Rensselaer Republican, Volume 21, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 August 1889 — “A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS.” [ARTICLE]

“A DAUGHTER OF THE GODS.”

I. A young lr.dy and a young girl stood in the dusky passageway of the fourth floor in an old studio building in New York. They had traversed crooked passages and steep stairways innumor able, and were now breathless and puzzled, not knowing which way to turn. “Well, if this isn't a delightful hols to drag one up to!" the girl exclaimed, glancing disdainfully into the dingy distances on every hand. “Margaret, we must have gotten into the wrong building. Hans never in the world could have stood this sort of thing. Why, it's—it's—detestable!” She was hardly more than a child,, and her serious, charming face was gathered into a frown of much displeasure and disgust “But I’m afraid he has stood it,” said Margaret, with a lootc of hopeless conviction. “Artists don’t seem to mind

—er—that sort of thing, you know,” rather doubtfully. ‘‘What nonsense you are talking!” retorted the uucompromisiug Olivia. “A man may ‘live in a garret alone,’ and ail that, but I don’t bdievo IST likes it one bit! I'm very sure* 1 Hans Vischer doesn’t, Bohemian though he calls himself. No wonder he’s in a hurry to marry you, Margaret; you’ve got money enough to keep you both from starvation, at all events.” But Margaret Rogers was studying the numbers over the doors, and she discreetly let her sister’s last remark pass unheeded. “Why this is number ten," she said, “and here’s Hans’ name on a brass palette. Since the door is half ope n. let’s step in and surprise him at his work.** But Han’s cheery presence was missing from the room, and the studio offered them but a Bombre and silent welcome. Margret drew her shawl about her with a little shiver. She felt as if a chill had fallen on her. And where in the world was Hans? He certainly knew that they were coming, for he had asked her particul irly to come and inspect his most ambitious work, a figure piece called “A Daughter of the Gods,” before sending it off to the fall exhibition of the academy. She had never visited his studio before,and had expected a warmer welcome than this certainly. “What a queer place an artist’* studio is!” said Olivia, in an awed tone, walking about gingerly and inspecting everything that came in her way. hit down and wait for Hans. Margaret, while I take some impressions—if that’s what you call it’’ Thus instructed, Margaret sank listlessly into a curiously carved chair, •and began to gaze abstractedly out of the window at the blank wall opposite, lou would have cal Led her a vary handsome woman, I think, as sho sat there tapping the floor nervously with the tip of her parasol. She had unusually flue eyes, and her well-clad figure expressed both grace and ity“Do you know. Margaret I think I should like to be an artist?" Olivia rattled on, maxing a telescope put of her hands in order to properly see a “skied ’ picture. “They are always planning and making such charming tilings, don’t you know? 1 don't think 1 should mind the stairs—much. Why, if that stupid Hans Vischer hasn’t Stock his ‘Sunset in New Jersey,’ which 1 thought the prettiest landscape in the spring exhibition, away up in that dusty corner, where it's half hidden Oy a piece of nasty yellow drapery. If that’s all he thinks of it, he might give U to me.” “Here’s a new picture of a road and tome gees. Ever so much atmosphere and feeling, and all that sort of thing, Margaret. The sky is perfectly lovely! And hero's the Death of Laertes, which the critics called a screaming absurdity. You. remember how furious Hans was when we showed him the paper, and how he calleda critic a •‘howling idiot?* I don’t remember ever seeing Hans angry before. Poor fellow! Ho doesn’t seem to sell many pictures, does he? They are all here yet, even to that charcoal sketch of an Old woman smoking a horrid black pipe, which Hans declared was the beet thing he had ever done. QBut a* he's always saying that of the last thing, 1 didn’t put much faith in his statement. Artists do say such ridiculous things!” “Oh! Margaret, do come and look at this {ovely. lovelv face! That must be •A Daughter of the God’s’—and isn’t she charming! It’ll take the prize. I know, and Hans will wake to find him•elf rich and famous yet” Margaret, to tell the truth, had not been giving her sister’s remarks on art the attention they undoubtedly deserved, but she rose at once on mention of the new picture, a little eager flush ristug to her face. “Charming, indeed!" she murmured with a proud and pleased smile, as she ga sed, and gazed at her lpyer’s last picture, which was (#rt*inly. “Lhe best lie had ever done. “The pose is perfect, and the face—Heavens! ho* beautiful It is!” . ' . —-V - ■ fxtanxyp. f * T . . _ !*■

