Jasper County Democrat, Volume 6, Number 46, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 February 1904 — A BEAUTY. [ARTICLE]

A BEAUTY.

Nay. bus you, who do not love her. Is she not pure gold, my mistress? —Browning. There had never been any doubt as to Polly Pemberton’s beauty. She had bees a young tyrant from babyhood! It had never been of the slightest use trying to keep her under. Her mother made conscientious attempts not to have her In evidence when guests were about, and her father feebly seconded her efforts by trying to keep out of Polly’s way. The undertaking was nevertheless hopeless. Polly, standing wistfully at the nursery window, made prudent resolutions vanish like chaff. Polly as “Cherry Ripe” going to church was the enchanting thing of the day. When newcomers first caught glimpses of her wheeling her doll carriage or playing with the pup, they were useless for further purposes of entertainment until the first novelty of intercourse with Polly wore off. “Her conversation alone is worth the price of admission;” condescended a cousin of Polly’s, second year at Yale. When Polly grew, horribly spoiled, of course, petulant, exacting, fairly generous, warm hearted, openly truthful, she was so beautiful that evei.. thing was permitted to her. She was clever enough to keep even men whose approbation was worth something devoted to her. The time naturally came when two oat of the crowd of worshipers were distancing all competitors. Polly knew her world and foresaw the inevitable decision she would presently be called upon to make. She intended to marry for love, being much too clever to be willing to miss that happiness. She was determined to get out of life all that was lu it. “What a comfort it is to be pretty!” she thought contentedly. “Then really nice men fall In love with one. How dreadful to have to choose from impossible creature^!” One of the men was an artist. He loved Polly’s beauty. Iler soul was of no moment. But Polly did not know this. It did not occur to her that any one would dare to separate the two. The other man loved the inner Polly. He reverenced her beauty, as he did all beauty and truth and the other things worthy men worship. And Polly did not know r the difference between the two loves. There was a tender poetry in the artist’s w’ooing which was very sweet to her. He had a way of gently touching her hair and quoting: Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her? Above this trees, and this I touch. But cannot praise, I love so much! which went to Polly’s heart. Yet the constant referring to a strong, serious nature, which the other man unquestionably attributed to her, kept her in a rarer atmosphere than, but for the stimulus of his personality, she could have breathed in. She felt this always, but naturally more keenly when the other man was with her. The futures the two men offered her were vastly different. The artist drew winning pictures of a beautiful dreamy old world life, drifting In Venice, driving through the Wordsworth land, going from German villages to the boulevard fetes, from the enchantment of Swiss lakes to the Land of the Midnight Sun and everywhere living a lover existence of “love and beauty and delight.” But the other man spoke of a working day world, of a place where men and women and pitiful children needed help and success. He drew her into the life of the worse half of the world and showed her Its need. He made her hear the cry of children wanting bread, made her see girls like herself ground into awful fates, and through it all she felt his love about her protecting, comforting, infinitely tender and believing. Meantime the summer was passing. The cooling breezes of early September brought fresh Joys. The artist took Polly canoeing, and the other man, who was very boyish and enthusiastic, rowed off his feelings in a single scull. After all, it was a little thing which decided Polly. One afternoon Polly was making tea on the lawn while the rival contestants were playing tennis. She looked unusually beautiful, and when the set was over rae artist made several sketches of her. One of them he called “Over the Teacups” in playful love for the dear waiter. He afterward painted it in and in a few days showed It to Polly.

“I don’t like It at all,” she objected. “It Is the portrait of a heartless girl.” The artist laughed. “What does it matter?” he said. “With such holy beauty as yours you could he nnything you liked. No one expects you to be anything but beautiful.” Miss roily Pemberton was not slow. A great many things came hack to her as she looked at him for a moment. Then she smiled vaguely. “One man does,” she said sweetly. “The man I am going to marry, not you, you know. He thinks me true and good, but it does not matter to you, does it?” “Is it Ferris?” asked the artist. “Yes,” said Polly, and so she was irrevocably committed. Ferris’ one coherent remark was that it was better to win her by a fluke than not at all.— Madge Robertson in New York Press.