Novel - The Three Orphans (or 'Romancing On the Connecticut') - {unfinished college writing project}

THE THREE ORPHANS

 

OR

 

ROMANCING ON THE CONNECTICUT

 

 

A NOVEL

 

BY

 

BY JOE CONE

 

Keep him not O, gentle maiden

        When not but his own indolence

      Holds him from his vow fulfilling,

    At thy girlhood’s fair expense.

        For blossoms fair on earth’s domain

       Were never meant to bloom in vain.

_____________

T O O  L O N G  E N G A G E D .

 

*******

 

CHAPTER  I.

VIEWING  THE  LANDSCAPE.

 

      Never had the placid waters of the Connecticut reflected so beautiful an October sunset as upon the summer afternoon when Clare Selton, a pretty young artist, seated on a huge flat rock viewed it from the lofty hilltops which stretched upward a good half mile from the river bank.

      It was indeed, enough to fill any young girl’s heart with rapture if she had even a  spark of love for the beautiful within her and more especially one like Clare who was fairly within the alluring meshes of “Love’s Spread Net” and waiting that very moment for the appearance of Rossiter Brainbrey, her long-devoted and taken-for-granted lover.

      The long stretch of hills on the opposite side of the river was clothed in crimson and gold to the water’s edge, and where the softened line of foliage in the center of the river left off, the reflection of the glorious sky began, thus carrying out the full scene which smiled overhead and made a double picture which the romantic young girl drank in with almost breathless admiration.

       Not a ripple disturbed the glassy bosom of the river except the widening wake of a pleasure boat filled with merry people from a summer hotel which stood on the bank below; it was however, so far down the stream that it did not disturb that portion of the river upon which the dreamy eyes of Clare Selton were feasting. Further up the shore was a high point of rocks behind which a long stretch of river was hidden. Suddenly around the massive bowlders into view swept one of the river tugs, actively puffing and throwing out graceful swells on either side which danced and pitched gaily about until they neared the shore where they broke in foamy ringlets on the sand.

      “Oh dear!” involuntarily exclaimed Miss Selton, “now my beautiful picture will be utterly ruined.” The expression of disappointment which flashed to her face was quickly arrested however by a loud but good natural laugh which sounded directly behind her.

      Looking around she saw her lover whose face was all aglow with admiration and amusement. “Oh Ross, isn’t it too bad for that boat to come along and spoil it all; did you observe how beautiful it was before that?” “Yes, I did,” said he, stepping beside her and assuming a reproving look and tone, “and I observed too that you were gazing so intently at the foreground that you never even thought of glancing into the background to see what attractions that afforded.” “Oh Ross, how can you say that, for I have looked around several times; how long have you been standing there?” “Only a very little while,” said he laughing good naturedly once more, “possibly fifteen to twenty minutes; but,” he added, “as for the picture spread before us being utterly ruined it is, in my opinion greatly improved by the appearance of the Tug. Before it was a sort of dreamy, monotonous calm, but now it is a thing of life. The smoke stack and flag staffs on the little craft incline just enough to give her a proud appearance as she sweeps onward, throwing out the large swells astern and pitching the smoothly tinted water into a mass of sparkling confusion.

      See the surface now, it looks like a molten mass of boiling metals of every conceivable shade.”

      “Yes to be sure the scene is more stirring than before,” said Clare, “but you know I always did prefer something calm and perhaps “dreamy” if you like, while you admire just the opposite.”

      “That is owing to our different natures,” said Ross, “but of course you can enjoy your quiet scenes in your own way fully as much as I can in my way; but see!” he added, “the river is growing calm again, the Tug has passed from view and you can have your charming picture once more precisely as it was before.” “By the way, Ross, does Edwin leave for New York to-night on the down boat?” asked Clare as they lingered on the hilltops watching the hazy landscape which was growing dimmer and dimmer in the approaching twilight. “Yes, I believe he does,” answered her lover, “and I’m not sure but you know something of the reason of his sudden departure,” and he gave her a half serious and half playful smile. She dropped her eyes for a few seconds, then rising and standing directly in front of him said with much seriousness: “Yes, Ross, I do know something of the reason, and if you promise me truly to attach no blame to Edwin I will tell you all about it.” “Why he hasn’t –” “No, he has done nothing but act the part of a gentleman,” said she, interrupting his hasty speech, “and now will you promise?” “Why of course,” said Ross, outwardly calm but thoroughly aroused inside.

      Rossiter Brainbrey loved this beautiful girl with all the strength of his deep, passionate nature, and the thought of anyone interfering with his blissful position was more than he would endure, even tho’ it were from his own, warm-hearted, twin-brother Edwin.

      He had loved her from childhood, and tho’ he had never as yet drawn the sweet, final promise from her lips, still he had been in her company constantly for so many years that he honestly believed she belonged to him in every sense of the word.

      “Well,” said Clare slowly, “Edwin merely mistook some action or word of mine this forenoon while you were away to the post office and before he was hardly aware of it himself, poured out the feelings of his heart which he says he has been fighting down for ten long years.” “Did he not know we were engaged?” asked Ross hotly. “I don’t think he did, for I – I didn’t know it myself,” answered the girl bashfully. This remark slightly startled the young man because of its truthfulness. He did not know just how to meet it so managed to stammer out, “Why-er, that is so but of course it’s the same thing; people understand it that way I’m sure. However, we may as well settle that point now and have it forever done with; will you be my wife, Clare?” and he seized her slender hands passionately and drew her to his bosom. She was too surprised and mystified to speak for a moment, then answered in a faint new tone: “Why I – I suppose so, Ross, but were we not happy as we were before?” “Yes, dearest, we were very happy indeed, but we will be very much happier now; do you not think so?” “I’m sure I hope so, Ross,” was the soft answer. Numerous lights began to glimmer along the riverside, and it was with some difficulty they found their way to the main road where they strolled slowly homeward; Ross with his arm around her slender waist and assuring her in low tones and well-chosen words of his great and lasting love. At the gate they decided that they would both go with Edwin that night down to the steamboat landing and see him off.

 

 

CHAPTER  II.

A STEAMBOAT LANDING.

 

      Clare Selton was disappointed, tho’ just why she could hardly tell. After supper was over she went directly upstairs to her chamber and sat by the open window peering out into the night and picturing over and over again to herself the occurrence at twilight on the hillside. She did not experience the rare, sweet girlish happiness such as a young girl should, she thought, upon becoming engaged to the man she loved. It was all so strangely and quickly done that it seemed more like a disagreeable dream than a true linking of her future to Rossiter Brainbey’s. The real, sacred engagement, the outcome of perfect love such as she had often pictured to herself was a far different situation than the one in which she had placed herself. Much as she tried to make it seem otherwise the proposal of her lover appeared to her, as it really was, a sort of weak, impulsive move, caused by a momentary pang of fear or jealousy. “He has always seemed to be satisfied in letting things go along in their own way before this,” she argued, “and he never even made mention of a – a something to make it more secure.” If there is anything dear to the hearts of many young girls it is the possession of an engagement ring. It may be hidden securely from the eyes of the world for some time but the same pleasure is there, and could we take a peep into some of their secret moments and behold the trying on, and many other fondlings, we would readily conclude that the little band of gold was a precious affair indeed. It would be difficult to tell what conclusions Clare might have drawn had not her varying thoughts been interrupted by the arrival of the brothers at the gate, who were on their way to the steamboat landing. The dock was near the hotel a short distance from the foot of the hill from whose summit they had viewed the magnificent scenery in the afternoon.

      Not a word had passed between Ross and Edwin regarding the subject uppermost in their minds, but Clare noticed a slight restraint between them which plainly showed that something unusual was working within. Edwin, however, was the gayest of all concerned and by the time they reached the dock all disquietude seemed to be at an end. Soon after their arrival a short, broken series of rumblings, not unlike the drumming of a distant partridge, could be heard far up the river, and the eager hotel children peered through the darkness to catch the first glimpse of the brilliant array of lights on the steamer as she would swing around the sharp curve in the river above. Then the pounding of the powerful paddle-wheels grew more and more distinct and soon a shout from the excited children announced that the steamer had hove in sight and was rapidly bearing down on them.

      All was life and excitement about the wharf and hotel when at last two long, chiming blasts sounded from her steam whistles, and as she neared the dock the usual “one bell” signal by the captain was given for the engineer to slow the powerful engines down to half speed. Then loud and clear sounded the next bell for stopping which was immediately followed by two bells to reverse. The mate with the accuracy of a cowboy whirled the long “heaving line” to the dock and a large hawser was quickly ashore and thrown over the end of a pile, while the brilliantly lighted steamer feeling the “stern line tauten”, swung to the wharf gracefully, then under one bell moved forward a short distance and became motionless.

      The agile deck hands obeying the short, sharp commands of the mate raised and tossed one end of the lumbering gang plank upon the dock and the well-known “all ashore” was given. Edwin, hastily bidding his friends good bye, stepped on board and made his way to the aft quarter deck where he wished to see and not be seen.

     After a small amount of freight was trucked ashore the customary “two bells” sounded to back up on the “stern line”, and the prow of the great steamer swung slowly outward. One bell, then another followed by a short “toot” and a “jingle”, and the magnificent “City of Springfield” was once more plying her way adown a liquid path en route for New York, with Edwin Brainbrey peering through the darkness unseen at the two lovers standing under the glare of the hotel lamps where he had left them.

      Great swells emerged from under the steamer’s stern as she swept down the river, and Edwin looking sadly down into the boiling waters, wondered what was in store for him in the great city where he would land at early morning. Several other landings were made along the river and finally the draw bridge at Lyme ferry was passed, also Saybrook Bar and Light, and it was a late hour when the steamer was well out into the broad Long Island Sound that Edwin would allow himself to think of repairing to his stateroom to try to catch a few hours sleep.

     Clare and her companion strolled slowly homeward up the steep hills, occasionally making some careless remark but mostly occupied with their own drift of thoughts. Before they had left the landing Ross had glanced several times at the fading lights of the steamer, while a slight feeling of satisfaction passed over him.

      Not that he exactly feared Edwin, for he knew him to be honorable and trustworthy in every respect, but we should be judging him wrongly if we thought that he was not human enough to experience a feeling of relief at seeing him well out of the way for a time at least.

 

CHAPTER  III.

CLARE  AS  A  PAINTER.

 

     Clare Selton had been an orphan since early childhood, but had found an almost parental love in the persons of her childless uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. David Selton. Doubtless this was owing partly to there being no other children in the home and partly on account of Clare being the sole owner of the splendid farm on which they resided. David Selton was an older brother of Clare’s father who died at sea when she was a wee bit of a girl.

      The delicate mother soon after followed, and there was nothing left for Clare to do but make her home with her uncle and guardian who was at the time living on a larger estate owned by her father, so accordingly the smaller homestead was sold, the money deposited, and Clare brought under her own roof but her uncle’s home, where she grew up a bright and pretty girl.

      In early life she showed a great love for nature and had a strong desire to become a painter, and, after a few years by the aid of sojourning artists at the summer hotel she became an almost startling landscape painter. Not that her scenes were of a startling kind for they were not, they were exactly the opposite, but startling in their likeness to nature. She had a remarkable gift for reproducing or originating a scene which had a sort of dreamful fascination about it, a kind of spirit effect which would nearly overcome the interested spectator. In pictures of this kind she revelled, and to step into her studio was like entering some enchanted sphere where everything was brilliantly colored but under the spell of an almost breathless calm.

      Having little to do with household duties she found much time to devote to painting, reading and roaming over the charming hills with her sketch book and easel.

