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 .:# 
 
/ 
 
 .<<f c~ < 
 
 " 
 
 ^1 ^,. 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 '">*«..■; 
 
 -1 
 
 [ I II ni|i ii t' l i»i l ftii»f» ii .-'ffi<S »».. . .. . . . . 
 
;. X: 
 
<^V A'^ 
 
 CoFYMOirr, 18S7, 
 By TicxNOR AND Company. 
 
 All R^ktt Ruirvtd. 
 
 BLECTROTVPKD BY 
 
 C. J. Pbtirs & Son, Boston. 
 Presswork by J. J. Arakelyan, Boston. 
 
Boston 
 
" I WISH either my ffcther or my mother — or Indeed both of 
 them, as they were in duty both equally bound to it — hod 
 minded what they were about when they begot me; had they 
 duly considered how much depended on what they were then 
 doing ; — tliat not only the production of a rational being was 
 concerned in it, but that possibly the happy formation and tem- 
 perature of his body, perhaps his genius and the very cast of 
 his mind J and for aught they know to the contrary, even the 
 fortunes of his whole house might take their turn from the hu- 
 mors and dispositions which were then uppermost. Had they 
 duly weighed and considered all this, and proceeded accordingly ; 
 -I am verily persuaded I should have made quite a difflbrent 
 figure in the world from that in which the reader ia likely to 
 sec me." — Steknb. 
 
 ^^^'*^°^"'^f'ff¥-ff*rirf[r1WfiW^^ 
 
 teS*"'"* 
 
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 D 
 
 P( 
 
 N 
 
 Si 
 
 'J- M 
 
 ■■Wfiiii'iiiwiiixi . 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 PART I. 
 
 PAOH 
 
 Th£ Head with tub Black Bruketta 8 
 
 PART n. 
 
 DORETHEA 8fl 
 
 PART m. 
 Polony 110 
 
 PART r/. 
 La Samta 169 
 
 PART V. 
 The Stbanoe Story ok a Picture 243 
 
 PART VI. 
 Xatiuka . . Sfil 
 
 PART vn. 
 
 Sanctuart 417 
 
 - 
 
 ifliiiiiiffi 
 
PART I. 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK 
 BERRETTA. 
 
 
 p**' 
 
__J 
 
THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK BERBETTit 
 I. 
 
 It was a picture that influenced my whole life: that 
 made me a lover of art, and an artist — a portrait, by 
 Raphael, of a beautiful boyish head in a black berrettq. 
 I was but a baby when I first began to love it — cer- 
 tainly not more than three years had passed over my 
 little flaxen head when I remember climbing into a chair 
 that I might be nearer that beautiful earnest face, full 
 of love and mystery. 
 
 The picture, a portrait of the great artist, painted by 
 himself, and similar in some respects to the one now in 
 the Louvre collection, hung in my father's study, in a 
 gloomy old hotel. Rue de Grenelle, Saint Germain, 
 where most of the years of my childhood were passed. 
 
 Associated with that picture is the memory of my 
 mother, a dark piquant beauty with expressive eyes, 
 smiling mouth, and lustrous black hair falling low over 
 a broad white forehead. That brilliant, mobile face 
 stands out from the background of memory clear and 
 glowing, in strong contrast to the sombre serenity of 
 
 the pictured head. 
 
 8 _ 
 
| UI)IJJU| jl lU i»l^wj«*W!W|Wy 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 I must have been about eight years old when one 
 day ray bonne said, "Little master has a baby sisusr; 
 come and look at her." 
 
 I followed the nurse into my mother's room, where a 
 feeble pink object lay in a cradle lined with silk and 
 lace. Its eyes were closed, and it moaned constantly. I 
 did not care at all for it, but turned eagerly to my mother, 
 who lay also with closed eyes and white weary face. 
 
 "No, no," said the nurse; "she is very ill. You 
 must not disturb her. To-morrow you may kiss her." 
 
 I would not go. Hanging back, I cried, "Mama, 
 mama." The bonne forced me away impatiently, shut- 
 ting my fingers in the door as she closed it. The pain 
 made me furious, and I struck at her with my clenched 
 hand as I darted back into the chamber, crying again, 
 "Mama, mama." 
 
 I shall never forget the stern face of my nurse as she 
 said, severely, " Hush, you will kill your mother." 
 
 In an instant I was subdued, and allowed her to lead 
 me quietly from the room. As I went I looked back ; 
 my mother's eyes were open and fixed upon me with a 
 look of undying love. 
 
 A few days after, I was dressed in black and led into 
 a darkened room to take a last look at the face I dearly 
 loved ; a little flaxen head nestled on her bosom, and her 
 pale hands "were folded over the tiny form of my baby 
 sister. I turned away, I would not look. That rigid 
 form with closed eyes and closed lips was not my bright, 
 beautiful young mother's. She had always smiled and 
 kissed me, but this pallid face had no love for me ; so I 
 slipped away and went to the picture in the library, 
 and, standing on a chair, I held up my black sash and 
 silently pointed to it ; then leaning my head against the 
 
 i 
 
3T. 
 
 •Id when one 
 , baby sisuer; 
 
 •oom, where a 
 vith silk and 
 jonstantly. I 
 to my mother, 
 eary face, 
 sry ill. You 
 f kiss her." 
 •ied, " Mama, 
 atiently, shut- 
 it. The pain 
 1 my clenched 
 crying again, 
 
 J nurse as she 
 aether." 
 d her to lead 
 looked back; 
 lon me with a 
 
 k and led into 
 face I dearly 
 )osom, and her 
 n of my baby 
 c. That rigid 
 not my bright, 
 ys smiled and 
 ! for me ; so I 
 1 the library, 
 ilack sash and 
 ad against the 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK BEBRETTA. 5 
 
 painted face, I wept bitterly, the first tears of real 
 sorrow that I had ever shed. 
 
