Democratic Sentinel, Volume 1, Number 47, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 January 1878 — TWO COBWEBS. [ARTICLE]

TWO COBWEBS.

An Old Man’s Talc. “There, I’ve found the place, Cobweb. ” “ You have, papa?” “I have.” “With admirably planned kitchen nnd flower gardens?” “ No,” said I, laughing. “ With an extensive view of the Surrey Hills?” Why, nuyono would think you were a house agent, Cobweb,” I said, smiling. “No wonder, papa, when I’ve been reading so many advertisements. But do tell me ; have you really fouud the place at last ?” “ Oh, J am, dear, dear, dear father !” she cried, seating herself on my knee, and nestiiug her head on my shoulder. “ There, hold up your head,” I said, “and look at mo. Now, tell me frankly. did you ever see such a weak, stupid old man in your life ?” “I like wenk, stupid old men,” she said, archly; and her eyes twinkled with merriment, and then softened with the tears that stole into them. “Yes,” I said, “hformee you cau tyrannize over them, and do what you plci’se with them nnd make them your slaves, like you do me. A pretty rig I’ve been running this last two months to find n place you like—just as if Byrauston square wouldn’t do. I tell you what, try lady, you’ll have to take pains to make mo comfortable down there, for I shall ho as dull as lend.” “ No, you will not, pa dear,” she said, laughing, and then laying her cheek to mine. “I am so, so glad. You’ve made me so happy, for I was very tired of London.” I did not answer, but sat looking down on the smooth, peachy cheek that one of my hands would keep stroking, and at the long, yellow hair that hung down over the shoulders iu waves, and, in spite ot myself, a s.gh escaped my lips. liuth—Cobweb, as I always called her, because she was sosoftand downy—started up, gazing earnestly in my face, and then kissed me very, very fondly. “Don’t think about the past, dear father, she said softly—she always called me father when she was serious. “ Can’t help it, child,” I said, mournfully ; and then, seeing the tears gather in In r eyes, I tried to he cheerful, and smiled as I added, “I have the future as well ns the past to make me sad, mv dear.” She looked at me wonderingly, but did not speak, and I sat there holding her little hand to my heart as I thought of the past, and how, ten years before, j |, -t as business was beginning to prosp r with me, I was left alone with the little fair-haired girl of 8, who found it so hard to believe that her mother had been taken away never to return, only to live in our memories. And I thought, too, of hcfw the years had tied away, and I had become a wealthy man, whose sole thought had been of the child I had seen grow up to maidenhood, making a very idol of her, yielding to her every whim, and doing the most I could to spoil one who never would be spoiled. For, with all the accomplishments I had lavished upon her, liuth had grown up to be a notable little housewife, who disgusted our cooks by insisting upon going down into the kitchen and making my favorite puddings and tnrts with her own hands, and generally behaving in what servants called an unladylike way. And then I thought of my other sorrow the future—and pictured with an agony I cannot describe the day when 1 should have to resign my claims to another, and be left alone—a desolate, broken old man. I am naturally a very common, hard and business-like old man, and terribly selfish. Cobweb had woven herself so round my heart that in my peevish, irritable way, I never was happy when home from the city without she was waiting on me—filling my pipe, mixing my one nightly glass of grog, upon which the butler irowued—iu fact, he had suggested to me that his late master had always taken port of an evening. Cobweb was very quiet as she glided down from my knee to her hassock at my feet, nnd was evidently thinking as much as I; and at last I brightened up, for a thought had oome to me with a selfish kind of comfort. “ Bhe’li be quite away from all temptations to leave me, there, anyhow,” I said to myself as I thought of the “athomes ’ and balls to which she was so often receiving invitations. ** me talking—fishing, as I called it in my great cunning—to see if here was one of the rocks ahead of which I was in dread. How shall you be able to leave all friends —parties—and setouts?” I said. “ OH, I’m tired of them all !” she said clapping her hands. “ And gay cavaliers, with dandy airs and mustaches, and programmes.” “Ha, ha, ha!” she laughed merrily; and then, as it seemed to me in my jealous watchfulness, turning the subject, she began to talk about I lie country - plaoe I had taken. A fortnight later and we were settled down; and really, with all my London notions, I began to find the calm and repose of the country delicious. Cobweb was delighted, and constantly dragging me somewhere or another into the grounds of the pretty old place, where she arranged garden seats in the snuggest, shadiest spots for my especial behoof. As I have said, there was a wilderness of a wood adjoining the garden, which the former possessor had left in ft state