      Hills which would rival in beauty even the picturesque “Haddam Neck Hills”, which have lately been poetized by a local poet as follows:

 

                                   “HADDAM NECK HILLS”

 

“O Haddam Neck hills’ thy grandeur I see,

Tho’ fortune has placed me afar off from thee;

Through memory’s vision yet clear as of old,

Thy stretch of rich verdure I daily behold.

 

O beauty clad hills’ dost thou ever see me?

I never, no never, shall lose sight of thee.

 

“Blest Haddam Neck hills, thy eastern slopes lie

Where fairest of waters dance merrily by;

While down the west side Connecticut sweeps,

And forms a fair picture from high on thy steeps.

 

O beauty clad hills’ though singest to me, –

I never shall weary in singing of thee.

 

“O Haddam Neck hills’ I liken thee to

A cluster of jewels of far shining hue;

A spread of rich treasure and beauties untold,

Arising from waters of pure molten gold.

 

O beauty clad hills’ art though weary of me?

I never shall weary in rhyming of thee.

 

“Dear Haddam Neck hills, when bowed down with years,

Thy poet would turn to those walks he reveres;

And bask in thy sunshine and croon unto thee

An old strain of pathos; aye, feebly but free.

 

O hills of my youth’ thou art to mine eyes

The nearest approach to an earth paradise.”

 

      Oftentimes, in fact nearly always the young artist was accompanied on these delightful expeditions by Rossiter Brainbrey, who was in one sense of the word, a man of leisure. Ross and Edwin were twin brothers, and remarkably alike in form and feature.

     A mother they had never known, and the sorrowing father a few months after their birth, left them in care of his sister, a widow of means, and departed from home to try his fortunes in a new land.

      Several years went by with an occasional letter from the wandering father, then all correspondence ceased, and for thirty years they had given him up as dead.

      The two boys continued to live with their aunt who sent them away to school and gave them a good training and a cheerful home.

      They made occasional visits among friends in New York, but not until the day of our opening chapter had either of them thought of going forth, as many a young man in more limited circumstances had done, to enter the great, active business world and establish for themselves a brilliant future.

     In early childhood the two boys had been much in Clare’s company, owing to the two farms being less than a quarter of a mile apart, and for many years the three went to and from the old red school-house together. As the years rolled by and they arrived at the dawn of man and womanhood, a gradual change came over their relations, and Ross was found oftener in Clare’s company, while Edwin drew more and more to himself, and tho’ it scarcely noticeable at first it soon became apparent that Edwin had given way and Ross was Clare Selton’s accepted lover.

      This was evidently a natural drift of affairs as Ross had spoken no word of love to the young girl until some time following.

     Ross was a careless, gay-spirited youth, full of wit and not over anxious for unnecessary exertion, while Edwin was more thoughtful, possessing a student nature, and a deep, honest heart such as any young girl might be proud to claim.

     Clare had for a long time looked upon Ross as her lover, as indeed he was, but she possessed a strong regard for Edwin which she had always considered a sort of natural, sisterly affection.

      His quiet, respectful bearing, which was far more pleasing than that of his brother, had always charmed her, and she was ever delighted to see and converse with him even tho’ his presence checked many an evening’s love scene between her and the usually uncomfortable Ross.

 

CHAPTER  IV.

EDWIN  IN  NEW  YORK.

 

      “Hello Ed, down on a visit?” asked Harvey Jones*, as Edwin entered the freight office of the H. and N.Y. Transportation Co., a few moments after the City of Springfield made her landing at Peck’s slip early the following morning. “Well, I hardly know myself, Mr. Jones, whether it will be a short call or a long stay,” said Edwin. “The truth is I am down here looking for work this time, instead of trying to get rid of it.”

      Harvey Jones, the general manager of the Transportation Co.’s New York headquarters, dropped his pen in astonishment and looked suspiciously at his young friend from his own native state.

      “Looking for a job, why, what kind of a job do you want, mayor or postmaster general?” “Either one will do for the present,” answered Edwin, laughing, “but putting all fun aside Mr. Jones, I’m looking for any kind of honest work that I may be able to find.”

      “Has your aunt turned you out of doors?” asked Jones, dryly.

      “No, but I have turned myself out which is better, for I suddenly came to the conclusion that I was getting nearly old enough to earn my own living. and here I am, actually started in that cheerful undertaking.” “Well,” said Harvey Jones, now thoroughly interested, “if that is the case I’m glad you stopped in, for we may be able to assist you; but what did you think of doing?” Edwin, having heard of the great difficulty experienced by strangers in securing even a fair kind of job in large cities, answered: “Most anything I could get to do at first and then try to work into something better.” “That is the right way to look at it my friend, and did you bring along any recommendations?” dryly.

      “No,” said Edwin, laughing; then seeing his friend smile, he added: “none but my face.” “Which would starve you to death in no time my boy,” said the other, laughing, “however, we were about to advertise for a young man from the country to assist us here in the office; the pay would not be so very large at first, and the work quite confining, but it might lead to something better in the course of a few months; you wouldn’t think –” “Yes, I would think, and be very glad to accept it,” said Edwin with honest gratitude.

      “All right,” said Jones, who was glad to have the society of his young friend both in and out of the office; “I’ll see if we cannot do a little better than we at first intended; it’s worth a little more to have a young man whom you know,” and gave Edwin a sly wink and stepped to the telephone.

      In a short time arrangements satisfactory to all concerned were made and for the first time in his life Edwin was “hired out”.

      But he was young, strong, and, yes we might say full of hope, for all hope within him was not dead but sleeping.

      He was well aware that indolence on the part of a young man would never attract any young girl and he decided to immediately rid himself of that particular fault. Not that he still fostered the idea of winning Clare at all, but thoughts such as he had never before experienced continually flitted through his mind and he resolved that if ever a shadow of a chance offered itself he would be well prepared to take it.

      “And now,” resumed Mr. Jones, “if you will put in your time where it pleases you best until noon I will help you to find a comfortable stopping place as near to mine as possible.”

      Not caring to meet any more of his city that day Edwin walked up Fulton Street and took the elevated railway to Central Park, where he wished to steal away into some secluded nook and live over again the experience of the day before.

      He wanted for a brief space of time to be alone; alone where all was quiet and restful, and picture to himself again the beautiful object which he beheld in the little opening on the banks of the well beloved Connecticut. Never had Clare looked so ravishingly beautiful to him as she did at that moment, when all nature smiled upon her as the loveliest thing beneath the clouds.

      She was dressed simply but tastefully in a pale blue gown of some well-chosen outing cloth and wore a wide brimmed straw hat which inevitably enhances a young girl’s loveliness.

      But it was not any of these things that so completely unmastered the young man; it was the perfect form and the healthful, buoyant glow of her fair young face which seemed in perfect harmony with the nature she so much loved. The great love which swelled his heart at that moment completely overpowered his better judgment and he stepped beside her.

      “Was it only yesterday I saw her thus?” he murmured as he at last came to a retreat such as he had been seeking; “it really seems long enough ago to be a sort of uncertain dream,” and he passed his hand over his brow as tho’ to brush away all events which had transpired between then and the present moment in order to gain a clearer vision of that he mostly desired to recall.

      The hours went slowly by but he never left his seat until half past eleven, when he took the same route back to his future place of employment. Mr. Jones had no difficulty in securing a pleasantly furnished room for his young friend which was within two doors of his own. Edwin leaving his gripsack in his new quarters, they went to a restaurant to procure dinner. “I will be in to make you a social call to-night,” said James, “and this afternoon you can make preparations to go down with me in the morning.”

      “All right,” said Edwin, glad of another half-day to himself, and the two friends separated.

      “There is something the matter with that young fellow or I never was in love and don’t understand its hopes and disappointments,” muttered Jones, grimly, as he dodged his way back to the office.

 

 

(*‘Harvey Jones’ in most places, ‘Henry James’ in others. Changed to ‘Harvey Jones’ in all, as it was the most prevalent.)

 

CHAPTER  V.

EDWIN  CAME  TO  LEAVE.

 

      For many years Edwin Brainbrey had secretly loved Clare Selton.

      A strange way to love, surely, for a very long period, but such was the case. Not that his chances for winning the young artist were any poorer than those of his brother, but he had much love for Ross also, and knowing his quick, passionate nature so well he knew that any effort on his part to win Clare would be met immediately with open warfare, and in all probabilities he would meet with a failure besides, as Ross had been devoted for so long a time, so he gradually withdrew from the field and tried to smother an unquenchable flame – the flame of young love.

      But as year after year went by and Ross made no apparent progress in his matrimonial affairs, Edwin concluded that something was out of the usual course. To be sure neither of the boys had ample means of their own, but Edwin often thought that were he in Ross’s position he would start out into the world and prepare a future for the girl he so much loved. Both of the young men would be well provided for at the death of their aunt, but generous Edwin would not for an instant harbor the thought that Ross could be waiting for such an event to occur.

      He was far too honorable himself to be capable of judging aught else in his brother, and besides his aunt was liable to live for a great many years to come. As long as she lived they would have a welcome and pleasant home beneath her roof, but of course even Ross could not think of bringing another upon her generous hospitality.

      Thus Edwin pondered day by day the probable cause of his brother’s seemingly lack of interest in securing such an enviable prize when it was so close within his grasp.

      “If I only had as much to work for as Ross has,” he said bitterly, “I would have been in New York five years before this, working night and day laying a foundation for something nobler and better.”

      “Clare ought to be in New York any way,” he said. “An artist such as she bids fair to become ought to be among other artists, where she could see and learn, and where her pictures would be more appreciated and more widely exhibited than here.”

      And Edwin was perfectly correct in his view of the situation, for many a gifted soul is born and reared in some remote district who, perhaps once in life gets a taste of great possibilities, then owing to limited advantages the genius gradually weakens, struggles a little for breath, then the unfortunate creature of circumstances plods his weary way once more.

      Such cases as these are sad and many, but whom can we blame? No one. Then we must lay it up against that unseen being whom one has cursed and another blessed since the world began – fate.

      Edwin was nearing a point where it was necessary for him to know precisely how matters stood, not alone with Ross and Clare, but with himself as well. His keen observation led him to believe that Ross and Clare were not engaged, and if such was the case then there certainly must have been a good reason. Either Clare did not love Ross as he always supposed she had or else Ross was very negligent regarding his love affairs, but which it was he could not in the least make out. He had great confidence in Clare and he intended at the first opportunity to draw out all he could of the exact truth, then if necessary, go away quietly and leave the unhappy past behind him.

      On the morning preceding the afternoon on which our story opens Ross had gone up across the lots to the post office, a distance of about one mile and a half, while Edwin took his fishing rod and sauntered along the river bank till he should come to an inviting pool in which to cast his hook. He had just emerged from a clump of thick undergrowth when he espied Clare Selton in a small opening, seated by her easel and sketching a small, picturesque fishing hut which enhanced the beauty of the opposite bank.

      “Miss Selton – Clare,” he murmured almost unconsciously, “I have long been waiting this pleasure and now it has joyously opened before me,” and he stepped beside her, his honest face all aglow with rapture and admiration.

      “Why Edwin!” exclaimed Clare in a surprised tone, “what on earth makes you look so happy?” “Yes, indeed, Clare, it is something on ‘earth’, but sometimes to me it looks heavenly.” Here he suddenly checked himself and said with a husky, uncertain voice: “Will you answer me an impertinent question Clare?” “Certainly,” said the young artist, wondering vaguely what had come over the usually reticent and undisturbed Edwin. “Well, then, are you engaged to Ross?” he asked, white to the very lips. Clare dropped her eyes and colored intensely, and was about to say something which she really disliked to do when she caught sight of the intense pain and emotion which was depicted on every line of his usually handsome face. Changing her mind she said low and gently: “No, Edwin, I am not, but I do not wonder that you thought so; but why do you ask?” “O Clare, ‘why do I ask?’ can you not see why I ask?” and his eager eyes, full of untold love were bent upon her, while he poured out the secret of his heart which he had until then kept well concealed for many years.

