created a longing to get away from the dismal, gloomy quarter in which he lived, and he wandered forth toward the wide avenues and parks of the better part of the city. Passing the art museum he noticed that the sign by the door said that on Sundays the museum was free to the public, so he entered, and strolled aimlessly through the halls filled with valuable paintings, and exquisite statuary. He had given a careless glance at many a noted work of art, and was about to go down the broad steps to the entrance, when his eye fell upon the portrait of a woman, and he became rooted to the spot—fascinated He was conscious of something that told him in some way, this face would have a connection with his future life; he knew vaguely that here was a turning-point in his life, and that he should never be just the same man that he had been.

It was a glimpse into the future that once in a great while is permitted to man.

He did not ask himself whether it was a portrait, or an ideal face. He simply felt that here was a face that to him was the personification of all that was good. true and beautiful. He knew if such a person lived, she would have a grand and noble soul. and when at last he reluctantly left the hall, it was with a firm determination to sometime own the picture. In fact, he already felt a kind of ownership in it, and was rather indignant when others stopped to gaze at it.

The next morning he startled his employer by asking for an increase in his wages, which, after some debate, was granted, as he was so trustworthy and efficient. From this day he lived the life of a miser, stinting himself in every way, and barely allowing himself enough to eat. But when he returned from the gallery on Sundays and counted his little savings, he felt repaid, only it was so slow, and it seemed so long to wait.

The Thursday following the first Sunday was a holiday, and he spent it all before "his picture," as he now called it. He loved it, and to him it was a living, breathing being. In his imagination he communed with her, told her his noblest thoughts. his high aspirations, and forgot, for the time, his disgrace.

Time passed on. and so constant was he in his devotion that people began to know him. and to remark him. for on certain days he was always to be seen at his post.

The fact came to the notice of the artist, who painted the picture, and he, in turn, conveyed it to the ear of the original, as a delicate compliment to his skill and her beauty.

Miss Louise Stockton was certainly beautiful. and her portrait did not flatter her. She had allowed it to be painted at the request of her friends, and it had been such a signal success from an artistic point of view that the artist was permitted to hang it in the art museum.

Miss Stockton. besides being remarkably beautiful, was an orphan with a large fortune and of one of the best families. Judge yourself whether men offered their hands and hearts; but these very facts rendered her deaf to all offers. She had a perfect horror of being sought for her money and longed for a heart that she could trust and believe in, one upon which she could lay the whole length and breadth of her love with no fear of its tiring of the sweet burden.

So she had rather shunned men and devoted her time to deeds of charity, and her unostentatious generosity was blessed by many a fireside. But when the artist told her of the strange young man, she felt an instant desire, which was not curiosity, to see him, but she did not wish to be seen; this was arranged by the painter, who gained permission for her to use an unoccupied room leading off the main hall, and in full view of her picture. A portiere hung at the entrance to this room, and the following Sunday she took up her station behind it, so that she could see without being seen.

She had not been long in her position when she saw a man enter, whom she at once recognized, from his description, to be the one for whom she was waiting. He advanced straight up the hall and took up his accustomed place, and his face beamed with a new light as his eyes wandered over the familiar features.

Her heart beat strongly and quickly as she watched him, and a great wave of tenderness and pity overcame her as she looked at his noble head and truthful eyes and his worn and tattered clothes. A beautiful picture in a miserable frame.

She longed to rush out to him, to say to him: "Here is the original, is it as worthy being loved as the counterfeit? If so love the original;" but her heart misgave her, as she thought if he ever saw her he might recoil. as from a broken illusion. She knew she must fall far short of the ideal he worshipped. But again, and again the thought came to her, how priceless such love would be.

Tears blinded her eyes and she escaped by a private entrance.

Shortly after this the artist who painted the portrait was surprised one day by receiving a visit from Norton Hasbrook at his studio. He entered quietly, and after asking if he was the one who painted the portrait No. 98, in the art museum, said with a shade of anxiety in his voice :

"Is it for sale?"

The artist answered that it was not.

A deep shadow settled upon the pale features, and he said with a sigh:

"I feared as much, and yet I will give all I have in the world for it. Would no sum tempt you?"

"Well, if any one should offer me a thousand dollars I should not feel that I could afford to keep it."

"One thousand dollars!" repeated the young man sadly, "and I have but two hundred in the world !" But suddenly becoming more hopeful. he said:

"Will you hold it for me? I can earn it. It will take some time," he said, wearily, "but if you only would!"

Much flattered by such a delicate compliment, the artist agreed to hold it for him until he could save a thousand dollars, not thinking he would ever come for it, and Norton went away with his feeling of ownership stronger than ever.

When Miss Stockton next saw the artist, and was informed of the circumstance, she went to her room and shut herself up with her thoughts for hours.