i. It was indeed.a beautiful faoe—rich* Southern, with red, curving Up% ana ayes that glowed and burned, and yet it was soft and tender, too, like an I Innocent child’s. As Margaret stood before the pieture. and gazed in those luminous ayes, delightful vista of fame and. xhe Lhougbt—©f herself as a humble sharer of these honors, who can blame her? She had always believed simplioilly in Hans’ talent, and had responded warmly to his most enthusiastic hopes and dreams; but she had never imagined that lame was so near. Indeed, she hod often thought howsgood a thing it was that she had money to help him out with, since Hans’ had none. His life after their marriage would be made lighter by the loss of many a sordid care, she knew, and she rejoiced n the thought. Olivia, in the meantime, had plunged lior inquisitive head into a portfolio of etchings, and Margaret was left to dream on in happy abstraction. Suddenly, as she loitered near ole end of the long dim studio, she was startled by the sound of a passionate

little outcry which came from a door slightly ajar, and glancing through was astounded to Bee a strange woman throw herself into Hans Vischer’s arms, with a gesture of utter despair. Margaret clung to the heavy portierro for support, a horrible sick feeling stealing over her. She could not see his face, but she noticed that Hans stroked the girl’s hair gently with one hand, while he tried to lead her to a chair. The oonfusion of noises in the street below prevented Margaret from hearing what they were saying, even if she wanted to hear, which she most assuredly did not She would hot play the eaves-dropper, no matter how ialse her lover might be touher. She looked again at the pictured face on the easel. Yes, there could be no doubt about the matter—the woman in the next room was the original. Margaret turned away with a white, set face. She felt as if her heart were turning to stone in her bosom, and that if she stayed in the studio another minute she should begin to hate liaus Vischer. The smell of paint fOemed stilling and unbearable, and the floor heaved beneath her feet. She walked rapidly up to her sister, and spoke in a low, quick tone. “Oliv-

ia," she said, “let us go home at once. I—l am not well.” Olivia threw down the etchings with an exclamation of alarm. “Why, Marg .ret, what has happened P You look wretchedly, that’s a fact.” “Nothing has happened,” said Margaret impatiently, feeling that all her powers of endurance were slipping away from her. “Only let us go home at onfce—do you hear?” She hastened toward the door, and Olivia followed her with a look of amazement on her face. “Well, Margaret, I must say—” she began, but her sister was already out of hearing, and Olivia followed her with a very bad grace. She assumed a portentous air of injury when she caught up with Margaret at the bottom of the Jast flight of stairs. “What did the boy say was the matter with the elevator?” she said, apropos of " nothing in particular merely to show that she meant to pass Margaret’s behavior in silent displeasure. : —; “That he had stuck somewhere in the shaft,” was Margaret’s mechanical and listless reply. “Isn’t that our car? Signal to it, will you dear?" Olivia performed this duty with impressive dignity, then seated herself opposite her sister, und stared at her