      “Think of me as you will, Clare, but I could not help it, and now that I have unburdened myself and burdened you, I ask that you will not judge me too harshly,” he pleaded.

     She felt a genuine pity for him, and laying her hand upon his shoulder said: “I’m so sorry for you Edwin, so sorry that I can hardly speak, but you see, you must see just how it is; it was nothing that I could have helped, and therefore no one is to blame, is there Edwin?” “No one but my own self,” said the unhappy young man. Clare was intensely awakened, but Edwin saw with sinking heart, that it was naught but a sisterly affection and pity, tho’ her face wore a strange expression; an expression that he could neither fathom nor forget for many a day.

      The result was something as he expected it would be, but he was glad that she felt so kindly towards him after making such an untimely avowal of love. He wanted very much to have her promise to keep the whole affair from Ross but his better sense kept him from asking the question; “I will let her use her own judgment about it,” he thought, “for sometimes a secret no matter how slight makes serious trouble between two such as they.”

      After satisfying himself that she had not the slightest feeling against him for his hasty declaration, he bade her good bye and resumed his journey along the river bank while he resolved to go that very night by steamer to New York and thus shut the fair picture behind him and the old haunts out of his mind forever.

      Clare, far too agitated to do any more sketching that day, folded her easel and walked leisurely homeward. Late in the afternoon, after leaving word for Ross as to her whereabouts, she went out on the brow of the hill to view the beautiful autumn landscape already described.

 

 

CHAPTER  VI.

CLARE’S  GREAT  MIND  PICTURE.

 

      On the day following Edwin’s departure Clare hardly left her room tho’ the weather was unusually inviting. The roadsides were lined with crimson and golden hued foliage and the soft autumn air was pure, cool and exhilarating.

      It was an ideal day for an artist to be abroad with pencil and sketch book. But Clare was in no mood for sketching, and neither was she busily painting all that long day for her brushes were yet filled with various colored paints and lying where she had dropped them in early morning in dauby confusion.

      It was a different kind of picture on which she was at work that day; it was a great mind picture, in which three persons prominently figured: Ross, Edwin and herself.

      Now and again a feeling of loneliness stole upon her and yet she wished to be alone. Anyone’s presence she felt would but irritate her. Ross was out of town and would not return until late at night, but it was not him whom she missed, as she was quite sure his presence would not satisfy her strange and varying mood, and on the whole she was really unable to imagine just what would.

      She missed Edwin in no small degree, tho’ it was but natural because of the fact of his being way for so uncertain a length of time. “It might be for years, it might be forever,” he said laughingly, as he went aboard the steamer that night, and tho’ he tried to make so light of it Clare noticed a slight tinge of sadness in his voice. Not that he was necessary to her happiness, but she had always enjoyed his conversation so much, and while she would have greatly pitied him had he remained at home, she now felt all the more sorry for him because of his being in a great city comparatively alone. “Poor fellow,” she murmured, “who would ever thought of him loving me in that manner, and yet there was a time several years ago when I half suspected it, but he afterwards became so much occupied with himself that I concluded I was mistaken. It is all clear to me now; the past is gradually opening and I can see the other side of it. Although Edwin had double the love for me that Ross had, he would rather bear his pain silently all these years than cause his brother one moment’s anxiety.

      Poor, noble Edwin, was there ever such a spirit shone before in a young man intensely in love? I can hardly credit such noble sacrifice. Ah, if Ross but had the qualities of Edwin, I should be so happy”. Thus she mused and passed the long and weary day.

      Just before twilight she could not resist the temptation to go once more out upon the brow of the hill, where she thought she might be all alone, and view the charming landscape as she had done the day before.

      There was a brisk breeze blowing which in a measure spoiled the beautiful reflection, but the river was dotted with small sail boats which were skimming joyously along, giving pleasure and excitement to their merry occupants. The sun had sunk behind the distant western slopes, but it still gave a brilliant reflection above the purple horizon, and that, with the delightful ruddy glow of the autumn foliage, wrought a magical change in the young artist’s highly strung temperament. Drawing a small note book from her pocket she penciled the following enthusiastic lines:

                                   “O great and wondrous works of God!

                                         O nature fair as any bride!

                                 Thy Crimson blushes I applaud –

                                          I fain would here with thee abide.”

     In order to better escape observation from any chance stragglers she had gone a little farther down the hill and seated herself behind a clump of bushes, thus screening herself from the position she and Ross had occupied the day before, but commanding fully as good a view of the river and it numerous windings.

     She had not been long seated however, when a small shining object which lay in the grass a few feet away attracted her attention. Picking it up she found it to be a small and finely made crayon holder nearly new and after the same pattern used by herself. At first she thought it must have been dropped by someone sojourning at the hotel, but it did not seem likely either as it bore the name of a Hartford firm and evidently came from the art store at which she did her entire purchasing in that line.

     It contained a newly sharpened crayon and was pointed with great care and accuracy. Looking about more closely she discovered the corner of an envelope lying in the grass which had evidently been used to produce an even finer point upon the crayon as there were numerous marks across the paper bearing out that demonstration. There was also on the corner of the small bit of paper the business address of the same Hartford art store from which she had received numerous letters, and near to where it was torn were the following characters: “Mr. Edw – ” the remainder being detached. She searched faithfully for the missing half of the envelope but nothing further was found by which she could gain a clue as to the identity of the artist. “Edw. certainly stands for Edwin,” she mused, but it cannot be possible that he has been playing the artist unbeknown to any of his friends.” In vain did she try to call up any instance during their conversations that would bear out such a supposition.

     At nightfall she strolled homeward, not a little puzzled and disconcerted over the strange incident.

 

 

CHAPTER  VII.

A  DAY  ON  THE  RIVER.

 

     The day following was none the less charming, and Clare in a decidedly better mood, was up and waiting for Ross who was to take her in a small boat far up the river on a sketching trip.

     As they were to be gone a good part of the day Clare had prepared a dainty box of lunch for both, and by the time her lover appeared at the gate she was quite ready.

     “Edwin is coming up on the Springfield tomorrow morning,” said Ross, as they descended the hill and walked along the bank toward the landing. “Why, I thought he liked it there; has he given up his position?” asked Clare, striving not to appear more than ordinarily interested. “No, not that,” replied he, “he and Harvey Jones with two others are coming up for a few day’s gunning. Jones will stop at the landing below to see his mother and Ed will come up here. I have made arrangement for a grand ‘Coon Hunt’, on the day after tomorrow night, as the two friends will not arrive until the next boat”. By this time they had reached the spot where Ross kept his small pleasure skiff moored a few yards from the shore.

     The river was calm, and every thing nature suggested a hazy, peaceful autumn day. They followed along close to the shore and stopped occasionally to gather some scarlet-leaved vines or branches with which the shore was profusely ornamented.

     Farther and farther up the river they glided, as it was the intention to keep along until they should come to some interesting object worthy of a spotless page in Clare’s cherished sketch book.

     Ross’s admiring eyes were constantly bent upon her while she was drinking in the loveliness of the landscape all about, and she playfully remarked several times that he was wasting his eyesight when so much beauty was glowing on all sides of them.

     “That is according to one’s own way of thinking,” he said at last; “one usually gazes longest at the object most attractive to one’s self in the whole picture.” “I cannot understand,” said Clare, a trifle nervous, “how people can be so utterly blind to the indescribable beauties furnished by nature. It is simply glorious, every square mile of this surrounding landscape.”

     “You artists are continually overrating the aspects in nature; I frequently think that nature gets far too much praise for her share of this world’s handiwork; even Edwin I fear has got a touch of this poetical or artistical mode of measuring the charms of nature of late years, for I cannot enjoy a day’s good gunning or fishing with him because he apparently is more interested in the stream or tree itself than what it actually contains, either fish or game. Nature may be beautiful enough but in my opinion it needs the hand of man to set it off and give it an appearance of activity, as in the case of the tug, a few days ago.”

     “In your own words, that is according to one’s own way of thinking,” replied Clare, “but I never dreamed that Edwin had a particle of the artist about him, tho’ he always seemed much interested in the subject and appeared to understand it thoroughly.”

     By this time they had reached the “Straits”, where Clare’s quick eye espied in the thick foliage far up the hillside the dilapidated roof of a forsaken dwelling which was known to all the rivermen as the ‘haunted house’. Many and curious stories were afloat concerning this abandoned structure, which was an imposing and sightly abode before decay and undergrowth took full possession thereof. “O, that will make a capital sketch, Ross,” exclaimed Clare, “do let us go ashore and climb the hill.”

     It was a long and tiresome jaunt but finally they reached a desirable spot and Clare prepared her easel while Ross stretched himself out in an indolent position under a tree only a few yards from where the pretty young artist was seated.

     She sketched rapidly, chatting gayly the meanwhile, and the famous old estate bid fair to be faithfully reproduced by the small, shapely and masterly hand of Miss Selton.

     Occasionally glancing in the direction of the one at whom her conversation was directed, she found him each time gazing intently at her. Not that that was an unusual thing for him to do but there was a peculiar expression on his countenance which she could not quite understand. She had noticed it once or twice before of late and this time it made her a trifle nervous, tho’ she could give no very definite reason why it should. In fact his whole demeanor was undergoing a change, and instead of being solicitous as to her happiness and comfort as he had been formerly, he had grown somewhat careless in actions and conversation.

     Many times of late he had fondly embraced her, but it was not the quiet and respectful caress which women admire in those whose lives are bound to theirs by pure and holy ties, it was more after the manner of an overpowering, self-privileged clasp, from which her pure maidenly instinct shrank.

     But Clare was of a forgiving and cheerful nature and she tried to look upon it as thoughtlessness and good nature on Ross’s part, and the unpleasant occurrences were given little thought.

     Ross, however, took her actions on these occasions as shy, maidenly reserve which would in time wear away.

     She sketched away busily, trying not to notice his earnest scrutiny, and endeavored to throw off all feeling of alarm, but her nervousness steadily increased and the remaining moments, which she hurried, availed little towards finishing her picture satisfactorily.

     She declared the picture finished and said she would prefer to partake of the lunch down by the boat as there was a small spring near to where they landed, and although nothing out of the ordinary was said by either, Ross could not help feeling the slight reserve suddenly adopted by his companion.

     During the sail homeward the conversation was somewhat strained, and in Clare’s mind the day was a partial failure.

     Both were glad when good bye was said at the gate, and Clare was thankful that the next few days would be comparatively her own.

     “I do not see what ails Ross of late,” she mused, as she lay her sketch book in the studio and prepared to join her aunt; “he is getting to be so changed from what he was a few years ago.”

     Ross, on his way home, and ill at ease, declared that Clare was growing very moody, and he could hardly understand her strange actions of the past few days.

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.

DOWN  THE  SOUND.

 

     It was the custom throughout the New England States, and most likely the country over, for young men away from home to turn their faces in that direction every fall in pursuit of the wary game on the hunting grounds of their boyhood.

     Edwin and his friend Jones, joined by two other young men were planning for a few days gunning up among their native hills.

     The two friends, owing to business detainments, were unable to leave as soon as Edwin and Jones, but Edwin had agreed to meet them on their arrival on the next boat for Hartford.

