Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 31, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 August 1885 — ONE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN. [ARTICLE]

ONE BEAUTIFUL WOMEN.

BY KENRIDGE.

The studio looked unusually dull and dreary, with its dirty, paintbedaubed easel and the one solitary broken old chair that did duty for artist and visitor alike. But then there were never any visitors, so George Ellison did not trouble himself much on that score. He would even have liked to risk a, little mortification for the sake of seeing some one else besides the scrub-woman and janitor enter that dingy room. It was a square, box-like room—quite unlike any ideal one would form of an artist’s studio. Of course there were pictures lying around, and the collection was increasing only too rapidly, for he worked assiduously day after day. “I’ve got enough to stock the whole Exposition,” he muttered, moodily, as he stood contemplating the last picture on his easel—a landscape which showed some fair traces of genius. “Fact is,” he went on, as his careful ■eye noted its defects, “ that treepainting is not my forte. If I eould only sell a few of these and hire a model—the kind of a model I want—why, then I’d get on a good deal faster than I’m doing now.” He was a young fellow of only twenty-tree who had worked his way to Chicago from a country town, where he had gained the rudiments of the art to which he imtended to devote his life. Tli6 old artist who had instructed him had so dazzled his mind with visions of the wealth and reputation to be made in a large city, that he had come to Chicago with any amount of hope, which, however, was beginning to wane, as the weeks passed by and lie still remained unnoticed and unknown. He began to think that the people of Chicago had no appreciation of the fine arts; that it was true what envious Eastern cities said of them—that they eared more for stocks and pork-pack-ing than for the refinements of civilized life. One day, feeling more than usually -discouraged, he stopped work quite earlv, and sauntered forth to get what fresh air he could on the crowded thoroughfare on which the window of Bis studio opened. » As ho came down the east stairway to the entrance, two ladies were just ■emerging from the jewelry store at its side. He did not see them, but they noticed him, and the younger one gazed at him witli a curiosity that was not altogether unfriendly. “I wonder who he is, Nell,” she whispered, nudging her companion’s elbow. “His clothes certainly didn't come from Ely’s. From the fit of them he’s evidently made them himself, one would think, for such fearfully baggy pantaloons I never, saw, not even on the poorest beggar. ” “Don’t talk s 0 loudly—he might hear you. It sno business of ours—the fit of his clothes. Is that a Cottage Grove oar coming?” The ob.,ect of this conversation was •still standing in the doorway, looking dreamily upon the moving mass before him. “And if I could afford to hire a model,” the two heard him mutter, *‘where on earth would I get one? Not in this city. Chicago has some finelooking women, but I’ve yet to see one beautiful woman.” Mrs. Colby gave her sister’s arm a gentle tap with her parasol. “There—Ethel, listen, and do not waste your sympathy on him any more. He deserves to wear baggy pantaloons all his life long, just for that miserable tirade against Chicago women.” “Alas, that I am not endowed with sufficient beauty to prove his terrible mistake to him,” murmured Ethel, as she signaled the car-driver. “No one with a pug nose could hope to do that, even if she has got good • eyes'and a decent sort of a mouth,” said her siste cruelly, and the conver- . sation dropped at that {mint. But Ethel Harbridge did not forget that pathetic figure standing in the -doorway by Matson’s; and in a few

again. There was not the slightest chance of seeing him, she kept repeating to herself as she neared her destination, and laughed at the absurd whim which had brought her. But she came across him, notwithstanding her opinion of the contrary, and, strange to say, was not at all disappointed at the fail" ure of her prediction. He was just going up the stairway with a small bundle under one arm, through the end of which she saw a palette and some brushes sticking out. “Just as I thought, the poor fellow is an artist, and a Chicago one at that. No wonder his clothes are ill-fitting, and his face is pinched—yes, actually pinched. ” By this time he had gained the top of one stairway, and was lost to view on the second. Ethel opened her purse and glanced at its contents. “Just eleven dollars and five cents. Now, the nickel will be enough to carry me home, and if I thought he'd have any real cheap pictures I’d follow him up and invest the rest, for he seems decidedly poor.” She did not pause long. It was the day of the week on which the artists in that building received an admiring but not very generously disposed public—she would avail herself of this opportunity and boldly ascend the stairway after him. She stopped on the second landing and | went into several rooms, but rightly j conjecturing that his would be one of the* smallest and poorest, she soon wended her way to the top. Sure enough, in a dingy little room, that rented for a mere song, she found him. He was sitting at his easel, with a piece of clear canvas before him, mechanically fumbling with his brushes, and pouring tiny drops of paint upon the palette he had just brought in. He turned with a start as he heard a light knock on the half-open door. Could it be . No; the janitor always gave a knock like that; the man was a negro, with those little pretensions to politeness which all true.sons of Africa possess. So he meekly said, (“Come in,” and did not raise his head until the subtle odor of a delicate perfume floated about him, and he looked up in surprise, and saw a visitor at last! It was a woman, and a lovely one—his eyes could tell that at their first glance. He got up in a dazed sort cf a way and offered her the solitary chair. “No—many thanks. I did not come to stay, only to Bee if- -if you have anything very small. A bit of print to fill up a corner, you know.” She glanced around as she spoke, and George’s eyes followed hers. No, there was nothing very small in the room. He inwardly cursed himself for iiaving wasted so many days on large canvases when something small would have filled the bill completely. She noted hie perplexity and hastened to relieve it. “After seeing that pretty trout brook” —pointing to a fairly good picture in the window—“l think it would be difficult to suit me with anything else, though I am not provided to-day with the sum at which you doubtless value it. ” “I have had no sales, and I do not value it at all,” he said, a little bitterly. “It can go for whatever one would choose to give.” “Well, you see”—with a confidential air that was very charming—“l am all out of funds to-day, but if you would save it for me, or if you would take a payment now and the rest to-morrow, I should be very grateful, for my heart is set on that picture, and I must have it.” She opened her purse and showed its contents to him. He could not tell whether his eyes were playing him false or not, yet surely those were crisp, new notes, the like of which he had not seen for many a day. “Just eleven dollars, and the nickel,” she continued, laughing. “Now if you would trust me for the rest ” “The picture is not worth more than ten dollars; you have more than enough for it,” he said, with a little smile of joy at this unexpected piece of fortune. Ethel looked at him pityingly. “Don’t think I am telling y-ou this simply to get the picture for so little,” she said, coloring. “By no means; I believe you. Do not think so badly of me as to—only —only, you see, I have never sold one since I’ve been here, and this sale is a godsend to me.” His voice trembled for a moment, but he soon controlled it and went on. “And I am so ill-bred as to bore you with my troubles. Pray forgive me. If you will let me know the address I’ll have it sent this afternoon.” Ethel hesitated for an instant. She did not like to take the picture at that price, yet he insisted, and she saw that it would pain him to offer more. So she gave him the address and went away, promising to call again. The next morning, quite early, a gentleman called at the studio, a stout, burly person, with iron-gray whiskers and mustache. He had not the appearance of a connoisseur, but one or two remarks which he made concerning the merits and demerits of the pictures gave the young artist a new veneration for the judgment and taste of Chicago merchants. “My daughter wants something in this line —yes, that birch grove’s just the thing. Good color, and shadows not too deep. What’s the price?” • Geof-ge had the courage to place its true .value upon it. The old gentleman eyed him keenly, nodded acquiescence, drew forth hispocketbook and counted out the money, all the while murmuring inwardly: “ Why, that’s five times as much