all the way home. But Margaret’s face, though pale, oxpressed nothing of the tumultous emotions which were seething within her, and Olivia got off the car in a dudgeon. If Margaret had a secret, or if something unusual had happened to her it was clearly her business to tell her younger sister all about it Then why in the world did she close her mouth as tight as a clam? Olivia had never been treated so before and she wasn't going to stand it—so Hans Vischer came back to his studio rather late that evening. There had been animated discussion in the Rembrandt Club rooms on tlie wornout theme of “the ideal and the real in art,” and the arguments had waxed long and warm—so much so, in fact, that it was past 12 o’clock when Hans lit the gas ana turned over the small heap of unopened .letters which had accumulated during the’ day. There was ono in a creamy white envelope which he'pounced upon at once with a pleased smile of anticipation. “From Margaret,” he said, postponing his enjoyment of the note, as we are all so fond of doing, long enough to roll and light a cigarette. This duty done, he broke the seal and adjusted his eye-glasses—Hans was a trifle near-sighted, be it said. “Dear girl!" he murmured tenderly. “Of course she’s goi ng to explain why she didn’t come up this morning. That vicious old aunt of her’s wouldn’t let her, I suppose, because of some fancied impropriety In the thing. r What a bore maiden aunts must be! Halghho! precious glad am I that I haven’t any to worry the life out of me. If j Margaret only knew how oheerfully I shall take her excuses! But it would never in the world have done to have had them here when Marie was storming about in that reokless fashion. Poor r’rl! I’m awfully sorry for her. But can’t help wishing she wouldn’t throw herself into a fellow’s arms jts rather embarrassing, on the whole. Aad I don’t believe Margaret would like ft I certainly don't myself." 1 Hans’ jaw began to drop, and his pear-sighted eyes stared into vacancy with a commercial air of amazement. “ ‘Mr. Hans Vischer’—why this paa’t be from Margaret!” he exclaimfed—“and yet it is, by Jove! T return !rou your engagement ring and all the etters you have written me. If you desir-e an explanation, ask your own conscience for it. I shall give you none.’ Short—but sweet; damnably Cweet, by Jove! Why. I must be dreaming—this is some hideous nightmare!—‘Ask my own conscience for it?’ What in the name of-—But pshaw! this must be some practical joke— aud in very poor taste It is. too. I wonder that Margaret could be guilty of such a thing. I shall give you a piece of my mind to-morrow." But the longer H&ns stared at the

(Innocent looking envelope, fire more did the consolation of a joke fade from hU mind; He turned it over in his hand, and- gnawed his blonde mustache with much energy, but the mystery became mot*® impenetrable than ever. At last he threw it down with * guesturo of impatience. “Well, I can’t make it out,” he muttered. “Margaret must have taken leave of her senses. I’m sure I’ve done nothing to deserve this. So let it be, then, there are plenty of other fine women, I suppose. I’m going to turn in and forget all about it; I can't put two thoughts together to-night, a,nyway.”

But no sleep visited his eyes that night, and he tossed about with an ever increasing sense of baffled impatience. He was very much in love with Margaret, and her note, inexplicable though it was, had cut into his heart like a dagger. He dressed himself at daybreak with a dismal conviction that after all life was hardly worth the living. Between his love affairs and his encounters with strongly obtuse art committee's, a poor devil of an artist might as well be out of it all—there certainly wasnV much fun in it-

After his chop and oup of coffee, however, Hans’ reflections began to lean towards cheerfulness. After ah, there must be an explanation to all this; he had done Margaret no conscious wrong, and if he could find out wherein the trouble lay, he would explain it to her satisfaction. Margaret had always shown herself to be a woman of sense and reason—she wouldn’t be found wanting in this case. Hans groaned aloud as he looked at his watch. “Oh, hang it all, I’m duo at Mrs. Bleelcer OnderJonk’s at 2 for another sitting, and I can’t paint in this state of fatal imbecility. I should go wild if I had to stare into that old woman’s fishy eyes all the afternoon. I shall have-.to .put }ier off till tomorrow. I hate to offend her, for she can give me a good many other sitters of Knickerbocker blue-blood, who wish to be handed down to fame—but I can’t help it. O Margaret, Margaret! if you only knew how you have undone me!”