 When my father came in and found me alone with 
 the picture, I told him that Itaphael was sorry 
 because mama was dead. He looked at me tenderly 
 and sadly as he led me from the room, and said, in a 
 broken voice, '< Poor, motherless child I Thank God, if 
 your illusions are of any comfort to you." 
 
 From that day the head with the black berretta was 
 the confidant of all my childish sorrows. 
 
 II. 
 
 Mt father was a fine, tall man with blue eyes and fair 
 hair. The Marklands were of the pure Saxon type, a 
 good north of England family that could trace its ances- 
 tors back to the Invasion. And that, surely, was remote 
 enough to satisfy the most ardfent lover of ancient 
 pedigree, 
 
 They were a quiet, scholarly race of men, little given 
 to show or pleasure, and the women of the family were 
 noted for their domestic virtues rather than for great 
 beauty or rare talents. 
 
 Before my father became of age, he lost both parents 
 and a younger brother ; therefore, he was the last of his 
 name. He had but one sister, who married the Rector 
 of Haddingham, the Rev. Ernest Lorriraer, younger 
 brother of Lord Hardmoor. 
 
 The revenue of the Markland estate was not large, 
 ni)(l my f-ther, having no ties to bind him to his early 
 ]K)ni\ invfVrred to live on the continent, where he 
 could econcmiize, and, at the same time, indulge bis 
 passionate love of art. 
 
 HlHiiMiii 
 
r" 
 
 6 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 I 
 
 In Paris, at tho mature age of forty, he met my 
 mother, the bright, bewitching Sophie Delaborde, v.ho, 
 being pleased with the grave handsome Englisliman, 
 and her family finding it a snitiible alliance, was 
 married to him after a short acqnaintance. They 
 passed the first months of their happy union in Italy, 
 where my father cultivated his taste for art and letters, 
 and my mother sang away the sunny days as blithe as 
 
 a bird. 
 
 Shortly after their return to Paris, I was born, and 
 then, as my father said just before his death, his happi- 
 ness was complete. There was nothing to disturb the 
 serene pleasure of their lives for eight years, then my 
 baby sister came for a few days and went away, taking 
 my lovely young mother with her from a life that had 
 given more of happiness than falls to the common lot of 
 
 mortals. 
 
 After her death my father was a changed man. The 
 few years of their separation was but one long night of 
 sorrow, followed by the dawn of Eternity. 
 
 III. 
 
 There are some little incidents in the quiet, sad years 
 that followed my mother's death which stand out dis- 
 tinctly from the blurred background of my memory, 
 while all else is a blank. One is of a day when my 
 father led me through the galleries of the Luxembourg. 
 We were both clad in the deepest mourning; he sad and 
 pale, as he always was now, and I wonderfuyy mature 
 and thoughtful for my years. '' 
 
 We stood before the celebrated " Sunrise " of Callet. 
 « Do you like it ? " asked my father. 
 
 ■-:tt?ssiS.'J 
 
1A8T. 
 
 ty, he met my 
 Delaborde, v.ho, 
 ae Englishman, 
 ! alliance, waa 
 intanoe. They 
 union in Italy, 
 • art and letters, 
 lys as blithe as 
 
 I was born, and 
 leath, his happi- 
 ; to disturb the 
 ; years, then my 
 !nt away, taking 
 I a life that had 
 le common lot of 
 
 nged man. The 
 )ne long night of 
 
 ty. 
 
 e quiet, sad years 
 3h stand out dis- 
 of my memory, 
 a day when my 
 the Luxembourg. 
 :ning ; he sad and 
 mderfuyy mature 
 
 lurise" of Callet. 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK BERRETTA. 7 
 
 "No" I replied, after some serious deliberation, 
 "not as I like my Eaphael ; there is no life in this 
 picture. I like a face with eyes that look through and 
 through me, as though it understands all I am thinking 
 
 of." 
 
 "Well, tell me, is not this better?" he said, turning 
 
 to the marble group of Cupid and Psyche. 
 
 I looked at it carefully for some time, a love for the 
 beautiful struggling within my soul and trying to find 
 expression in words. , 
 
 "I can't say, papa," I answered, doubtfully. "It is 
 pretty, but it don't seem real. It seems cold and 
 strange. It makes me feel as I did when dear mama 
 lay dead. There is no life nor love there. The eyes 
 look within ; they don't gaze out at me and say words 
 that I can understand although I don't hear them." 
 
 My father looked at me thoughtfully, and then said, 
 with more than his usual earnestness, "My child, when 
 you are older, I think you will be an artist, not a sculp- 
 tor, but a painter. Only the form and color of the 
 human figure, the life and soul of God's last and best 
 creation, will satisfy. Eemember my words when I am 
 no longer with you, and wake the Raphael you already 
 love your guide, your standard, your teacher. Worship 
 your Art ; give your life to it, sacrifice all else, so that 
 you may be a single-hearted, patient, devout disciple of 
 
 so great a master." 
 