of nature, saving that he had had the old footpaths and tracks widened in their old winding ways, carefully turfed and dotted with a chair here and there. This wasfCobweb’s favorite place, and, if I missed her out in the garden, I knew I should find her here, with the sun raising a shower of golden beams through the network of leaves overhead, to dance and flash among the waving tresses of her long, golden hair. One day I found her leaning on a dead bough which crossed an opening in the wood, where all seemed of a delicate twilight green. She was listening intently to the song of a bird overhead, and, as I stopped shoit, gazing at the picture before me, I said to myself with a sigh: “All that’s bright must fade! My darling, I wish I had your likeness as yon stand. Time flies,” I muttered, “and the winter comes at last, with bare trees to the wood—gray hairs and wrinkles to the old.” She caught sight of me directly, and the scene was changed, for I was listening the next moment to her merry, happy voice. ‘ A day or two later I was in the city, where I always went twice a week—for 1 could not give up business, it was part of my life—when an old friend dropped in, and, in the course of conversation, he said: “By the way, Burrows, why don’t you have your portrait painted ?” “ Bah ! stuff! What for ?” I said. “Well,” said my old friend, laughing, ‘‘ I don’t know, only that it would give a poor artist I know a job; and, poor fellow, he wants it badly enough.” “Bah! I’m handsome enough without being painted,” I said, gruffly. Then, as a thought flashed through my mind—for I saw again the picture in the wood, with Cobweb leaning on the branch—“ Stop a minute. Can he paint well?’ “ Gloriously.” “ And is terribly bard up ?” “Horribly, poor fellow.” “How’s that?” “Don’t know. He’s poor and proud, and the world has dealt very hardly with him. It isn’t so smooth with everyone, Jack, as it is with us.” “True, Tom, old fellow,” I said, “ true. Well, look here; I’ll give him a job. Would he come down and stay at my place ?” “ Oh, yes, if you treat him well; but, as I tell you, he's poor and proud, and quite a gentleman.” ‘ ‘ Well, I’m not, ” I said, testily. ‘ 1 I’ll give him enough to eat, and a good bed to sleep on; and he’ll have to put up with me dropping my ‘li’s.’ But,” I added, slapping my pocket, “ I can pay him like a gentleman.” “ Get out, you purse-proud old humbug !” said my friend, laughing as he clapped mo on the shoulder. “But there, I’m obliged to you. He’s a gentleman and a man of honor.” “Oh, I’m not afraid he’ll steal the spoons,” I said, laughing. “No,” lie said, dryly, “No fear of that. But you’ll make a good picture. ” “Stuff!” I said. “Do you think I’m going to be painted ?” “ Why, what are you going to do, then?” he said, in an astonished way. “Let him paint little Cobweb,” I said, chuckling and rubbing my hands. My friend gave a long whistle, and after a few more words he left. It did not strike me then, but I remarked afterward that he seemed disposed to draw back from his proposal; but I was now so wrapned up in my plans that I could think of nothing but the picture in the wood, and I went home full of it, meaning it f r a surprise. Two days later one of the servants announced a Mr. Grantlyon business, and, on liis being shown iu, I found myself face to face with a liaudsome, gravelooking man of about 30. He was rather shabbily dressed, and looked pale and ill as he bowed to Cobweb and myself, ending by staring at my child, as I thought, in rather a peouliar way. This annoyed me—a stout, choleric, elderly man—for no one had a right to look at my Cobweb but me; and I spoke rather testily as I said : “Now, sir, when you please lam at your service.” “I beg your pardon,” he said, in a low, musical voice. # “Miss Burrows, I presume. One moment, please—don’t move.” Cobweb was sitting in the bay-win-dow, and, to my utter astonishment, lie quickly drew one of the curtains, and then half closed another, so that the light fell strongly upon hair. I could not speak for the passion bubbling up in my throat, and, as I stood gasping, he came and took my arm, led me aside, and then, pointing to where Cobweb sat, as astounded as myself, he said: “ That would be admirable, sir. We could not improve that natural pose.” “What the dickens—are you mad, sir ? What do you mean ?” “ I beg your pardon,” ho said, flushing, and speaking hastily. ‘‘lam so wrapped up in my art, I thought you understood. Mr. Elden said you wished me to paint this young lady’s portrait. Am I mistaken?” “ Chut!” I ejaculated, cooliDg on the instant. “I beg your pardon. Sit down, sir. You’re hungry, of course. How stupid of me ! —Cobweb, my dear, oruer some lunch into the dining-room.” He smiled, returned the pressure of my hand in a frank, honest way that I liked, and then looked after my darling in a way that I did not like; for this was not what I meant, and my jealousy was aroused. I expected some snuffy-look-ing old painter, not a grave, handsome young fellow. But I remembered Tom Eldeu’s words—“ He is a gentleman, and a man of honor ” —and, casting away my suspicious thoughts, I entered into the subject at once. ‘ ‘ I’d half forgotten it, ” I said. ‘ ‘ She’ll make a good picture, eh ?” “Admirable, sir. Thatpositionstruck me at once as I entered.” “ I’ll show you a better one than that, my boy,” I chuckled. “ But I'm a business man, what’s your figure—the prire, eh ?” He hesitated, and his hand trembled as he said : “Would—fifteen guineas be too much ?” “Fifteen !” I said. “ I should take great pains with it—it would be a long task,” he said, eagerly; and there was troubles iu the wrinkles of his forehead. ‘ ‘ But if you think it too much —” “I think it an absurd price, sir,” I said, testily, for Elden had said he was very poor. “Why, Mr. Elden gave four hundred for a bit of scrap canvas—” “ By a very clever artist, sir,” he said, with a grave smile. “Look here,” I said, “Mr.