     With light hearts and heavy sporting luggage they stepped aboard the City of Springfield. Darkness had begun to settle down so that the coast line was barely discernable. The favorite steamer plowed her way through the short, crispy waves of the Sound while here and there lights glistened, some near and some afar, marking the path for her to follow.

     Edwin, thinking of naught but the one whom he must of a necessity meet on the morrow, paced the after deck nervously, while Jones, sitting at no great distance, eyed him closely while leisurely puffing a fragrant Havana. Each was intensely occupied with his own thoughts; Edwin with the uncertain future, and Harvey Jones with the past; the inevitable and inexorable past!

     Night came on. A raw, easterly mist drove nearly all of their fellow passengers inside, either to their staterooms or to the inviting saloon where music, both vocal and instrumental was being indulged in and enjoyed by the gay hearted tourists.

     The two friends, with heavy outer coats, remained without.

     Edwin was pacing the deck with slightly bowed head when Jones asked dryly: “What are you doing Ed, guard duty?” “Yes,” answered the young man, “I’m guarding you.” “And from what?” queried Jones. “From letting you enjoy yourself, as much as anything,” said Edwin a little reproachfully. “O, come now Ed, don’t mind that; I’ve been doing a little thinking on my own hook for the past two hours, and pretty much on the same strain as yourself, I surmise.”

     Edwin started. “Can it be that Jones has in some way learned of that occurrence?” thought he to himself. It seemed improbable. He walked over to where Jones was sitting and asked nervously: “What do you surmise I was thinking about, my friend?” “O, fair hair and blue eyes, most likely,” answered Jones. “But I say Ed, do you care to listen to a little past history?” “Certainly, if you wish to confide it to me,” said Edwin, noting the expression of pain upon the usually sunny countenance of his friend.

     “Well, a good many years ago, long before this was tinged with white,” said he, drawing his white fingers through his luxuriant mustache, “a certain young lady with her father, lived in a handsome house on the bank of the river not far from our destination.

     I loved that fair creature, Ed, as I never dreamed a woman could be loved by man, and we were engaged to be married. At the time I was living at home and clerking at a store. Her father invested money in California and a few months before we were to be wed his business called him there. She went with him, they both intending to return in early spring.” Here Jones grew pale and excited, and, seizing his companion’s arm they trod the slippery deck together, the drizzling rain making the scene all the more dismal and realistic. “Days and weeks, yea, months and years went by,” continued the man, “and not so much as a line did I receive! Ah! I tell you, my young friend, sometimes it gets hard, too hard to bear,” and he drew his hand across his throbbing forehead. “Once I thought of going there and searching from one of the places to the other, but what would it have availed me? If she were alive and still true, she would have written; if she were alive and false, it were better that I should discover her whereabouts, for I was mad; mad with suspense, fear and I know not what else. I shifted around from place to place for ten years, and finally drifted into the position I now hold, but life, even at this late day is not all smiles, Ed, I can assure you.”

     Edwin was deeply moved and he seized his companion’s hand with a clasp which meant devoted friendship as long as his life should last. His own great sorrow had shrunk several degrees in magnitude since listening to that of his friend. He had read of such genuine, long-suffering grief as that but he had never realized its full meaning before. “Have you given up all hope, Mr. Jones?” he asked. “No; sometimes I either imagine or dream, I hardly know which, that she may be restored to me some day, but it is almost too improbable to keep in mind.”

     “I don’t know about that,” said Edwin, “some queer things take place in this world, and we can hardly be surprised at anything.”

     “Yes, that is so,” said the other, but he did not have much heart in his words. “Somehow I feel that all will come out right yet,” said Edwin, “but suppose you knew that she was alive and lived near at hand, and – and loved another?” “Don’t!” said he, “I could stand anything but that.” “Well,” said Edwin, “that is my case exactly.” “What!” exclaimed Harvey Jones, “as bad as that, Ed?” “Fully,” said the young man. Both were nervously pacing the deck once more. “I knew there was something wrong but did not dream it was anything so serious,” remarked Jones.

     The wind was now blowing furiously and driving the rain under the hurricane deck where they were walking.

     Drawing closer into a corner where the storm was less violent, Edwin unburdened his own heavy sorrow. Never before had either of them realized the value and comfort of a confidential friend.

     It is the sorrow that one must bear strictly alone that kills.

     Both men felt deeply and for each other, and within the hearts of each a firm resolve was made. A determination that one would do all in his power to assist the other in securing that which then seemed so utterly removed from their respective paths.

     The steamer continued on her dismal way and at a later hour than usual swung round into the mouth of the winding Connecticut.

     The companions, not caring to occupy a stateroom, made themselves comfortable on the saloon settees to wait until they should arrive at their different landings. This they did in due time and Jones, bidding Edwin good bye, promised to be on hand early the following day for the sport.

     Ross, with a lantern, was at the steamboat landing to meet Edwin, and the greeting between them was warm and brotherly.

 

 

CHAPTER  IX.

A  COON  HUNT.

 

     It had been a successful season for crops, and the farmers along the valley smiled broadly as they looked upon their bounteous yield soon to be harvested. Besides being a large and satisfactory yield of produce there was a large and very unsatisfactory supply of produce destroyers, known to the world as raccoons, and to the farming community as “coons.” Night after night had these little “varmints” stole forth and played havoc among the fields of ripening corn.

     Young men from numerous farms had turned out nightly in large numbers and faithfully hunted the sly little animals, but owing to the scarcity of “good coon dogs,” little had been done in the way of abolishing the “pesky critters”.

     Ross, having learned that a man named John Ross, who lived a few miles distant was the happy owner of a valuable dog for hunting that particular line of game, had, unbeknown to any of the New York party made arrangements to have John, who was a veteran raccoon hunter, and his dog, True, accompany them on their night’s expedition. So, according to the agreement, just before dark, John trudged into the large and shady yard at Mrs. Brainbrey’s house where he found the young men having a watermelon jollification under the spreading maples on the lawn.

     The appearance of the tall, good natured Yankee followed by his dog was hailed with delight by the gay spirited young men, and he was the hero of the occasion in a short space of time, tho’ True came in for his share of attention and it was a lion’s share too; rather more than a dog’s. It would have been difficult to have told who was the most popular, John or True, but both were sorely needed and the delighted young men capered about nearly as much as did the playful dog. John bore the misfortune of having lost one eye, but it was asserted that he could see more “coons” on a dark night with his one eye than any other man for miles around could see with four. “About what value do you place on your dog?” asked Jones. “Waal,” said John, “I calculate that takin’ in everything, real estate, personal property, dog and all, I’m wurth about five hundred dollars; takin’ out the dog I would close out all the rest for about fifty or so.”

     “Well, to-night will decide how much you are worth old fellow,” said Jones, rubbing True’s ears vigorously. The young men could hardly wait for darkness to settle down before they set out, and even True began to sniff and skip around his master in a suspicious manner. Three lanterns were brought out and with each of the men affectionately hugging a carefully loaded gun they started out in pairs over “Quarry Hill”.

     The lanterns threw out great, weird, flitting shadows as they entered the deep wood, and it is needless to say that they young men from the city found the rough and broken hillsides vastly different from great, level and illuminated Broadway.

     True, with his nose close to the ground, was in advance, and shortly darted ahead and out of sight. “Hold on boys, let’s go it easy now till he calls on us,” said John, noticing the anxiety.

     Each of the young men clutched his much beloved fire arm more closely and played nervously with the trigger. Soon a number of short, sharp yelps rang through the woodland and the six men hastened in the direction whence the sounds issued.

     Startled birds flitted from their resting places as the young men scrambled beneath the hemlocks, and John, who was in the led chuckled softly to himself as he heard the half whispered expressions of the “city fellers”.

     They came upon True sitting close to the trunk pf a tall chestnut, and he, evidently was the least excited of any save his master.

     John simply patted him and asked for the lanterns. After placing them in certain positions he said: “Now who wants to shute first?” None of the young men turned their backs upon the idea.

     It was finally decided to go according to age, so Jones was to have the first shot. Owing to the glare of the lanterns he could not at first locate the two small bright spots which John pointed out as being the “coon’s” eyes, but when he did he took careful aim and fired. Down through the branches came tumbling a dark, furry body and True was over it the instant it hit the ground. “Well done, Mr. Jones,” said John, moving aside to let the young hunters look their first victim over to their heart’s content.

     He was a large, fat fellow and Jones held him by the tail at arm’s length. After they had conversed about its weight etc. sufficiently, and rolled it over with the toe of their boots, they expressed themselves ready for number two. One or two had moved away when John said: “Hold on boys, I believe there is more fruit up thar in that tree yit, we want to pick it all afore we leave it.”

     He shifted the lanterns around a little and sure enough there were two more bright spots peering down through the darkness.

     “Now which of you is the oldest can shute first,” said John, addressing Ross and Edwin. The others laughed heartily at the joke, and declared they ought to go heads and tails for it.

     Ross, who said he would have plenty of it before the season was over instantly and cheerfully gave way to his brother. Edwin was an excellent shot and soon another of the sly rogues lay stretched upon the ground. True started off on another trail and soon they heard his quick bark, this time a long way off. Hastening thither they found him keeping two more of the rascals company which were clinging high up in the top of a thinly leaved walnut.

     This time it was Ross’s turn, followed by one of the young men from the city, who, when he brought his down, after firing three shots, guarded and fondled it as tho’ it were very choice game indeed. It was a famous raccoon locality in which they had entered and John said they would do as well to wait where they were and let the dog do the running around. Some few minutes passed in which the veteran hunter furnished the young men with some interesting raccoon adventures. In a little while a series of sharp, painful, howls reached their ears from the valley below.

     “Close quarters thar, boys,” said John, springing up and dashing down the hill with his lantern at a fearful rate of speed.

     He left his followers far in the rear, and in a short time they heard two quick pistol shots then all was still. When they came up with him they found two large raccoons stretched out dead, and John looking True over carefully to see if he was seriously hurt. He had come upon the two animals suddenly and cornered them in front of a high ledge and a lively tussle ensued.

     After satisfying himself that he was not, he suggested turning homeward and keeping nearer the cornfields along the river bank.

     “That is the reason,” said John, “why I never let the dog go off with anyone unless I go myself; them pesky critters might have finished him in a few minutes longer.”

     On their way home they dispatched four more, and could easily have doubled the number, but it was getting late and their load was exceedingly heavy.

     “Now then for a glorious ‘coon supper’,” said Ross, as they parted for the night, and all hands voiced his sentiments.

 

 

CHAPTER  X.

A  “COON  SUPPER”.

 

     John was invited to remain over another day to be present at the “coon supper”, and, after declaring he had no business of importance on hand, said he would. Early the next morning he was up and had two of the animals dressed and hung up in the wood shed, and was about to start on the third when some of the young men, sleepy eyed, gathered about him to watch the operations.

     It was great curiosity for them to see him skillfully remove the hide and prepare the carcass for the frying pan. Four was considered sufficient for the feast, and Jones decided to take the rest of them to New York to distribute among his friends.

     Invitations were sent out to several families around the neighborhood, and considerable excitement was aroused over the coming jolly occasion. Mrs. Brainbrey was an excellent manager for any event of the kind and at an early hour in the evening announced everything in readiness. There was a goodly number of young people present, and the hostess, with her usual tact in arranging matters, had invited four extra young ladies of pleasing manners to be present, so that none of the young men should be without a partner at the bounteous table. “And how about poor, lonely old John?” asked Edwin, laughing; “he will be all alone and unprotected.” “O, you need not be at all alarmed about him,” said his aunt, “he will be looked out for,” and she seized the tall hunter’s arm and led the way to the head of the table. John stammered, blushed and tried to hide his large brown hands while the room rang with merry laughter.