 Again, some time after, we were in the gallery of the 
 Louvre, standing before the Saint Michael of Raphael. 
 »There for the first time the divinity of genius impressed 
 me with its wonderful power. I was a child, yet I 
 understood the difference between the mortal and the 
 immortal. This exquisite knowledge dawned upon my 
 
 am 
 
8 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 heart like the first crimson flush of morning searching 
 into the depths of a budding rose. The leaves expanded 
 in the after glow of noon's refulgence, hut no revelation 
 that came later was as sweet as the consciousness that 
 I had recognized my ideal, the art god whom I could 
 worship and reverence ; and mingled with this new-born 
 joy was a feeling of solemn gratitude that the power 
 had been given to me to understand a mystery that is 
 revealed to only a small portion of humanity, that 
 within my soul was something akin to genius, that en- 
 abled me to understand the wide distance between it and 
 talent. One is immortal, the other mortal ; one given to 
 satisfy the spiritual, the other the human. 
 
 I looked at my father with his sad face and solemn 
 eyes that seemed to be searching into the mysteries of 
 Eternity, and wondered if he had eaten of the tree of 
 life ; but I could not express to him what I felt, neither 
 could I explain what had been revealed to me. I could 
 only remain silent while the waves of emotion surged 
 and beat within my little frame until they welled up 
 and burst through my eyes in a passionate flood of 
 
 tears. 
 
 My father was surprised and alarmed. He could not 
 understand why I wept, and gently urged me to tell him 
 the cause of my emotion ; but how could I explain what 
 I felt, when I knew no language that could express it. 
 
 At last, finding that entreaty was useless, he tried to 
 divert me by leading me to a seat where a gentleman 
 with fine eyes and expressive features sat studying a pic 
 ture of Titiens. When he saw my father, he started uip 
 and shook hands cordially with him ; then he turned hlT 
 inquiring gaze to my flushed, excited face. 
 
 « This is my son," said my father, while he wiped my 
 
 ~-a>se!fesK»S<fS«'*!SSI»*MISMK'-5 
 

 9IAST. 
 
 arning searching 
 leaves expanded 
 but 110 revelation 
 msciousness that 
 d whom I could 
 ith this new-born 
 that the power 
 , mystery that is 
 humanity, that 
 ) genius, that en- 
 ice between it and 
 rtal ; one given to 
 lan. 
 
 face and solemn 
 the mysteries of 
 en of the tree of 
 hat I felt, neither 
 i to me. I could 
 )f emotion surged 
 1 they welled up 
 issionato flood of 
 
 ed. He could not 
 ged me to tell him 
 lid I explain what 
 jould express it. 
 seless, he tried to 
 here a gentleman 
 sat studying a pic- 
 her, he started ua| 
 then he turned hra 
 face, 
 irhile be wiped my 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK BERBETTA. 9 
 
 wet eyes; then he added with a smile, "He is such an 
 excitable little enthusiast that I am almost ashamed of 
 
 him." 
 
 My father's friend took my hand with the most win- 
 ning kindness, smoothed my hair, and looked earnestly 
 into my face; then, touching my forehead with his fin- 
 ger, he said, " Here is no common intellect, Markland. 
 Your son has an organization of remarkable sensibility ; 
 come and sit here, my little friend, and tell me what you 
 think of the pictures." 
 
 In a few moments I was leaning confidingly against 
 his shoulder and chatting freely, telling him, in my sim- 
 ple language, how each impressed me and which I pre- 
 ferred. Both he and ray father listened attentively, 
 smiling from time to time ; and when I said that I would 
 rather have one Raphael than all the other pictures in 
 the Louvre, they laughed heartily. 
 
 On our way home my father told me that the gentle- 
 man with whom we had been talking was M. Gerard, a 
 famous painter, and that if I would learn to control my 
 feelings and try not to cry when I was excited, he 
 would take me to see his studio, which would be a rare 
 treat for a boy who loved pictures. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I GAVE my father but little peace after our visit to 
 the Louvre until he took me to see M. Gerard's studio, 
 for I was impatient and curious to see a place where 
 
 ■ipictures were made. 
 
 ^Muoh to my disappointment, when we reached the. 
 Bue Mazarine, the servant told us that Monsieur was en- 
 gaged a»d did not see visitors on that day. However, 
 
 m 
 
10 
 
 THE 8T0BY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 my father sent his card in, when, greatly to my delight, 
 the man returned and asked us to enter. 
 
 For softio momouts after wo were shown into the pres- 
 ence of the distinguished painter, I was so bewildered 
 that I could only cling to my father's .hand and stare 
 curiously at the pictures, which seemed to be fantastic 
 groups of people, while the living models looked less life- 
 like than tj^oir wonderful representations. 
 
 M. Gerard was at that time engaged on his celebrated 
 picture, which to-day hangs in the gallery of the Louvre, 
 '< Henry IV. Entering Paris." The immense canvas on 
 which he worked was stretched across the centre of a 
 vast room, lighted by a lofty window screened with flut- 
 tering drapery of different .shades and texture, which 
 toned and subdued the light to the will of the artist. 
 
 On the top of a flight of steps sat M. Gerard, dressed 
 in a flowered damask jacket, and cap of green velvet 
 with a long tassel, which I thought very pretty, falling, 
 as it did, over his beautiful hair. I remember that he 
 was smoking the oddest-looking pipe I had ever seen, 
 while he laid on the color rapidly from such a large pal- 
 ette that I thought his arm must ache from holding it. 
 
 When he saw us, he looked down from his high perch, 
 smiling cordially while he said, with his pipe still 
 between his lips : " How good of you to come to-day, my 
 friend. It is one of my dull days, and I need some 
 one to brighten me up. Make yourself comfortable, and 
 I will be down as soon as I have laid the lights on this 
 
 helmet." 
 
