Evening Republican, Volume 20, Number 1, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 January 1916 — HIS NEW I YEAR’S GIFT [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

HIS NEW I YEAR’S GIFT

By WM. GLYNN

FWHOUGH it was yet afternoon ? the studio was. like twilight. The *■ I reflecting colors of pictures, the red restfylneab of a divad, the •tained curtainß for models, the disorder hinting a thousand temperamental hours, the blotched floor, the elegance become interesting and tawdry, an atmosphere which suggested the lingering of moments —it all seemed apart from the. day outside, from the north light peering-above-* half-rolled blind. The artist-occupant sat examining some drawings. He Was strongly built, in his early thirties, not handsome, hut with eyes remarkable for their glance. His face had the hrooding, sensitive quality. The drawings, Impressions in wash and crayon, which he went over slowly and of which there were scores, presented an art that only few have been capable of. He‘had caught character and life in a thousand moods and stories, had done it with that intimacy which cannot be defined. He finished the drawings with something of a sigh, then with something of |i smile as his eyes dwelt on a picture set on an easel. Slowly his face filled with mocking

satire. The painting was that of a young woman done with almost irradi&nce. It seemed to portray, not flesh and blood, but the thousand things of feeling which the blood served, the throbbing music which is played on temperament. The character was conceived and translated poetically, but its very'nuances were striking because of the grasp of the artist. Yet did one fancy it—did the smile on the lips change with an indefinable stain to what was coarse and light even as you looked at it? Had Hastings’ repeated gloatings of satire wrought this subtle difference in a thing done so tenderly? Or had his brußb unintentionally brought out beneath everything the feminine eternal that would not be denied, in the flux of bloom shown the nestling wprm? In the varied mystery of life in which nothing dies, where perhaps even thoughts become colors of flowers, who can know or dispute anything? It was New Year’s day and the afternoon was melting away. Hastings threw himself on the couch and for a long time rested, regarding the painting with a changing aspect. The grayness of a thousand days seemed to settle over him, of drifting and not caring, yet carrying downward with him that gift supreme, of knowing that beauty was the necessary dream, but that the world and woman always made of it a lie, that truth could be spoken of only after money. He could think in those terms and yet he did not altogether. His need to appreciate was too strong. In art, at least, he could follow life in tone, however deeply and personally he understood Its irony. But he was no longer sure that he cared to tollow it. The laugh and bitterness of the lntervalß'Tmutt increase. He would become a dilettante, glorious perhaps, but careless. And he woflld be careless, that was the worst of it. At any rate he could color desuetude with a bright aspect, could gamble like a good fellow what was left. He would not appear hard hit.

At this point he invariably added a postscript to his thinking. If she had only cared for the other man. He 'cpuld bear that and have gone on. But, after many times previously confessing her love for him, she had' stood, there that da?" they had parted four months ago and stated so busi- / nesslike and with smug, immovable philosophy: "A woman must marry money these days for her own sake.” Coming from her, it was unimaginable - and left him flat He could not point out that she had much money of her own, that for him success must come '* very soon, and that it was his great- /' est Aope she would wait for him. She already knew these things as she knew that he loved her. He had J made no answer to her because there 3 = was none. Her statement killed even the thought that she was, being coerced. If she had only left it possible for him to think beautifully of

her. Nothing else mattered quite so much as Jthat. And yet h£ did think beautifully of her in spite of everything, though he Gould not but think in the terms of her own statement last But it was “all in the game." A man must laugh at those things, what ever the laugh did to him. He was facing another year today, that was all, and her marriage to the othei man took place that night. A black cat came out of the, corner, hashing its face in the center of the room. A homeless kitten, it had appeared the first day she had come, stealing in the door at the time of her departure. He had iept it as an omen of good luck and more. That was something like nine months ago, if such time could ever be reckoned by calendar. She had told him then- that, she was a model, but. had refused to pose for him without drapes.’ Who she really was he had found out weeks later. It was too late then, for he had fallen In love with her.

There was a knock at the door, and he went to open it, Stanton, the editor of a powerful weekly, entered. He stalked around the room as one with something to unload, and, at length, flinging himself on the couch, proceeded brusquely: “Hastings, you’re an awful ass, and because it was New Year’s I dropped in to tell you about it. Ten weeks ago your picture won highest honors at the London exhibit. Two weeks later you repeated in the Metropolitan with another picture. But you have not been acting like a successful man, but to the regret of your friends, like a sloth and a fool. A couple of the boys have seen you beastly drunk. You have shut yourself away from everyone and everything. You are being reviewed by every important journal in the country, and yet you mope around as though you were your own lackey. There are one or two of us have begun to think it is a woman. We do not know of any woman but that cussed portrait is always sitting there. And Ido believe the thing lives."

Hastings laughed a little. “It is purely fanciful,’’ he said, “not really a portrait. And, of course, it is absurd to think of a woman in the matter. I suppose that I have not been quite well. Let us have a drink, because it’s New Year." “I’ll be hanged if I will, Hastings. I believe you have been drinking too much. I have got to go now. I just turned in for a minute. But do not forget what I have said.” • “I will not forget, Stanton; and thanks for your interest. We cannot sometimes explain ourselves to ourselves.’’

After Stanton had gone he took out his watch. It was five o’clock, and she was to be married at nine. He would sit in the rocker and go to sleep. He would waken probably about about twelve and know that it was all over. He would have a sandwich first and put the decanter of •claret beside him. Claret always had a tendency to make him sleep, particularly if he put a little sugar In it. He did these things, but it took him hours to drowse off, and only after he had turned the portrait on the easel. It seemed but a minute had passed when he awoke. Of course he knew that he was not awake, that he was dreaming. Someone was weeping softly on his shoulder, caressing his hair. Only one woman on earth had that aroma of person. If anywhere in the world he found one of her hairs and touched his cheek with it he would have known to whom it belonged. Then her eyes, penitent and wet with tears, came around, slowly meeting his. With a start he realized that he was awake. He held her, looking at her as something to marvel at. She explained it all in a whispered breath. “I could not do It, Paul," she said. “I rah Away from them, from them all. Will you—will you marry me now, dear—tonight ?’’

He looked and saw that she wore a wedding gown. , “There was a minute when I would not,” hb replied.—San Francisco Argonaut.

The Painting Was That of a Young Woman.