—Mr.— Grantly. You make a good picture of it, and I’ll give you fifty guineas.” He flushed, and looked pained. “Less than half would pay me well, sir,” he said. “Tut, tut! stuff, man! Elden told me yon were poor and hard up. You always will be if you are not more of a man of business.” “Sir!” he exclaimed, rising and looking at mo angrily. “I came here expecting the treatment—” He stopped short, reeled, sank into his chair, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed like a child. “ My dear sir—l—really—l—l didn’t mean—” I stammered, perspiring at every pore, for the position was most paintul. “No, no,” he said hastily, “I beg your pardon. But—but, ”he continued, striving manfully to master his emotion, “I kayo been very ill, sir, and lam weak, I hay* been unfortuaafce—almost

starving at times. I have not broken bread since yesterday morning—l coula not without selling my colors. I—l am much obliged—forgive me—let me go back to town. Oh, my God, has it oome to this?” . .. He sank back half fainting, but started as I roared out, “Go away!” for Cobweb was coming into the room. “Thank yon,” he said, taking my hand as he saw what I had done. “It was so kind of yon.” “My dear fellow,” I said, “this is terrible;” and I mopped my face. “There, sit still—back directly.” I ran out to find Cobweb in the hall. “Oh, yon dear, good father!” she cried, with tears in her eyes. “ What a kind surprise ! But is anything wrong ?” “Artist little faint,” I said. “Here, the sherry—biscuits. Stop away a bit.” I ran back with them, and made him take some wine, and, thus revived, he rose and thanked me. “ What are yon going to do?” I said, staring. “I’m going back to town, sir,” he said quietly, but with his lower lip trembling. “I am not fit to undertake the task. I thank you, but it is too late. I am not well. ” I looked at him as a business man, and in that brief glance, as in a revelation, I saw the straggles of a poor, proud man of genius, who could not battle with the world. I saw the man who had sold, bit by bit, everything he owned, in his straggle for daily bread, and, as I looked at him, I felt ashamed that I should be so rich, and fat, and well. “ Mr. Grantly,” I said, taking his hand, “ I am a rough man, and spoiled by bullying people, and having my own way. I beg your pardon for wha* I have said and am going to say. You came down here, sir, to paint my little girl’s Eortrait, and you are going to paint it efore you go back to town; and when you do go, you are going to have fifty guineas in your pocket. Hush ! not a word, sir. My old friend Elden told me that you were a gentleman and a man of honor. Tom Elden is never deceived. Now, sir. please come into the diningroom and have some lunch. Not a word, please. If good food won’t bring you round, you shall have the doctor; for, as the police say,” I continued, laughing, “ * you’re my prisoner ’ —but on parole. ” He tried to speak, but could not, and turned away. “All right,” I Baid; “ all right;” and I patted him on the shoulder, and walked away to the window for a few minutes before I turned back to find him more composed. That afternoon we all three went out into the wood, and I made Cobweb stand as I had seen her on that day. Grantly was delighted, and insisted upon making a sketch at once; and then the days wire on, with the painting progressing slowly, bnt in a way that was a wonder to me, so exquisite was every touch, for tlio artist’s whole soul was in his work. Those were delightful days, but there was a storm coming. I quite took to the ; r oung fellow, though, and by degrees leard from him his whole story—how, young and eager, he had, five years before, come to town to improve in his art, and bow bitter had been his struggle, till, just before he had encountered my friend Elden, he had been really, literally dying of sickness and want. It was a happy time, that, for when the painting was over for the morning we gardened, or strolled in the country —our new friend being an accomplished botanist and a lover of every object that we saw. I used to wonder how lie had learned so much, and found time to paint as well. I say it was a happy time for the first three weeks, aud then there were clouds. Cobweb was changed. I knew it but too well, I could see it day by day. Grantly was growing distant, too, and strange, and my suspicions grew hour by hour, till I was only kept from breaking out by the recollection of Tom Eldon’s words—“ He is a gentleman and a man of honor.”