 Half the length of the room from where we stood ,$ 
 was a raised platform, and on it were grouped a number 
 of figures in fantastic costumes. The most striking per- 
 sonage was a soldier with a drawn sword in hfa hand. 
 
 an 
 
 ai 
 
 -.r*-;=-,ts«s«*='«P^-'^*''^'^"""' 
 
AST. 
 to my delight, 
 
 u into the pres- 
 
 i so bewildered 
 
 hand and stare 
 
 to be fantastic 
 
 looked less life- 
 
 3. 
 
 1 his celebrated 
 y of the Louvre, 
 lense canvas on 
 the centre of a 
 eened with flut- 
 
 texture, which 
 of the artist. 
 
 G«Srard, dressed 
 of green velvet 
 y pretty, falling, 
 member that he 
 [ had ever seen, 
 such a large pal- 
 •om holding it. 
 a his high perch, 
 I his pipe still 
 
 come to-day, my 
 id I need some 
 comfortable, and 
 le lights on this 
 
 where we stood, 
 rouped a number 
 aost striking per- 
 ord in hie hand. 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK BEUKETTA. 11 
 
 which was grotesque in the extreme, the upper part of 
 his body being dressed in complete armor, while his legs 
 and feet were covered witli blue woollen stockings and 
 wooden shoos. Behind him stood an old man with long 
 gray hair, his hands clasped and his eyes raised upward, 
 while near him knelt a young woman with a pretty fiuje, 
 and a rich velvet mantle thrown over a shabby gown. 
 
 This strange incongruity puzzled me, and I looked 
 inquiringly at my father, who smiled at my surprise, and 
 said in a low tone: "These are models. Look, M. 
 Gerard is now working on the helmet of the nuui in 
 armor, lie has grouped them in that way to find the 
 relative effects of light and shade, of form and color. 
 To-day, he is painting on the upper part of the figures; 
 therefore it does not matter how the lower part is 
 dressed." 
 
 The canvas puzzled me exceedingly. In the centre 
 was a magnificently accoutred rider, mounted on a 
 superb black charger with fiery eyes and distended nos- 
 trils, whose head-gear glistened with gems and his 
 breast with plates of burnished gold. So perfectly was 
 it wrought that both horse and man seemed to be 
 springing toward me full of life and motion, while all 
 around this nearly completed group were blotches of 
 color, patches of light and shade, — here a face, there a 
 hand, a part of a figure, a pliuned helmet, a shieldA bit 
 of drapery, all mingled together in the strangest confu- 
 sion. 
 
 "In time it will come right," my father explained. 
 « These are but bits laid on here and there, but the per- 
 fect design is under the whole." 
 
 "Now move!" said M. Gerard, with a merry whistle, 
 and directly the figures trooped down from the plat- 
 
 afittna 
 
 Jhi 
 
 m^^-' 
 
12 
 
 THE BTOnY OF AN KNTHU8IAST. 
 
 form in their queer costumes aiul disappeared silently 
 l)ehiiid II Bcreen. Only one reniiiiued, seated in an 
 autiqao (^hair, and dressed in thn same armor as was 
 the man on liorsobaek; lio wore the same tall lielmet 
 covered with gems, and at the top a tuft of scarlet 
 plumes. Ho diil not move, neitlutr tlid the plumes wave 
 in the least. The utter immobility of the figure sur- 
 prised me, and, touching my father's arm, I asked, in a 
 half-whisper: " Why d«)n't he go too, papa? " 
 
 M. Gerard had (U'scended, and was shaking hands 
 with my father. lie heard my question, looked at me 
 with a quizzical smile, then at the motionless figure, and 
 broke into a hearty laugh. 
 
 His amusement mortified and vexed me, and in my 
 confusion I set my hat on the palette of wet paint 
 which M. Gc'rard had just laid on a table near us, where- 
 upon my father reproved me severely for my awkward- 
 ness. This brought the quick tears to niy eyes, but I 
 drove them back resolutely, determined that M. Gerard 
 should not see me cry again. 
 
 " Don't scold him ! " said the painter, patting my head 
 kindly. "Come and I will show you why he does not 
 go with the others." Then, with a merry laugh, he 
 lifted me on to the platform, close beside the man in 
 the helmet. At first I was a littld frightened, then 
 thoroughly chagrined when I discovered that it was 
 only a lay figure dressed as a king. 
 
 While my father and M. Gerard talked earnestly 
 before the picture, on which the artist was leaving the 
 best impression of his mature genius, I examit.ed more 
 carefully the dim corners and wide walls, which were 
 filled frith treasures that were new and wonderful to me. 
 From time to time scraps of their conversation fell on 
 
 cl 
 
 r 
 
 s 
 
 
 V 
 
 t 
 
 gU!.'!*" 
 
■l i ilf ll 
 
 AHT. 
 
 pcart'il silently 
 Bt-atud in an 
 
 armor as was 
 me tall helmt't 
 t\if't of scarlet 
 lio plumes wave 
 
 the iimive sur- 
 n, I asked, in a 
 pa ? " 
 
 shaking hands 
 1, looked at me 
 iilesH ligure, and 
 
 me, and in my 
 B of wet paint 
 ) near us, where- 
 jr my awkward- 
 wy eyes, but I 
 that M. Gerard 
 
 patting my head 
 vhy he does not 
 merry laugh, he 
 tide the man in 
 frightened, then 
 red that it was 
 
 talked earnestly 
 was leaving the 
 ; examit.ed more 
 alls, which were 
 wonderful to me. 
 aversatioQ fell on 
 
 TiiK iCKAi) wrTii TiiR nr,A<'K umiuicrrA. t^ 
 
 my oaf. §m'h words as " manniT," " nchool," " hreailth," 
 "lone," and such names as "Daviil," " I'rudhon," "Mi- 
 chotloll," ami " Voriiot," romaiiiiMl lixcd forever in my 
 memory. 1 know these words related to painting, and 
 r knew theM(( names kdnnged to those who had distin- 
 guished themselves in art. 
 