     It was not until they were seated at the table that Edwin saw Clare. She came in with Ross, followed by her aunt and uncle.

     He greeted her with his old-time respect and consideration, but three people, perhaps Clare, Ross and Jones, could not help but notice the whiteness of his firmly drawn face.

     He had been dwelling upon this meeting for two long days and striving to nerve himself for it, for he knew it would be a severe test as he realized more fully each day how great and unconquerable was his love for this beautiful young girl.

     His very being seemed for an instant to rise and leap towards her as she entered the room, but he quickly recovered himself and became remarkably natural.

     All places now being filled they proceeded with supper, and a jolly, old-fashioned time it was. Jones was a youth once more and kept the honest, country folk in roars of laughter, and one of the young men from the city declared the supper far ahead of anything he had ever helped to diminish on Coney Island.

     Rich milk, cream and butter was plentiful, and Mrs. Brainbrey’s hot biscuits disappeared at a rate of speed that nearly frightened her. “I really think,” she said, “that I shall be obliged to go out to the neighbors to borrow some more; why, I never saw anything like you boys are tonight.” “O, never mind about going for more, auntie,” said Edwin, “I have plenty now,” at the same time reaching for two more. The raccoon was unusually delicious, and the cries for “more, more,” from the hungry young men were early and often. “Are you really having a good time?” queried Jones of one of his New York friends, who was devoting fully two thirds of his time to the rosy-cheeked girl by his side.

     “O, capital,” said he; “it beats even last night.” “Don’t suppose you will ever come again tho’, will you?” asked Jones, soberly. “Well, that depends altogether upon whether I get an invitation or not,” he answered, glancing slyly at his fair companion. “I am not at all afraid upon that score,” said Jones. “No, I should judge you were not,” observed Edwin, and the laugh was turned upon Jones whose partner blushed and darted a look of pretended anger at Edwin, whom she had known for many years.

     After the highly enjoyable supper was over the young people indulged in many innocent country games which have always been popular at gatherings in rural districts. Later in the evening several of the lovers of singing gathered about the piano at which Clare was seated and soon the spacious rooms were filled with music from a score of rich young voices.

     The young men contributed their share to the evening’s enjoyment by rendering several college songs, consisting of solos, duets and choruses. Jones, who was an excellent bass, with Ross, Edwin and one of the other young men made up a superb quartet, and they were encored again and again. “I tell ye boys,” said John from his corner, “this does acterly beat coon huntin’ an’ no mistake.”

     Clare was unusually brilliant that evening. Besides being an artist she was a clever performer upon the piano, and her services in that capacity were much in demand. Jones, for reasons of his, was very partial to her company and made himself decidedly agreeable. He loitered about the piano, turned her music for her and found much time to converse with her about art, books and music, all of which she enjoyed. He also found several opportunities to speak of his young friend whom he was so delighted to have associated with him in New York. “Yes, we were fortunate in securing Edwin,” he said, “as young men of his caliber are scarce in business houses; but what we fear mostly is that we may not be able to retain him as he is so ambitious that he will advance to something higher than we can offer him at present.” “Why, is Edwin so very ambitious?” asked Clare, interestedly. “Is he? well, I just wish you could associate with him for a little while, Miss Selton, you would then see his great ambition and also his great possibilities.

     Clare drew a partially concealed sigh and the conversation drifted to other things just as Jones wished it to do.

     The evening was far spent before the merry party broke up. Clare departed with Ross after inviting Jones and Edwin to pay her a visit before leaving for New York, which was their intention the following night. Jones and the other young men, after being so chivalrous thus far could not well shirk their pleasant duty, so amid much laughter and no few blushes, they walked along the rough country roads with their partners of the evening.

     The next morning John and True left the Brainbrey homestead amid many words of regret and kindness from the young men. They assured the faithful hunter that should he ever visit New York he would have a royal good time.

     The forenoon was spent in cleaning the firearms and making preparations for their journey to the great city by boat that night.

     As Edwin had found a situation and it was probable that he would remain in New York for some time he busied himself with filling a large trunk with numerous articles consisting of wearing apparel, books, artist’s materials and much else with which to occupy his mind in the long evenings to come in the city.

     In looking over his box of crayons he noticed that one of the holders was missing and a careful search among all his material failed to reveal it. After deep reflection on the matter he concluded it must have been dropped where he was making his last sketch and accordingly he went out upon the hill to search for it, but as well might be supposed, with poor success.

 

 

CHAPTER  XI.

EDWIN’S  CLEVER  ART  SCHEME.

 

     “Clare, I’ve a proposition to make,” said Edwin, as he with Ross and Jones were paying a visit to her studio on the afternoon of their return to New York. “Well, you have the consent of all present, I’ll warrant,” said she. “It is this,” said he; “You have a studio overloaded with fine pictures, also nearly every room in the house is full to overflowing, to say nothing of the several dozen which Ross has in his room at auntie’s. Now my idea is to take a half dozen or so with me to New York and place them in an art store to be sold on commission by the dealer, for I am confident that they will sell readily and bring you a fair profit; what say you?” The young girl’s face shone joyously and she exclaimed: “Capital, Edwin, I never thought of such a thing; but perhaps they may not sell so readily as you think, for probably the market is already well supplied. “It is true, said Jones, the market is nearly overrun with pictures, but like Edwin, I think that such paintings as you have here would attract much attention and sell without any trouble whatever. If you have any that you care to part with I would strongly advise you to let Edwin make the trial.” “I have been watching one art store in particular of late,” said Edwin, “and if the pictures I have seen exhibited there sell so easily I have no fear but what yours will meet with a ready sale; however, we can try, and if you are willing, you may select a half dozen of such as you do not care to keep and have then ready to go down to the wharf with our guns and ammunition this evening.”

     “You are very kind, I’m sure,” said Clare with a grateful look, 'but do not think I shall be much disappointed if you do not meet with the success you anticipate; an artist’s struggle for recognition is a hard one, remember.” “In some cases but not in all, I’m glad to say,” said Jones; “there is a case now and then where true merit wins without years of unnecessary, hard labor on the part of the painter.”

     Ross had been a quiet listener to the conversation, and tho’ he was immensely pleased to think that Clare was going to be brought into notice, yet he had rather it had been himself through whom it was to be accomplished. Since Jones had been introduced to Clare he had taken great pains to praise Edwin in every way possible, and he did it in such a skillful manner that none could detect the motive, tho’ Ross had several times thought that Jones was taking an uncommon interest in his brother.

     Edwin, like Clare was a lover of art and spent much time in study of that kind. He was thoroughly informed upon the subject and that was the reason perhaps why Clare had always enjoyed his conversations so greatly.

     He seemed to understand her much better than anyone else, and could talk interestingly for hours upon any branch of the subject she chose to advance. Blind young lady – she did not realize that he was interested in art simply because she was, and that all his study and pains at first were to prepare himself so as to be more interesting to her and keep along upon the same level with herself. He hardly knew it himself yet such was the case. To be sure he loved art for itself but it was through her that he became such a devotee and it was because of his great love for her that he would remain as such.

     So it was arranged that for the first time in her life Clare was to have her work on exhibition elsewhere than a small country town.

     “I really wonder if anybody will buy then,” she meditated. “If they only will I will paint and paint from morn till night; O, how I wish they might sell! It would be such a glorious occupation to paint for my own living.”

     After the callers had taken their leave she again entered her studio and stood before her rare paintings. Looking from one to the other and then to the next, a strange feeling of mingled doubt, pleasure and hopefulness stole upon her. The thought of her pictures being placed on exhibition in a large window on a prominent street in New York, with perhaps hundreds of people gazing at them daily was almost too good to be true. What wonder she experienced new and blissful emotions. A new life seemed to open before her; a life of which she had oftentimes dreamed but never expected to live in reality. She was a beautiful creature, this slender young girl, as she moved about her tastefully arranged apartment, scarcely knowing which of her paintings to select. Warm hearted, loving and with delicately rounded features as frank and open as the day.

     Finally selecting a half dozen with great care she placed them in the best light obtainable and scrutinized them closely.

     “Those will do I think fully as well as any; but it will be like parting with old friends,” she said to her aunt who came in at that moment. “Why, what in the Old Nick are you going to do now?” asked Mrs. Selton. Clare in a few words informed her, after which she took the pictures to the kitchen where she gave them a thorough cleaning.

     This process caused them to look still more attractive, and after they were sufficiently dry she wrapped them into a neat bundle and placed them in the hall to wait for the coming of Ross and the New York party. The young men ate a hearty supper and at the proper hour started in a body for the steamboat dock.

     The team, driven by Mrs. Brainbey’s hired man and containing the guns, ammunition and the six undevoured “coons” went a short distance in advance. Stopping at Clare’s house the pictures were put into the wagon after which it rattled on its way down the hill to the steamboat landing.

     Clare, who was waiting at the gate, joined the party and long before the boat hove in sight they had reached the dock.

     The young men in turn shook Ross warmly by the hand and thanked him for helping to make their trip so pleasant and successful.

     There had been absolutely no restraint between the two brothers since Edwin’s arrival from New York, and, as the steamer neared the dock he earnestly urged Ross to make him a visit in the near future. This Ross promised to do and the merry party boarded the steamer, Ross and Clare waving them a lively good bye.

     The boat was well filled with passengers many of whom were young people. full of life and ready for all kinds of sport and merriment, and the gay saloon which contained a piano was a scene of much enjoyment till far into the night.

     “Well, what do you think of her?” Edwin asked when he and Jones were alone in their stateroom.

     “I think my dear boy that she is all a man could desire, and I only wish that my chances for future happiness were one half as good as yours.”

 

 

CHAPTER  XII.

“FAMILIARITY  BREEDS  CONTEMPT”.

 

     “It is very evident that I am not the kind of a person who is exactly suitable to you,” said Clare wearily, as they stopped at the gate after their walk from the steamboat dock. “I haven’t said so have I?” queried Ross moodily. “No, you haven’t said so, but your strange conduct bears out my statement fully as much as though you had,” was the answer. “My conduct seems to be getting terribly objectionable of late,” he said irritably; “so much so that a hired man’s company is preferable to mine I observe.”

     “To what do you refer?” asked Clare, surprised and indignant.

     “I refer to the fact that yesterday you chose your uncle’s hired man instead of me to row you up the river to the haunted house, presumably to finish the sketch you were doing when I was with you a few days ago.” “Well, my I not obtain the services of my uncle’s “hired man”, as you call him, if I so desire? Was there any harm in that?” “O, no harm in it, of course not,” said he with a slight sneer, “but it shows plainly enough whose company was preferable.”

     “What conclusion must one naturally draw after such an occurrence I should like to inquire?” “I do not know I’m sure,” she answered wearily, looking downward and swinging the gate with the toe of her dainty low shoe. She was about to answer that it was not a matter of preference but because she did not wish to take him away from his enjoyment with the young men but his harsh and unjust words checked her. She resolved to let him take his own course.

     After a few moments Ross said impulsively: “O, come now, Clare, what is the use in all this, anyway?” and, as he finished, tried to clasp her sender form and draw her closer to him.

     Drawing hastily back a few steps she said: “No, Ross, no more of that; if you believe at all in old and true maxims you had best be careful.” “I do not believe at all in some old maxims,” he said sullenly, “but to which one are you referring now?” “You know well enough,” she answered, anxious to change the subject.

     “I am perfectly sure I do not and I shall be obliged to you if you will inform me.” “Well, there is no truer and more useful saying than ‘Familiarity Breeds Contempt’. There now, according to your wish you have it.”