iffithalijiitf Mid tlin Wig^nr, either. Talk of artists Bot being sharp business men; why, they’d stick a Jew any day.” With the firm conviction that he had been “stuck,” Mr. Harbridge carried the landscape home, and delivered it to Ethel. “You know I am only too glad to 1 help the worthy poor,” he said; “but 1 guess we’ve done our duty in this case, ; Ethel. We won’t buy any more pictures for a while, so don’t hunt up any j more poor artists. ” As Mr. Harbridge could not be prej vailed upon to purchase again. Ethel | interested some of her friends in Ellii son. The consequence was that the ■ dingy studio gradually began to brighten with little comforts and luxuries which he had .never been able to afford before. George himself began to have a fresher, less pinched appearance, and worked away with greater energy than ever. One day he was bold enough to say: “I would not care to paint landscapes forever; but a portraint painter, you know, finds it very difficult to get a start; and if one paints ideal heads and faces, one must have a model.” Ethel laughed aloud. “Do you know,” she said, confidentially, “that Mrs. Colbv once remarked in a joke that—that if I hadn’t anything better to do I might make my living by loaning out my head—a on know the hair is the color Titian used to paint.” “If you would only give me one or two sittings,” he pleaded, “I should be so grateful. But I should not ask—it would be too much.” “No, it wouldn’t,” she answered, determinedly ; so after a little discussion it was arranged that she should come there the next day and pose for a Madonua, or whatever he chose to make of her. Mrs. Colby protested against the sittings, but to no purpose, and then interviewed Mr. Harbridge on the subject. “I tell you what, Ellen, ” said her father, with a wisdom that nineteen years, acquaintance with Ethel had imbued him with, “if we run contrary to her wishes in this direction, sure as fate she’d run against mine fr3m sheer obstinacy by falling in love with and marrying this Elli Son.” “And that’s the very thing I’m afraid will happen.” “Oh, never you fear about that. It takes opposition to make people marry poor artists, and Ethel hasn't been crossed in this whim yet.” Nothing’ further was said, but Mrs. Colby’s fears were by no means allayed. The sittings went on, and the Madonna progressed rapidly. At length it was finished. The artist, though far from being egotistical, could see for himself how immensely superior it was to his landscapes. He was standing beside Ethel at a little distance from it, silently noting its wonderful beauty. “I could not have painted it so well had it not been for your kindness,” he said, at last, in reply to a compliment which she hesitatingly gave. “But my opportunities are over. You are going away, and even if you were not I could not trespass on your patience for sittings for another picture.” “But there are plenty of models to be had,” she said, with a gleam of mischief in her eye. “Not—” he began, and stopped abruptly. “Not in Chicago,” laughed Ethel. “Goon and finish, Mr. Ellison; I can anticipate the rest, for I overheard a remark which you once made about the lack of female beauty in this city. ” He flushed hotly; but a glance at her face reassured him. Something in her manner, also, gave him a desperate courage, at which he himself was much amazed when he recollected afterward all the occurrences of that afternoon. “But you have shown me my mistake,” he said, coming a little closer. “There is one beautiful woman here; but only one. What would I not give to possess her ?” “Well, whatwouljl you?” she asked, coquettishly, with a smile th&t showed him what the answer would be to the question, should he ask it. But it never came. There was only a little cry of joy, some smothered exclamation, the sound which has always been supposed to be peculiar to turtle doves, but which has been infringed and improved upon by the human species, and then the Madonna on the handsome easel looked complacently down and saw her living prototype gathered into the artist’s arms. —Chicago Ledger.