 I was not (lid enough to iniderstand fully all that was 
 said, yet this conversation made a deep impression 
 on my plastic mind. In fa(!t, it convinced mo that I 
 was born to bo an artist j that I was endowed with a 
 gift from (iod moro rare, more precious than any earthly 
 treasure; that I possessed this mysterious power within 
 myself, and that I never could bo deprived of it save by 
 God who gave it. 
 
 I beliovo M. (Jorard's studio contained every require- 
 ment of his profession — casts from the antiqnP- casts 
 from the best modern works, rare old leather hangings, 
 rich tapestry, dimmed and softened by time into the 
 harmony of tone that artists lovo so dearly, cabinets of 
 ancient tarsia and carved ebony inlaid with ivory and 
 precious metals, armor engraved with quaint designs, 
 its lustre tarnished here and there by blotches of rust 
 that glowed red like blood, mirrors of polished steel 
 which once might have adorned the palace of a Venetian 
 doge, glass ware of exquisite shape, as clear and trans- 
 parmt as bright-tiute<l bubbles, silver cups and candela- 
 bra, copied from the designs of Ghiberti and Bellini, 
 ivory frames in quaint carving, stuffs of wonderful tint 
 and texture from every loom on the face of the globe. 
 In short, what seemed to my childish eyes a collection 
 of wonders, a perfect museum of curiosities. 
 
 But none of these beautiful objects interested me as 
 did the studies and sketches fastened to every available 
 
 MiBlWllMt(M><!!nHR!?S!!!!C 
 
14 
 
 THE STORY OF AN KNTHU8IA8T. 
 
 space on the wail, lying on the tables, cabinet^, and 
 chairs, bursting out of crowded portfolios, m«king 
 bright bits of color wherever I looked. 
 
 There were figures lying solitary on the far-reaching 
 sands of the deseit, others sitting drearily on a rock- 
 bound shore, their mysterious eyes seeming to look 
 away beyond the horizon into infinite distance; some 
 with bowed heads and clasped hands shrank from invisi- 
 ble danger, others crouched and cowered beneath a burden 
 of agony too heavy to bear, while some stood erect, proud 
 and defiant. Here every human passion was depicted 
 with painful power ; despair crushed beneath its own 
 weight ; anguish, both mental and physical, appealing to 
 heaven with white lips and strained eyes ; sweetly sor- 
 rowful faces, that melted the heart to tears ; groups of 
 figures in the wildest abandon of mirth ; bewitching 
 forms full of allurement ; hints of every passion, every 
 emotion that has moved the heart of humanity since 
 time began. 
 
 As I searched with eager delight into this mysterious 
 litter of genius, I was happy to feel that in a measure I 
 understood its power, that it appealed to me as one soul 
 appeals to another. 
 
 These sketches were in many cases coarse, crude, and 
 ill defined, yet almost divine in their incompleteness. 
 They were the result of toil and study, and demon- 
 strated the unalterable laws of art as well as the out- 
 pouring of the immortal stream fresh and pure from the 
 soul of the artist. 
 
 It seemed to me only a few moments, but it must have 
 been more than an hour that I was left to the contem- 
 plation of this charming collection, when my father's 
 words attracted my notice. 
 
AST. 
 
 THE HKAD WITH THE BLACK BERRETTA. 15 
 
 , cabinet;^, and 
 folios, making 
 
 le fai-reaching 
 rily ou a rock- 
 eining to look 
 distance; some 
 ink from invisi- 
 jneath a burden 
 5od erect, proud 
 II was depicted 
 eneath its own 
 al, appealing to 
 58; sweetly sor- 
 sars; groups of 
 th ; bewitching 
 r passion, every 
 humanity since 
 
 this mysterious 
 b in a measure I 
 > me as one soul 
 
 arse, crude, and 
 incompleteness, 
 iy, and demon- 
 yell as the cut- 
 id pure from the 
 
 but it must have 
 
 to the contem- 
 
 len my father's 
 
 "The child is evidently enraptured," he said to M. 
 Gerasd, who was watching me attentively. " I am sure 
 he has an inborn love of art, and if he wishes to make it 
 a study when he is older he shall do so." 
 