     Ross remained silent.  He was thinking deeply. What had come over this gentle, soft hearted creature in the last few days? Surely she had undergone a most wonderful change.

     Her demeanor was that of a dignified and far-sighted woman, and lover-like, he could or would not see wherein he was to blame for anything. He surely had not changed one iota; it was all her, and he could not understand it for a moment. She misjudged him, he thought. A long and disagreeable silence prevailed which was at length broken by Ross who said: “It seems we have not got on well at all since our engagement.” “Perhaps we would get along better if we were not engaged,” Clare remarked. “Perhaps we would then,” said Ross, mistaking her meaning, “and if it is your wish you may consider it in that light,” he added.

     Both now were pale and trembling though the darkness fortunately shielded them from each other’s view. Clare at loss for anything further to say bade him a crisp good night and walked rapidly down the path to the house. Her heart was too full for utterance.

     Quarreling was a new and distasteful episode in her heretofore sweet and tranquil existence, and hers was a nature too fine and deeply sensitive to recover from so cruel a wound in a day.

     Her lover remained motionless until her slight form had disappeared in the darkness beyond the low pine trees, then turned on his heel and strode slowly homeward. “By heavens,” he muttered, “I wonder if Ed has had anything to do with this.” It seemed too improbable on the whole as he had been in his company almost constantly since he arrived from New York, so he reluctantly dispelled it from his mind.

     Before entering the house he leaned for some time against the front gate lost in deep study.

     Finding no reasonable solution to the uncomfortable mystery he began to wonder if they were after all really suited to each other.

     “There is no use in talking,” he meditated, “I cannot marry her or anyone else as long as my aunt lives and she is liable to hang on for a good many years to come. It is plain enough too, that I cannot go any further in this way for Clare is getting to be a little spit-fire and I won’t be able to take a moment’s comfort there; so what in time is a fellow to do?” and the crickets chirped a mournful accompaniment to the melancholy strain that burst forth from the deeply wronged young man’s heart.

     “Ah, well,” he resumed, “I’ll have to let things take their own course for the present and be content.”

     Throwing a half finished cigar to the roadside he entered the house.

 

 

CHAPTER  XIII.

AT  THE  ART  STORE.

 

     As soon as time would permit after his arrival in New York, Edwin had two of the paintings tastefully framed and took them to the store of W. C. Greenwall, on – Street, the one he had in mind when talking to Clare the day before. It was a long and somewhat narrow room but filled to overflowing with art goods of the choicest kind. “Is this Mr. Greenwall?” asked Edwin of the man in attendance. “Yes sir,” said he, coming forward; “what can he do for you?” “He can perhaps inform me about what I ought to get for these two pictures,” replied Edwin, smiling and keeping up the man’s style off conversation. Taking the pictures one at a time and placing them in a good light, the dealer looked them over carefully.

     “Did you paint these pictures?” he asked, turning to Edwin and eyeing him sharply. “No sir, a friend of mine painted them,” was the answer. “Man or woman?” “A – a young lad,” said Edwin, uncomfortably. “Ahem, I thought so,” putting them in another light.

     “And what do you want to do with them,” said he, assuming an air of business, “sell them?” “That depends,” answered Edwin, following suit. “Upon what?” “Upon how much you will give.”

     “That also depends,” said the man shrewdly. “What does that depend on?” asked Edwin. “Upon the customer’s anxiety to purchase,” said Mr. Greenwall. “O, I see, and now that is just what I wanted to get at; how will the commission scheme do?” “It would be by far the best way I think,” replied the dealer, “and now what are your plans in the matter?”

     Thinking it best on the whole, Edwin told him something of the origin of the pictures and of the artist’s surroundings, also that he had several more of her paintings within easy distance in case they were wanted. “I think your idea is a good one,” said Mr. Greenwall, more warmly, “and as soon as those two marines are disposed of I will put these in the window. That artist is certainly a genius in her particular line, and I can assure you her pictures will attract much attention. She ought to come to New York and look some; has she any friends here in the city?” “None nearer than some distant relatives of mine; however, I think she will come here sometime in the near future. Am sure of it in case her pictures meet with anything like a reasonable sale,” said Edwin.

     “Are you interested in art, that is, anything beyond the artist?” questioned Mr. Greenwall. “To a considerable extent, I am,” replied the young man, wondering what the next question would be. But if the dealer had any particular reason for asking the question he kept them to himself for the time being.

     “About what value would you place upon that pair of pictures?” asked Edwin, as he was about to leave. “I would like to gain some idea of their actual worth.” “Well, let me see,” said the dealer, nervously drumming with his fingertips; “let me see; I should say that about twenty-five dollars would be the right thing; that is, you understand, if I were buying them myself.”

     Edwin appeared to be satisfied with the information, and in a very happy frame of mind when he left the store.

     “Not a bad appearing young fellow,” mused Mr. Greenwall, when alone once more, “and not very long in the city either, I should say. Somehow I like his style.”

     Edwin hastened to the office and told his friend of the progress he had made relative to disposing of the pictures. A day or two went by before the two marines on exhibition were sold.

     In the meantime Edwin had informed Clare, through Ross, of the proceedings thus far, and that young lady was delighted. It furnished her with new ambition and inspiration. She set to work with renewed energy and the change was noticeable in her pictures; while she still held to her remarkable coloring they represented more life and activity than formerly, showing plainly that the artist’s mind had undergone a slight innovation. Where her scenes were so deliciously calm she now added a figure or two; it might have been a person or an animal or whatever was most befitting to the surroundings, yet it was always something which decidedly enhanced the magical effect.

     As Edwin was coming down the street one day after his dinner hour he saw the pictures artistically arranged in Mr. Greenwall’s window. Drawing near he gazed admiringly at them. They were scenes taken from the haunts of his boyhood along the river side, and he had even spent many happy hours even beneath some of the grand old trees which the hand of Clare had so faithfully reproduced there.

     He had even been with her time and again over the same ground and listened to the music of the waterfall as it gurgled over the stones close to the river bank, blending joyously with the harmony of her own merry laughter. Such thoughts as these rushed over him, and what wonder he turned away from the window a with a deep sigh and entered the store. “They certainly look saleable,” he said to himself, “and if no one else buys them I will.” Mr. Greenwall had seen him through the window and beckoned for him to come inside.

     “Those pictures,” said he, “have already attracted considerable attention, and I guarantee they will be sold before night.

     The afternoon is the best time, when the weaker sex are on the rampage after bargains.” Even as he spoke two young and fashionably dressed misses tripped along the sidewalk and halted suddenly before the window.

     “O, Jenny!” exclaimed one, “aren’t those just lovely? Do let us stop and look at them.” They spent some few moments in admiring and commentating upon the two paintings, then one, who seemed to be the most lively and businesslike of the two, entered the store to enquire the price of the two pictures. “Thirty five dollars for the pair or twenty dollars each,” said Mr. Greenwall, pleasantly.

     After a few moments of thought she said: “I think I will take them, but before I really decide I would like to have mamma see them. Would you hold them for me until I bring her here, she is not far away?” “Certainly,” replied the dealer, well satisfied that they were as good as sold. The two girls walked rapidly up the street and Edwin, wishing he could remain and see the bargain closed, reluctantly turned his steps toward the freight office.

     In a short time a handsome carriage stopped before the art store and a tall, handsome woman elegantly dressed in black, with partially silvered hair alighted. “Are these the paintings my daughter wished me to see?” she asked, after viewing them long and earnestly from the outside. The dealer answered in the affirmative.

     “Can you inform me by whom they were painted? “I cannot tell you the name,” said Mr. Greenwall, “but it is the work of a very fine painter up in Connecticut.” “And were they taken from the banks of the Connecticut River?” she asked eagerly. “Yes madam, I understand they were painted from nature and represent some of the charming scenery along that river.” “I – I thought as much,” said she, a slight pallor spreading over her still beautiful face.

     Nervously extracting her pocketbook she counted out the money and laying it on the counter with her card she said: “You may send them immediately to my address.”

     When once more on the sidewalk she scanned the paintings long and closely then entered her carriage and was driven rapidly away.

     “Might have got double the price for them if I had only known she would have been so stirred up over them,” muttered the dealer, at the same time doubting in his own mind if he would really have charged it after all. “She acted queer enough about them, I’ll be bound; acted as if she’d seen a ghost instead of two harmless pictures.”

     Picking up the card he read: “Mrs. Van Horn, Hotel – .” Hailing an expressman, he forwarded the paintings to the address given, and Edwin, coming down the street a few hours later noticed with joy in his heart that they were gone.

 

 

CHAPTER  XIV.

EDWIN’S  GOOD  FORTUNE.

 

     The next day during the noon hour Edwin entered the art store.

     He had hurried there all enthusiastic over the sale of the pictures and was trying to devise some way by which he might give Clare more than an ordinary surprise over her success. But hitting upon no plan that would not cause Ross to murmur he at length decided to send the money to his brother and let him hand it over to Clare.

     He was very careful not to disturb his brother’s feelings in any way whatever for he well knew that Ross would take the slightest act on his part as interference.

     “You say her name is Van Horn of Hotel – ?” asked Edwin, after Mr. Greenwall had described the strange conduct of his wealthy customer. “Yes, here is her card.” Edwin looked the dainty affair over carefully. “And she did not appear to be agitated until she found out they were real scenes from the banks of the Connecticut?” he asked. “That was the beginning of her extreme nervousness,” answered Mr. Greenwall, “and when she left the store she gazed long and hungrily at them through the window.” “Her interest  appeared to be in the scenery itself then and not in the work of the artist, I should judge,” observed Edwin. “Exactly so, and in my opinion the scenery awakened old-time memories,” said the dealer shrewdly; “I have seen such cases before.” “Do you really think so?” queried the other eagerly, without really knowing why he did so.

     “Am sure of it; why my dear fellow, she looked as though she had seen a ghost; I tell you there is something behind it all; however, I am glad you happened in for I wished to see you on a little matter of much importance to myself and perhaps to yourself as well.” Edwin not a little surprised looked at Mr. Greenwall inquiringly. “Have you ever thought of changing your occupation?” the latter asked. “I have thought a great deal about it and am only waiting for the shadow of a chance to do so,” was the reply.

     “That is, providing I can better myself,” he added.

     “Of course that must be taken into consideration always,” said the other, “but how would you like to enter the art business?”

     “I would like it very much sir, but am afraid that is not at all probable.” “Isn’t it though? You wait and see,” said the dealer, as he stepped away to serve a customer who had at the moment entered.

     In a few moments Mr. Greenwall returned and related the following to the astonished young man: “My wife for some time past has been ailing, and I am not altogether well myself, so we have planned for a trip abroad and may be gone for one year or two, depending of course on the state of Mrs. Greenwall’s health.”

     “Now I want to engage a young man of good habits who has a fair amount of business ability to take full charge of this store during my absence, and I have heard from your present employers that you are all I could wish for in this respect and now what say you?”

     Edwin was too deeply moved to answer for an instant and Mr. Greenwall continued with a smile: “You seem to be specially interested in art–ists, and if you are here in the store you can place all the pictures on exhibition that you are a mind to, and take your choice of artists.” “But how soon do you intend to go?” queried Edwin.