Such self sacrifice! such endurance of abject poverty and privation ! and for what?" Simply to possess her portrait. And he had never even seen her, nor knew she lived. It touched her to the heart. She resolved that if the possession of the portrait could make him any happier, he should wait no longer, and, sending for the painter, she presented him with her check for $1000, and directed him to have it placed in Norton's miserable little garret while he was away at work.

It was done, though it nearly filled the whole side of the room, and looked strangely out of place. Peculiar quarters in which to find one of the most noted works of the day, by one of the most successful artists.

It was dark and cold when Norton left the store that day. The snow was falling, and the chilling wind swept through his poor clothes as though they had been tissue paper. He wore no overcoat, because he would not spare the money to buy it. Feeling his way up the rickety stairs, he entered the dark, cheerless room, and lying down on the little iron bed, and covering himself with the blanket to keep warm, he pulled from his pocket two crackers and a piece of cheese. which he had bought on his way home, and ate his miserable supper. It was so dark he could hardly see across the room. but his eye caught the gleam of something golden on the opposite wall, and wondering what it was, he got up and lighted his candle. When the feeble flame flickered up, and shone upon "his picture" he stood transfixed with wonder. He thought it must be a freak of his imagination, and he walked over and touched the beautiful face, and then, overcome by his emotions, he kissed it again and again. He did not stop to ask himself how it came there; he only knew he had realized his dreams. and the picture was his. The garret was no longer cold and cheerless. There was a warmth and light shining from her eyes which made of the cold, "dead walls a paradise which he would not have exchanged for the handsomest residence. No more solitude, no more longing for Sunday to come that he might go to the art gallery. no more pinching penury in order to get money for the picture. It was there, it was his; but then his heart misgave him as he thought of his tiresome living in such miserable quarters, and subject to fire and ruin; and he resolved to have a better room for the sake of his portrait.

Afterward, in thinking it over, he came to the conclusion that the artist, taking pity on him, had sent the picture in advance of the payment and accordingly went to him next day, and offered him all the money he had saved, saying he would pay the rest as fast as he could earn it; but to his great surprise, the artist refused the money, told him the picture was his, and all paid for, but he was deaf to all entreaties in regard to the name of the giver, as he had been instructed to be. and poor Norton went away in more of a maze than ever.

Who could his unknown benefactor be?At any rate he was profoundly grateful.

Miss Stockton now missed his visits to the gallery, where she had often gone, and concealed by the friendly portiere, watched his intent face.. She knew now that she loved him with all her heart. At first she felt an intense pity for him, and that was the first step, then his great love for the portrait, and thus in a measure for herself, fanned the flame, for love begets love. She thought she understood him and appreciated him at his real worth: saw through the tattered husk and perceived the sweet kernel within. She knew that his was a noble soul, above a thirst for money, and only to be won by a love equalling his own.

In her solicitude for him, she thought of going to his room in his absence. in order to see with her own eyes how he lived, and if possible to arrange for some betterment in his condition. She hesitated for a long time. but finally decided to go, thinking she might be able to do him much good. She wore a plain, simple dress, and finding the house, she enquired for the landlady, who turned out to be a rough but kindly woman. Miss Stockton told her that she took an interest in the young man who occupied her attic, and wished to help him, as she understood he was very poor.

.Poor!" said the woman," why he has nothing! He never eats anything except what he buys now and then at the bake shop, and he has had no clothes for nearly a year and a half. It fairly makes my heart ache, sometimes. and he such a kind, good gentleman! I sometimes think he is a little wrong in his head. Just come up here and see for yourself how he lives," and she led the way up the dark stairs to the poor little chamber under the eaves. As they were entering, the landlady was called from below. and telling Miss Stockton to go in and see for herself, she hurried down.

Louise opened the door, and recoiled before the dreariness of it all. She had expected to find a poor room, but the cramped, cheerless and drear aspect of this one was something she had never seen before, and then on the opposite wall, seeming to mock at the surrounding poverty, was her own picture. The contrast was startling. and overcome by her feelings, she sat down in the one chair, and wept tears of pitying love.

She was so engrossed with her thoughts that she did not hear a step on the stair, and was only aroused by an exclamation of wonder. She started to her feet. and saw the one of whom she was thinking standing in the doorway, his tender eyes fixed upon her, filled with love and surprise. He looked first at the picture and then at her, and suddenly with a great sob he fell on his knees before her, and buried his face in his hands. She laid her hands softly upon his head, and smoothed back the brown locks from his white brow, and her tears mingled with his. They needed no further introduction.

For some moments there was silence between these two, who had never met before, and yet it seemed to them as though they had been seeking for each other for years. Then, suddenly raising his head, he exclaimed:

"You sent me the picture!"

"Yes," she replied, softly.

"Then you are mine, he cried exultingly.

And she simply answered, "yes," again.