 " Let him begin early, then," replied M. Gerard. " Al- 
 low the cunning of the hand to grow and perfect itself 
 with the intellectual growth. Train the eye and the 
 brain together, and, more than all, train the heart ; there 
 must be a great loving heart to make the artist worthy 
 of his calling, a heart that can embrace nature and 
 humanity in one clasp; that can find beauty and grace in 
 the meanest thing God has made as well as in his most 
 wonderful creation. And train him physically; make 
 the outward man as perfect as the inward ; develop his 
 stature ; make him tall, but not too tall to heed the earth 
 he walks upon ; nor so low that he cannot see the stars. 
 Give him breadth and strength, for I hold that a good 
 artist must be a perfect man; and teach him to love 
 his fellow-men with an unbounded generosity, for egotism 
 will stifle and murder genius. The two cannot live 
 together, nor did the Creator mean that they should. 
 Genius is of God, and egotism is the vilest dreg in our 
 miserable clay. And, my friend, don't fail to give the 
 boy an example to follow. Teach him early of our 
 High-Priest Raphael. Show him where he stands, on the 
 very pinnacle of fame ; let him know that immortality 
 can be gained on earth, that there are some who never 
 die, who after centuries still exist in the great throbbing 
 heart of the world. Imbue his nature with this feeling, 
 teach him the religion of art, steep his soul in love for 
 the highest, the noblest, the best ; only in that way will 
 he excel and reach heights unattainable to others." 
 I listened to every word M. CWrard said with the 
 
 ilmi 
 
 i-'i! 
 
16 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHTTSIAST. 
 
 '^1 
 
 n 
 
 deepest attention. My eyes must have told him how 
 well I understood him, how deeply every impassioned 
 word was written on my memory in characters that 
 could never be effaced. 
 
 From that day in the Louvre, when the power of 
 genius was first revealed to me, I date my spiritual 
 birth, and I must ever think of M. Gerard as the one 
 who first taught me the true sublimity of art, andwhpse 
 glowing words led me to consecrate my life to it. For 
 at that moment I resolved to follow his advice, to give 
 my life to art, to work and study constantly, until I 
 approached the standard that he had set up. And 
 Raphael, the idol of my childhood, should be the glori- 
 ous example for my youth and manhood. He was no 
 ideal being, no dim creation of fancy or mythology; but 
 a man, who had once been a child, who had wept and 
 laughed, who had suffered and enjoyed, who had striven 
 and conquered, winning fame far beyond that of any 
 other human being. .• -i -» 
 
 While M. Gerard was speaking I went to his side and 
 slipped my hand into his. I could not speak - my emo- 
 tion choked me so that I could not utter a word; but I 
 think he understood what I felt while I caressed the 
 kind hand that clasped mine. 
 
 « Should you like to study with M. Gerard when you 
 are older?" asked my father, looking at me with a 
 
 gentle smile. 
 
 "Oh, yes, papa," I replied, with all my heart in my 
 eyes; "and I will try to do as he wishes so that I may 
 be a great painter some day." 
 
 "We will see in a few years," said M. Gdrard, stUl 
 holding my hand, and smiling on me with that winning 
 tenderness that endeared him to all who knew him. 
 
 
AST. 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK BEKKBTTA. 17 
 
 told him how 
 ry impassiuned 
 jharacters that 
 
 I the power of 
 ;e my spiritual 
 rard as the one 
 fart, and whose 
 life to it. For 
 s advice, to give 
 istantly, until I 
 set up. And 
 aid be the glori- 
 od. He was no 
 mythology; but 
 10 had wept and 
 who had striven 
 »nd that of any 
 
 it to his side and 
 speak — my emo- 
 er a word ; but I 
 ie I caressed the 
 
 Gerard when you 
 Lg at me with a 
 
 , my heart in my 
 es so that I may 
 
 i M. Gdrard, stUl 
 with that winning 
 ho knew him. 
 
 After that we took our leave, promising to repeat our 
 visit soon. But alas for me! Alas for France! I 
 never saw him again. I had listened to his eloquent 
 words, and looked upon his kind face for the last 
 time. Before another meeting took place, he left 
 Paris for Rome where he died at the very zenith of 
 his fame. 
 
 One never to be forgotten evening I went to my 
 father, who was alone in his study, and, as was my 
 usual habit while he talked to me, I drew a chair close 
 beside him and leaned my head against his shoulder. 
 He encircled me fondly with his arm, but seemed dis- 
 inclined to talk ; however, I was perfectly contented to 
 sit in silence while I could study my favorite picture. 
 The mysterious intelligence of the eyes, the gentle 
 reserve of the closed lips seemed to conceal a secret 
 from me, the secret of his humanity ; his sorrows and 
 joys, his desires and passions, his defeats and victories, 
 all seemed hidden under that calm, pensive gaze, tight 
 locked under that impassive mask that smiled serenely 
 before me. I had, in a spirit of childish confidence, 
 revealed to him all the secrets of my heart, while from 
 him I had leai-ned what the subtle power of genius im- 
 parts to one who can understand it. Raphael, until 
 recently, had been but an ideal creation, superhuman 
 and above the conception of a mortal ; but now that I 
 knew he had once lived on earth, and had been a boy 
 full of vague dreams and ambitious longings, who had 
 eaten and drunk, played and studied, as other boyg did, 
 it broH:j;ht him nearer to me, I could understand him 
 
 ■* 
 
 ■HtliiiifM 
 
18 
 
 THE 8TOBY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 more intimately, love him more familiarly, as a boy- 
 genius than as the High-Priest of Art. 
 