     “Not until after the holidays, and possibly not until spring, but I would like to engage you right away as I am in need of assistance now.” “I’m sure I will do the very best I can for you,” said Edwin, his face aglow with gratitude. “I know you will my boy, and I feel confident that you will be a success in the art business,” Mr. Greenwall replied warmly, “and now regarding wages, I will pay you as much as you are receiving in your present position, and after the first month will advance you; then when you are left alone here I will do still better by you, and if you are a sensible young man and look after my business and your dollars something better may take place upon my return; now what have you to say?” “Not a word in way of dissatisfaction,” replied the highly delighted young man. “Of course you may work out any length of notice satisfactory to your present employers,” resumed Mr. Greenwall, “then after that you may come as soon as you like.”

     After warmly thanking him for his kind interest Edwin asked: “Do you not think that lady would like another pair of pictures representing other scenes along the river? I have two more which, although not any better than the others in quality, would be far more attractive to a lover of that particular locality itself.”

     “Yes, bring them along; I haven’t a doubt but that she would be delighted to get more of the same; bring them in whenever you like.”

     Happy of heart, Edwin hastened down the street to his place of occupation where he informed Harvey Jones of his new offer. It is needless to say that that worthy was much surprised, half pleased and half sorry; sorry to lose the daily companionship of his young friend, yet glad that he had made a step toward something better; better than the Transportation Company would be able to offer him for many years in all probabilities. To his delight Edwin found that he would hold him to no notice; he could do simply as he saw fit about leaving, so early the next morning found him awaiting Mr. Greenwall’s arrival in front of the art store.

     It was some time before the dealer put in an appearance and Edwin busied himself in the meanwhile by admiring and criticizing a large painting the lower part of which came below the bottom of the partly lowered curtain in the window of the art store. It represented a well-known wild and rocky section along the rugged coast of Maine, and was indeed a clever production, reflecting much credit upon the genius of the artist.

     “How great a contrast to the quiet and dreamy scenes in which Clare finds so much genuine delight,” mused the young man; “and yet, as far as the quality goes I really think her work is fully equal to this,” he added.

     It was a wild and striking scene. A monster wave was hurling itself with tremendous force against the solid walls of granite and the picture appeared to have been caught on the instant the foaming mass of waters began to recede. Snowy gulls wheeled restlessly about and the lowery sky directly above the cliff appeared to be on the verge of breaking away.

     So occupied had Edwin become that he failed to notice the approach of anyone until Mr. Greenwall tapped him on the shoulder and bade him a cheery good morning. The dealer was much pleased to learn that he was ready to enter upon his new duties that very morning. Several hours were passed in dusting and arranging and Mr. Greenwall gladly noticed that this young employee possessed much taste and originality in the matter of placing pictures.

     “Takes to the business like a hen to a newly spaded flower garden,” he remarked to his wife that night. The early afternoon brought a customer for the large marine view in the window and shortly following that two young ladies entered one of whom proved to be Mrs. Van Horn’s charming young daughter. Mr. Greenwall instantly surmised the purport of the call and smiled knowingly at Edwin. “My mother wished me to inquire,” said she, “if any more views of the Connecticut similar to those others can be had without much inconvenience on your part? If so she would like to look at them.” Mr. Greenwall thought it very probable and after peaking to Edwin for a moment upon the subject informed her that he would have two superb views of the charming river for her in half an hour’s time. “Does that young man paint them?” queried Miss Van Horn after Edwin had hurriedly left the store. “No, I – I think it is a young lady friend of his up in Connecticut,” answered Mr. Greenwall not sure if he had done right or not in disclosing the fact. “Indeed?” said the young lady arching her eyebrows thoughtfully; “well, I will send mamma in about an hour to look at them.” The two misses, after looking at several more paintings left the store and Mr. Greenwall drummed impatiently with his fingertips as was his custom while waiting the return of Edwin.

 

 

CHAPTER  XV.

“ART WILL BE MY LIFE!”

 

     For the first time in all her life Clare felt the bitter pangs of loneliness. Not that she had never longed for a mother’s love and sympathy before for she had numerous times, but now it was something far different; she felt alone in the great world; alone as far as dear companionship, love and confidence was concerned. Her aunt was a kindly, obliging woman but did not possess that degree of fineness and sympathy so necessary to win a young girl’s confidence regarding her love affairs.

     Early in the morning she had entered her studio intending to spend the entire day with her brushes but the forenoon had passed and she had not made a dozen strokes. Her very soul seemed filled with a sense of perturbation. Afternoon had already caused long shadows to point toward the east when she heard the front gate click and looking out she saw a small boy coming up the walk with a letter in his hand. “It surely cannot be from the office,” she thought as the hired man had come back empty handed only a few hours before. Then she thought it must be for her uncle from some one of the more distant farmers but the circumstance was so rare that she yielded to her curiosity and hurried to the door herself.

     “A letter for Miss Selton,” said the boy and handed her the envelope. She saw that it had been opened and was addressed in Edwin’s handwriting to Rossiter Brainbrey, by whom, the boy said, it was sent. Thanking the messenger kindly, who like the ideal country boy scorned the idea of being paid for so slight a service rendered a charming young lady, she reentered the studio and removed the contents of the envelope with slightly trembling fingers.

     A short explanatory note from Edwin to Ross and three crisp, new ten-dollar bills dropped out before her astonished eyes.

     Astonished is hardly forcible enough, she was in a certain sense startled. She read with eagerness the note addressed to Ross which was as follows: 

“Dear Ross: - 

                         Two of Clare’s pictures brought thirty five dollars, ($35.00); five of which is retained by Mr. Greenwall as commission. Please hand same to her with my hopes that it will be satisfactory to her. They sold readily and we feel confident that the remaining four will do likewise. My congratulations on her success.   Edwin.”

     To say that she was pleased would be putting it but mildly; she was too deeply affected for a time to do aught else but sit and look first at the note and then at the money.

     As soon as she had collected herself somewhat a great wave of heretofore unexperienced happiness, mingled with new desires and new purposes surged through her being, and arising from her chair with the contents of the envelope held firmly in her hand she walked back and forth before her pictures which represented her life work, murmuring softly but decidedly: “Art will be my life; yes, art will be my life now. Love? bah! What is his love compared to art? No, Rossiter Brainbrey, you have shown your true colors in just the right time; be a friend to you I may, but marry you, never! Art will be my life, my love, my all.”

     So enraptured did she become over her step toward success and her new aim in life that for a short time she forgot even the one through whom it had thus far been accomplished.

     Thirty five dollars for two oil paintings of good size and of such excellent quality as has been described will not seem of course a very great sum of money to many of our readers, but it must be remembered that Clare lived in an extremely remote neighborhood where oil paintings were few and if valued at all it was not for their character or quality of workmanship, and if she had ever sold any pictures before it was at a trifling cost to some of her surrounding friends. We might go even further and say that in a great many cases a chromo or lithograph providing it were brilliantly colored, well framed and a pleasing scene would be prized fully as high as a genuine oil painting.

     But it was not the thirty five dollars that gave Clare so much happiness; it was the knowledge of the fact that her work had been on exhibition in a New York art store and that she was in the beginning of a very promising future. Her pictures had sold readily and that was sufficient, though she was of course ignorant of the real circumstances connected with the sale.

     Some of the readers will undoubtedly question whether her work would have met with as much success under different circumstances, or with other personages than Mrs. Van Horn and her daughter, but further perusal along the course of our narrative will I trust allay such doubt if any has arisen.

     With intense earnestness she resumed her painting, and the glow upon her beautiful face was the luminous expression of genius; pure, devoted genius, and no longer the glow of rare, maidenly love for a being of flesh and blood.

     Edwin had sent the money to his brother purely out of respect and consideration for his feelings, which he knew would become worked up over the least possible cause, supposing of course he would carry it immediately to Clare, which act might cause him to feel that after all he did have some part in the matter however slight it might seem. But Ross, as the reader is well aware, had quarreled with Clare the night before, consequently he sent the money as heretofore stated.

     It was not long, however, before he became extremely repentant over his hasty severance with the girl with whom he had been so long in love. After he had sent Clare the money and the glorious afternoon had deepened into a bewitching twilight, new and gloomy aspects confronted him for the first time. Things which had before been obscured by blinding passion now became clear and passed with startling vividness before his mind, and caused him to feel very miserable indeed. “What could he do with himself through all the long, weary days that would follow?” he asked himself. Winter would soon be at hand with its many interesting features and he would have no bright, entertaining young person with whom to pass away the dull evenings around the cheerful fireside.

     It was indeed a gloomy outlook, especially for one such as he who had for so many years been used to such a blissful state of affairs.

     Impulsively, as he did everything, he sat down and wrote a long, pleading but extremely weak letter, trying to clear himself of any intentional fault and laying all the trouble to an unpleasant understanding, in which both largely shared, adding a desire that he might call and let their relations continue as they had been, and blot out forever all the little unpleasantries of the past.

     The next morning, by the same source that he sent Edwin’s letter, he forwarded his own carefully written one to Clare, being particular to instruct the boy to wait for an answer.

     After pacing the well-kept grounds in front of the house, as it seemed to him, an uncommonly long time, vainly trying to draw a grain of sweet solace from a fragrant Havana, the answer came, and in those few friendly but decidedly unmistakable lines Rossiter Brainbrey saw the great tower of his love shake from foundation to top, and then lean at a frightful angle towards the west – the land of the setting sun.

     He felt even more than he saw, but making a momentous effort to accept his fate for the present, trusting somewhat to his own tact and irresistibility for the future, he decided to call upon Clare that afternoon or evening.

 

 

CHAPTER  XVI.

EDWIN  SHARPLY  QUESTIONED.

 

     When Edwin left the store he went directly to his room and selected the best pair of the remaining four pictures and hastened back to the store. They had hardly finished dusting and arranging them when a stylish turnout, the same one which had been there before, hauled up before the door, and Mrs. Van Horn, quietly but more elegantly dressed than on the former occasion, alighted and entered the art store. She was indeed, an interesting woman in appearance and it needed but the tinge of sadness removed to bring out her full and magnificent beauty. Mr. Greenwall advanced to meet her after which he led her to a position affording an excellent light upon the pictures. Edwin was immediately captivated by her rare features and charming manner, and could hardly keep his eyes from constantly flashing in the direction of her face, – a face made more interesting by the sweet, mysterious sadness hovering about it, he thought.

     After viewing the paintings with a long and interesting silence she said in a low but slightly eager tone: “They are very beautiful; I will take them.”

     There was scarcely a shadow of nervousness perceptible in her manner; nothing but interest and admiration, and the two men, Mr. Greenwall and Edwin, were not a little surprised and disappointed, as they had looked for something more, taking for their reasons her strange conduct on the former occasion.

     If she was affected in any way by the choice bits of scenery she concealed it remarkably well, and undoubtedly would have done so on the first occasion had it not been that she came upon the paintings so unexpectedly. Her daughter after seeing them for the first time had hurried home and told her all she could of their loveliness but she was, of course, totally ignorant of their subject until she beheld them herself. But if the charming retreats represented on the second two canvasses were in some way connected with her past as Mr. Greenwall believed the first ones to be, she covered it with pleasing and dignified self possession, and her next words were put in the form of a question. “Can you give me the name of the artist, for I notice the given name is withheld from the canvas?” she asked.  Mr. Greenwall hesitated, then looked helplessly at Edwin who immediately stepped forward from the corner where he had been making pretended alterations in the position of some smaller pictures and answered in reply to his employer’s  repetition of Mrs. Van Horn’s question: “The artist’s name is Clare Selton, Miss Clare Selton of Connecticut.”

     “Yes,” answered the lady, “I learned from my daughter that it was a young lady artist, and I have become deeply interested in her work; can you tell me anything of her surroundings?”