“ Tom Eldon never was wrong,” I said one morning, as I sat alone, “and for a man like that, after my kindness, to take advantage of his position to win that girl’s love from me, would bo the act of the greatest scoun—” “ May I come iD, Mr. Burrows?” said the voice of the man of whom I was thinking. “Yes, come iu,” I said; and there we stood looking in one another’s eyes. “ He’s come to speak to me,” I said, andpiy heart grew very hard, but I concealed my feelings till he spoke, and then I was astounded. “ Mr. Burrows,” he said, “ I’ve come to say good-by.” “ Good-by,” I said. “ Yes, sir, good-by. I have wakened from a dream of happiness to a sense of misery of which I cannot speak. Let me be brief, sir, and tell you that I shall never forget your kindness.” “Bi t you haven’t finished the picture.” “No, sir, and I never shall;” he said, bitterly. ‘ ‘ Mr. Burrows, I cannot stay. I—tli at is—l need not be ashamed to own it, I love your child with all my heart.” “ I knew it,” I said, bitterly. “And you think I have imposed on your kindness. No, sir, I have not, for I have never shown by word or look—” “No, you scoundrel,” I said to myself, “ but she knows it all the same.” “And, sir, such a dream as mine could never be fulfilled—it is impossible.” “ Yes,” I said', in a cold, hard voice, “it ie impossible.” “ God bless you, sir! Good-by.” “ You will not say good-by to her?” I said, harshly. He shook bis head, and, as I stood there, hard, selfish and jealous of him, I saw him go down the path, and breathed more freely, for he was gone. Gone, but there was a shadow on my home. Cobweb said not a word, and expressed no surprise, never even referring to the picture ; but went about the house slowly, drooping day after day, month after month, tiil the summer-time came round again, and I knew that in my jealous selfishness I was breaking her young heart. She never complained, and was as loving as ever; but my little cobweb was broken, and the tears spangled it like dew whenever it was alone. It was as nearly as could be a year after, that I, feeling ten years older, went to seek her one afternoon, and found her as I expected in the little wood, standing dreamy and sad in her old position leaning upon the tree, listening to no bird-song now, but with a far off, longing look in her eves, that swept away the last selfish thought from my heart. 1 did not let her see me, but went straight up to Elden’s, learned what I wanted, and a short time after I was in a handsome studio in St. John’s wood, staring at the finished picture of my child—painted, i f course, from memory —framed, against the wall. As I stood there I heard the door open, aud turning stood face to face with GrantIjs \V e looked in each other’s eyes for a few moments without speaking, and then in a trembling, broken voice, I said : 1 ‘ Grantly, I’ve come as a beggar now. My poor darling—God forgive me! I’ve brokeu her heart.” It was my turn to sit down and cry like a child, while my dear boy tried to comfort me—telling me, too, with pride, how he had worked and become famous, and in a few more months he meant to come down and ask my consent. But there, I’m mixing it up. Of course he to d me that as we were rushing along, haring just had time to catch the express; and on reaching there was pc conveyauce, and w* had to walk.

Thai scoundrel, would not wait, but ran on without me, and when I got there, panting and hot, I found my darling’s heart was mended with all of that belonging to the good man from whose «rma B he ran to hide her rosy blushes on my breast. I’m not the selfish old fellow that I was about Cobweb, for here in the old place, where they’ve let me stay with them, I pass my time with those two flossy-haired little tyrants, Cobweb the Second, and the Spider, as we call little Frank. As for Cobweb the Second, aged 2, she said to me this morning, with her tiny arms about my neck, and her soft, cherub cheek against mine—“Oh, ganpa, dear, I do yove oo!”—as I love her with all my selfish heart.— Cassell’s Magazine.