 " Papa," I said, at length, looking anxiously at him, 
 he was so very pale and silent. " Papa, can you tell me _ 
 about Raphael this evening ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, I remember, I promised you," he replied, in 
 a dreamy voice, coming back reluctantly from that 
 mysterious country where his thoughts so often jour- 
 neyed. "I am not feeling well, and I have given orders 
 that I am not to be disturbed, so I may as well try to 
 make you better acquainted with the history of the mas- 
 ter whom you intend to follow. When you are a little 
 older I wish you to read all that has been written of 
 this remarkable painter, although, in my opinion, scarce 
 any author has praised him in terms equal to his 
 merits, excepting perhaps Vasari, his earliest biographer, 
 who, although a pupil and worshipper of Michael Angelo, 
 his only rival, if Raphael could have a rival, says of him 
 that 'those who are possessors of endowments so rich 
 and varied as were assembled in his person are scarcely 
 to be called men, they are rather entitled to the ai)pel. 
 lation of mortal gods,' and he adds ' that he is author- 
 ized to declare that he who by means of his work has 
 left an honored name on the records of fame here below 
 may also hope to enjoy such rewards in heaven as are 
 commensurate to and worthy of his labors and merits.' 
 "When you arc of a proper age, it is also my intention 
 to have you go to Rome and study carefully the works of 
 this great master. There you will find his noblest pro- 
 ductions, and there, under the protection of the French 
 Academy, you will have every facility for improvement ; 
 and if you are only faithful, you can reach an enviable 
 position in the profession I wish you to follow. My 
 
(VST. 
 
 rly, as a boy- 
 
 ;iously at him, 
 !an you tell me _ 
 
 " he replied, in 
 tly from that 
 
 so often jonr- 
 ve given orders 
 
 as well try to 
 ;ory of the mas- 
 
 you are a little 
 )een written of 
 
 opinion, scarce 
 equal to his 
 iiest biographer, 
 Michael Angelo, 
 val, says of him 
 wments so rich 
 son are scarcely 
 3d to the ai)pel- 
 it he is author- 
 )f his work has 
 fame here below 
 1 heaven as are 
 >or8 and merits.' 
 ,lso my intention 
 Lilly the works of 
 
 his noblest pro- 
 n of the French 
 or improvement ; 
 sach an enviiible 
 . to follow. My 
 
 THE HKAD WITH THE BLACK HEUUETTA. 
 
 19 
 
 child," here he laid his hand caressingly on my head, 
 and drew me closer to him, while his voice trembled 
 with restrained emotion, " 1 have a great deal to say to 
 you in regard to your future, and perhaps I ought to say 
 it now for I fear I have not long to guide you through 
 the bewildering mazes of life. My heart, with its heavy 
 muffled beating, warns me that my life is uncertain, and 
 that your dear mother's tomb may soon be opened to 
 receive me. For some time I have been wishing to say 
 this to you, to prepare you in a measure for the end that 
 may soon come. It is nothing new, nothing sudden. 
 It is a life-long trouble, aggravated by your mothers 
 death. You have never known of it, for I could not bear 
 to cast another shadow over your childhood." 
 
 Hearing my sudden sob of anguish, he clasped me 
 tightly, with nervous energy, close to his heart, where I 
 could hear plainly its heavy, portentous beating. For a 
 long time we both remained silent in the shadow of an 
 awful calamity; then my father, mastering his emotion 
 with the wonderful strength that characterized him, 
 told me, in a quiet monotone, his gentle hand still caress- 
 ing my hair, the last story I ever heard from his lips, 
 the story of the beautiful boy of Urbino. Of his birth on 
 Good Friday in the little town overlooking the green 
 waves of the Adriatic, of his dreamy, thoughtful child- 
 hood so early developed in works of wonderful beauty, 
 of his mother's delight in his precocious talents, his 
 father's pride in his youthful genius, for the old painter 
 early discovered the divine gift that would place the boy 
 high above his most illustrious countrymen. Of his life 
 in the studio of Perugino, who soon acknowledged a mas- 
 ter in his pupil. Of his brilliant career in Florence, be- 
 ginning with a letter of introduction to the Gonfalonere 
 
 MMM 
 
 MHMi 
 
so 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 from the Duchess of Urbino, whos(^ pride and interest in 
 her young protege iufluencetl his whole destiny. Then 
 came his summons to Home, where pope, princes, and 
 cardinals were at his feet. Wealth poured upon him, 
 every honor was heaped upon his favored head. His 
 wonderful wcrks wore considered soni(^thing more than 
 the production of mortal genius. In short, whatever 
 he did and wherever he went was but a succession of tha 
 most brilliant triumphs. Followed like a king by a 
 retinue of adoring disciples, the idol of the court and 
 of the people, this youthful prodigy stood alone in the 
 grandeur of his genius and the beauty of his virtue." 
 
 My young heart throbbed with delight at this story of 
 a youth who by his inborn power raised himself from 
 the common level to be a king among men — or more, a 
 
 mortal god. 
 
 "But how could such as he die and leave all his 
 glory ^ " I asked, with heartfelt anguish, when my father 
 finished the sad description of his early death and 
 burial, of the gloom and despair of a nation that had 
 suddenly lost its idol; "how could he die and be buried 
 in the grave like any other u.an ? " 
 
 "That which was godlike in him did not die," replied 
 ray father. " It lives to-day, and will live while human- 
 ity lasts and time endures. The imperishable is the 
 fruit of the soul, the soul is the germ of immortality 
 planted in us by God, and it is indestructible. Happy 
 is the man who leaves for ages, aye for all time, a living 
 proof of his divine origin. My child, it is not given to 
 all to leave this eternal record of truth ; but all can 
 aspire to it, and if they fail in attaining the supreme, 
 they can still gain much, for he who cannot reach the 
 Uiost remote stars discovers in his flight many nearer 
 
 r^ssss 
 
lAST. 
 