     It was now Edwin’s turn to feel helpless even if he did not betray it in his looks, but as a matter of business, he threw all else aside and gave a brief description of Clare’s situation relative to her art, adding that she was very ambitious and withal a charming young lady. “And you say she has never traveled at all?” queried Mrs. Van Horn in surprise. “I very much doubt if she has even crossed the line of her own native state,” said Edwin.

     “What a pity, and yet it is not strange for I did not leave my native state till well along in years, but perhaps she does not care for travel, tho’ it is almost a necessity for one following any branch of art. Has she any relatives here in New York?” she queried.

     “None that I know of,” answered Edwin. “Do you not think she would enjoy coming here where she would have an opportunity of visiting the art galleries and many other places of interest providing there were friends here who would interest themselves in her and otherwise try to make her visit a pleasant one? asked Mrs. Van Horn.

     “I – I should think so,” answered Edwin, too much surprised to say anything else. “Then will you be kind enough to forward her a note from me? I wish to thank her for the great pleasure her lovely paintings have brought me, and wish also to extend a most cordial invitation for her to visit me this winter. Surely such genius as she has displayed should not be forever obscured in an out of the way country village. Do you think she would come?”

     “I have every reason to believe she would,” answered Edwin, “and if I am not much mistaken I have heard her express such a desire.”

     “Are you a relative of hers?” queried Mrs. Van Horn, looking the slightly uncomfortable man squarely in the face. The question somewhat unbalanced him for a moment but being well aware that any nervousness or hesitancy would be the worst thing for him, he answered: “No ma’m, only an acquaintance,” he answered, but you see we were neighbors up in the country and everybody up there is well acquainted, besides I am much interested in her art.”

     “With a prefix of h–e on the last word,” said Mr. Greenwall, smiling to himself; then aloud: “and how would it be without the art I wonder?” Edwin was busy just at that moment picking up his scissors, and Mrs. Van Horn smiled knowingly at the dealer.

     “Very well then,” she resumed, as she made preparations to leave, “I will send you the note by tomorrow and will call later for an answer, and I trust you will encourage her to come.”

     “You may depend upon that,” said Edwin, and in a few moments Mrs. Van Horn was driven away. “Well, what do you think about her?” asked Mr. Greenwall of Edwin. “I hardly know what to think,” he answered, “but if I’m not mistaken she has a motive in which something besides Miss Selton’s genius is concerned, tho’ what it could be I cannot in the least imagine.”

     It was an inviting day in the streets of New York, and it seemed as though everybody was out enjoying the bright and warm autumnal sunshine. Business was unusually brisk as the store of Mr. Greenwall and Edwin was given an excellent chance to note the many peculiarities connected with the art trade.

     The sojourners had returned to their winter quarters from the many summer resorts along the coast and up the charming Hudson, and the great stores and thoroughfares were crowded with every type of humanity imaginable. Following Mrs. Van Horn’s departure came an elderly lady with her son which caused the disposal of two more oil paintings. They were very large and costly, and had been in the store for some time. Mr. Greenwall had hesitated long before accepting them as they were not of the kind to readily attract attention, and he well knew that their sale would depend entirely upon some of the wealthy New Yorkers who were fitting up for splendor rather than taste and who would go in for quantity rather than quality, tho’ the two paintings in question were costly enough certainly. But in many things, and more especially in paintings, the quality has little to do with commanding the price of the same; the renown of the artist governs everything regardless of quality.

     It should not be so but unfortunately it is.

     But now the two pictures were sold and Mr. Greenwall was glad to see them leave the wall to make room for stock more after the holiday demand. Besides doing an extensive business in the regular paintings he carried a large supply of studies for amateurs and did a brisk trade in that line. This occupied a part of one side of the store and was in the charge of a young lady who was a veteran in business.

     “Perhaps it would be a good idea for you to bring in the other two pictures you mentioned as having,” said Mr. Greenwall to Edwin, during a brief lull in the afternoon’s trade. To this the young man gladly responded, and in a short time he returned with the remaining two of the half dozen which he had brought from Connecticut only a few days before. These were soon tastefully arranged in the window and immediately excited some attention.

     The extreme calmness of the scenery in addition to the rich coloring was a pleasing change from the usually striking subjects exhibited by many art stores, and at once the looker on became interested as one would in a beautiful face, perfect in outline, peaceful in expression and shrouded in a sweet and bewildering mystery. Such were the comments passed upon the two paintings by the numerous admirers, and could Clare have witnessed the readiness with which her last two pictures sold at twenty five dollars apiece she would have had cause to rejoice indeed.

 

 

CHAPTER  XVII.

SOMETHING  THE  MATTER.

 

     That night when Edwin started for his cheerful room, after partaking of a restaurant supper, he was in good spirits. It had been a successful day at the art store and he felt indeed that he was on the road leading to a promising future, in a business sense, if nothing further. He inwardly rejoiced with Clare over her promising commencement in the joyful existence of a successful artist.

     Both he and the young painter had much cause for happiness, and yet he could not help but feel a pang of deep sorrow in his honest heart for he knew that her brilliant success would never more than indirectly affect himself. He tried to picture her in Mrs. Van Horn’s costly apartments, surrounded by admiring friends. He knew that her rare, fresh beauty and great talent would create a sensation even in circles such as the wealthy Mrs. Van Horn associated, and with a sigh in which a slight tinge of bitterness was discernable he produced his latch key and entered the lodging house.

     When he opened the door and crossed the threshold of his room a cheerful warmth swept across his face, and a bright fire in the little stove under the mantel partially illuminated the apartment, throwing a ruddy glow upon such furniture as came within its range and filling the very air with a sense of comfort and home-likeness, and he would have been in a strange mood indeed had he not appreciated the cozy quarters and cast off, in a measure, his gloomy meditations. Stepping across the room to his dressing case for a match to light the gas his quick eye fell upon a dainty, square envelope which leaned against the pin cushion in the center of the dresser. “Not from Ross or auntie, surely,” he thought, as he removed it and peered at it, first one side and then the other.

     “Who then can it be from?” he asked himself, and his fingers slightly trembled and a strange feeling took possession of him, for from the first he half guessed as to its writer. The presence of a small, square envelope, dangerously scented, in the mellow light of his room was a puzzlingly sweet circumstance since he knew full well that it was not from any of his relatives or Mrs. Van Horn, as there would not have been time for him to have heard from the latter. Then there could be but one person from whom it came, and the thought thrilled him.

     Being too eager to wait for a slow burning match, always torturingly slow on such occasions, he carried it to the stove and in the ruddy glare of the gaseous flame he read his own name in the fine but graceful chirography of – yes, Clare Selton; there was no mistaking it; he had carried dozens of her letters to the post office in days gone by, and he knew every stroke and every curve of her pen only too well.

     How his hand shook! That alone was sufficient evidence as to the origin of the letter. He longed yet feared to open it. Yet why should he linger? One would think he would be in agony until it was torn apart and the contents devoured. Ah! he could not tell; thousands before him could not tell. Perhaps he wished to live in the bliss of anticipation for a few moments; at any rate he drew a chair beside the stove and sat down, with the mellow, flickering rays dancing upon the envelope which lay in his lap, and lost himself in rapt meditation. “What on earth could have been her reasons for writing to me?” he asked himself. “But after all,” rousing himself, “it may be nothing more than a word of thanks concerning the pictures; probably that is all; there may not be a dozen words inside; what a chump I have been, anyway.” So, laying it down, he removed his hat and coat, lighted the gas, and with a faint hope that it might prove something more than a mere “thank you”, he opened the letter and with a strangely beating heart read the following lines:

“Dear Friend Edwin:

     I received the money for the pictures which you so kindly sent, to-day. I cannot tell you how pleased I am; actually, words cannot describe my happiness, and I am not forgetful of how much of my success I owe to you for your kind assistance.

      I am perfectly satisfied with the sum received, and would say that you may always use your own judgment in regard to prices. You must deduct something for your trouble hereafter, and let me say that whenever you have occasion to address me please send it direct to me, for it affects no one but ourselves. I understood your motive perfectly well in sending to your brother, and admire you for your consideration, but it will be needless hereafter.

     I cannot close without thanking you again and again.

                                                     Truly your friend,

                                                                     Clare Selton.”

     He read it over and over; each time becoming more interested and puzzled. “What on earth can she mean by saying that my letters to her affect no one but ourselves, and that anything in that line will be needless?” he asked himself. “Surely something must be the matter up there, and yet it doesn’t seem possible. Ross isn’t a fool, wholly, I do not believe, and still, it is clear enough that something is up somewhere. Why should she use the term ‘my brother’, instead of “Ross”?” he thought. “Ah, yes; there is a strange tone to that letter,” he said, and rising, he slowly paced the room, more disturbed than he cared to admit. The doorbell in the lower hall rang briskly and a few minutes later his meditations which were of a tumultuous nature were disturbed by a sharp knocking on the outside of his room. Hastily thrusting the letter in his pocket he opened the door and Harvey Jones, all smiles and rosy-cheeked from the chill November air, walked in.

     “Hello Edwin!” he exclaimed, humorously, “been having a tussle with yourself, or practicing for a long-distance walking match?” his sharp eye noticing a slight commotion in the air.

     “Neither,” said his young friend, trying to smoothen his deeply contracted features. “I was merely thinking, that was all.” “O, I see; business complications at this early day; I have had them myself and know just how they affect a fellow,” said Jones, smiling.

     After rubbing his hands vigorously before the stove door he accepted the proffered chair and he and Edwin fixed themselves comfortably for an evening’s chat. There had not been an evening since Edwin’s arrival in New York but what he and his friend Jones had spent together, and each was thankful for the other’s company. He roomed but a few doors above Edwin on the same street, which, after business hours brought them within easy distance of each other.

     “And how do you like your new business, Edwin?” asked his friend, after a pause in the conversation. “Capital; I couldn’t have found anything more to my liking in the whole city,” replied Edwin; and he rehearsed the day’s events to his interested companion.

     “Something strange about that woman, that is sure,” remarked Jones, alluding to Mrs. Van Horn, whom Edwin had lavishly described.

     “Yes, and Mr. Greenwall firmly believes that the pictures awaken old-time memories; memories of a romantic tendency possibly,” observed Edwin. “And about how old would you judge her to be?” asked Jones, carelessly. “About thirty six or possibly thirty eight; tall and very beautiful,” replied Edwin. Jones started. “Ah, no; foolish to give way to such a thought,” he muttered, trying to drive the dim vision from his mind. “I think it would be an excellent opportunity for Miss Selton to visit New York,” he said to his younger companion abruptly, as though anxious to lose himself in conversation of a different nature. “I should encourage her to come by all means,” he added. “Yes, I – I begin to think that I will,” said the other, and after some hesitation he showed his friend the letter from the young artist. After reading it carefully Jones gave a long, low whistle which was very suggestive, then observed: “Yes, I should say there was something decidedly the matter there, and I would advise you to keep one eye up in Connecticut and the other here in New York, sharply on your art business. See?”

     Edwin replied that he did see a little ways but not half so far as he wished he might after reading the letter.

     The evening was far spent when Harvey Jones took his leave, and he went to his room to dream of a fair young face which had haunted him from way back in his early school days up to that very night, while Edwin sat till well past the midnight hour trying to write a satisfactory letter to accompany the even one hundred dollars received for the four paintings.

 

 

This is where the story stops – if and/or when something more may be located it will be added.

 

Note #1 – The original at first referred to Harvey Jones as ‘Henry James’ in Chapter IV. It was changed to ‘Harvey Jones’ throughout for purposes of uniformity.

 

Note #2 – A penciled notation at the bottom of the second page of Chapter IX says: “#65, due March 14, 1895”, which would indicate that this story was written and submitted as a ‘special student’ at Harvard.