But Margaret was not at home that afternoon; she and Miss Olivia had left suddenly for Albany, the servant saij to visit a maiden aunt for a few days. ("Confound the maiden aunts!” Bans muttered, sotto voce.) Begging his pardon, did hd speak? No? Did he want their address? Miss Olivia had left it on a card, and had whispered, all unbeknown to her sister, that it was to be given to Mr. Vischer the minute he cJlod. Hans took the card mechanically, and walked away like a man dazea. Gone to Albany were they? This affair was certainly assuming the com* ploxity of a sphinx’s riddle, and Ham Vischer hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his heels. 01 one tiling he was sure—he would strike while the iron was hot. He meant tu take tne first train for Albany on the morrow, and demand an explanation—he was tired of being trifled with. Take tho first train he did, and Mar. garet was never so surprised in all hei life as when she Saw coming up the garden path, Hans Vischer! Even hi* eye-glasses seemed to express the determination that lay behind them. Margaret had been cutting astors, and she opened and shut her scissor* nervously, as Hans drew nearer and nearer. She had grown pale, too, and her breath came in quick gasps. Hans, I regret to say, was selfish enough to enjoy all these symptoms of distress. But his heart melted in a moment, and ho stretched out his hands eagerly to

Margaret: “Oh, Margaret,” he said reproachfully, “how could you hurt me so by sending me this note?" holding it out. What does it mean? I do not understand it You surely do not mean whaj you say—that all is over between us?’ This is not the denouement Hans had planned. He had meant to be stern, reproachful and unyielding, but some* how all his dramatio phrases refused to be tHteroff“wtten he rooked intbMai> garet’s averted, unhappy eyes. “I don’t know what you think ol yourself, Mr. Vischer," said Margaret speaking in a tone of stirring scorn, and glancing coldly at him. But | consider you—beneath my notice." II ins grew as pale as ashes, and his blue eyes burned with anger and resentment For a full minute he stood there before her without speaking. “Margaret,’’ he said at last in a low, suppressed tone, “for your sake and mine weigh well your next remark before you utter it I cannot stand any more like the one just made to me. Your conduct demands an explanation, and I will have it. Why did you send mo back my ring?” “Mr. Vischer, your assurance is sublime.” said Margaret with a bitter laugh. “Pardon the suggestion, but I’m sure you’d make your fortune on the stage, should the goddess prove fickle in painting. You demand an ex-

planatiou of me? Go to the original of your ‘Daughter of the Gods'—she is explanation enough." "The original of my ‘Daughter of the Gods?’ Margaret, for Heaven’s sake explain your meaning—l am tired of these mysteries! Why. you are the original of that picture, and I hadt meant to show it to you and tell you so the other day, had you eomo to my studio." "I was at your studio," said Margaret, a look of perplexity creeping over her face. "There was a picture o&yeur easel, food a—young woman in the other room, and—O, Hans, I saw it all, and you have btoken my heart! Oh, what shall I do! what shall 1 do!” The "proud, pale Margaret" had broken down at last, and the bitter passionate tears trickled through her fingers. pr—- - "Margaret! and you believed thal of me! Why, that was the young French girl, or child rather, for she is only that, who has been posing for me as Hebe. She has a wretched time of it ! at home with a drunken father and two j brothers who are no better, and she always comes with all her troubles to me, oonfound her! I—l mean. God bless her! She seems to think that I can help her, though it’s very 1 little I do. She calls me her brother, her protec toe *- and—er—seems to think a good deal j of me.” Hans blushed like a girl as he made this frank confession. "She hud fc,:; a

had an unusually bad time with that cursed father of hers, the other day. and was—rather demonstrative, in fact I don’t wonder that you were a little—surprised. You believe me, don't you, dearest?” j But Margaretoould not answer just then. She had tbrdwn he rse If into -Hans’ forgivmg-armsrTmd'was sobbing as if her heart would break. She did not rare if fi s ty inquisitive maiden aunt’s and a hundred sharp-eyed Olivia’s were in the windows looking at her. To think that she had wronged and hurt and insulted a man so good and true as this one was? Could he ever forgive her? Could she ever forgive herself? “Your picture is the one I mean to exhib’t. dearest, and if you like I shall sea l poor Marie Larue’s with it,” said Hans, after, he had assured Margaret i gain and again that all was forgiven, and that her conclusion in regard to his conduct in the studio had been the most natural in the vyorld. “Ah, Margaret! I could paint you blindfolded—l know every tint and curve of your dear face!”—Anthony E. Anderson, in Milwaukee Wisconsin.