 ; and interest in 
 destiny. Then 
 pe, piiuces, and 
 uied upon him, 
 )ied head. His 
 ;hing more than 
 short, whatever 
 succession of. thfl 
 ke a king by a 
 )f the court and 
 3od alone in the 
 f his virtue." 
 it at tliis story of 
 ed himself from 
 lien — or more, a 
 
 ud leave all his 
 1, when my father 
 early death and 
 nation that had 
 lie and be buried 
 
 not die," replied 
 live while human - 
 perishable is the 
 m of immortality 
 tructible. Happy 
 r all time, a living 
 it is not given to 
 •uth; but all can 
 ling the supreme, 
 
 cannot reach the 
 ight many nearer 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK BEKBETTA. 21 
 
 planets. Will you promise me to aspire only to what is 
 true, to sacrifice all, even worldly prosperity, for truth, 
 to aim high, to strive for the loftiest point to which the 
 soul can reach. Understand fully all you attempt. 
 Investigate what ia hidden from ordinary minds. Strive 
 only for that which has truth for its basis. Love your 
 art with all your soul. Love it faithfully, seriously, 
 truthfully. A life's study, a life's devotion is not too 
 great an offering to give to your chosen vocation. Unite 
 the love of it with your love of religion and nature, for 
 so you can best worship your Creator. 
 
 "When I am not here to speak to you, remember all 
 that I have said. And if I cannot rejoice on earth in 
 your success, if you succeed, or weep with you, if you 
 fail, in eternity I may know all, and you must live as 
 if my eyes were ever upon you, my love encouraging and 
 approving every noble effort." 
 
 Holding his dear hand, which was strangely cold and 
 damp, tightly clasped in mine, I promised him solemnly 
 never to forget what he had said to me, and to try to 
 act always as if he were by my side. And I can truth- 
 fully say that in every crisis of my life I have felt that 
 his gaze was fixed upon me, and I have tried to decide 
 in a way that I was sure he would approve of could he 
 epeak to me from that far-off country. Between me and 
 it there is eternal silence ; still, I hear his voice at times, 
 ind my heart is comforted and sustained by a love that 
 can never die. 
 
 While I was speaking, he leaned back in his chair as 
 though he were tired, closed his eyes, and appeared to be 
 thinking deeply. Not wishing to disturb him, I remained 
 silent, and was soon lost in the visions that went flitting 
 through my brain, mingling in light and shade my 
 
22 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 father's sadly prophetic words with the golden glow of 
 romance that surrounded the boy of Urbino. 
 
 How long I sat there dreaming I never knew. The 
 first thing that alarmed me was the strange immobility 
 of the form against which I leaned, and the intense 
 chill of the hand I held in mine. Springing to my feet, 
 I looked fearfully into his face. He still leaned back, 
 his head resting quietly against the cushion of the chair, 
 and his eyes closed as though in deep sleep. But the 
 features were sharp and rigid, and of a dreadful pallor, 
 while between the parted lips was a thin line of white 
 froth. 
 
 " Papa, papa ! " I cried, throwing my arms around 
 him, but he did not hear me, his soul had wandered 
 away to my mother, and had forgotten to return. When 
 the dreadful truth burst upon me, I tried to call for 
 help, but a thick darkness closed around me, a great 
 wave of sound rushed and surged over me, the floor 
 seemed to slip from under my feet, and I fell senseless 
 at his side. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "The boy looks physically weak and intellectually 
 mature. Not a Markland, not at all English, except 
 perhaps the fair hair, which is Saxon ; but the eyes, 
 ab, I see the mother's eyes ! the features and the eyes ! 
 are Gallic, pure Gallic, more of the Delaborde than 
 the Markland type. And his name not even a family 
 name ; who ever heard of a Felix Markland ? I suppose 
 that came from the French side of the house. I do hate 
 these national mixtures; however, he seems a quiet, 
 amiable sort of boy, but not healthy, not at all healthy. 
 
8IAST. 
 
 3 golden glow of 
 bino. 
 
 ever knew. The 
 range immobility 
 and the intense 
 iging to my feet, 
 still leaned back, 
 hion of the chair, 
 ) sleep. But tlie 
 I dreadful pallor, 
 lin line of white 
 
 ny arms around 
 lul had wandered 
 to return. When 
 tried to call for 
 ound me, a great 
 'er me, the floor 
 1 I fell senseless 
 
 ind intellectually 
 English, except 
 n ; but the eyes, 
 res and the eyes ! 
 ! Delaborde than 
 ot even a family 
 land ? I suppose 
 house, I do hate 
 e seems a quiet, 
 ot at all healthy. 
 
 THK HEAD WITH THE BLACK BERKETTA. 23 
 
 Needs English air, Lorrimer, a few months of South 
 iladdingham, a little running wild over the moors, and 
 he will be a different-looking boy — mark my words, an 
 entirely different-looking boy," 
 
 The person who thus inspected me, turning me around 
 with an exasperating scrutiny, and delivering his opin- 
 ion freely, as though he thought that I did not under- 
 stand the English language, was Lord Hardmoor, my 
 uncle Lorrimer's brother, a coarse-featured, red-faced 
 man, who spoke in a pompous and aggressive manner, 
 what I thought to be detestable English, It sounded so 
 unlike my father's elegant and refined way of speaking. 
 
 My uncle Lorrimer, whom I now saw for the first time, 
 was a short, slight man, with thin, light hair, watery blue 
 eyes, and rather a feeble voice, with a disagreeable 
 drone at the end of each sentence, which I thought he 
 had acquired from having read the church service so 
 often. He wore glossy black clothes of a decidedly 
 clerical cut, a stiff white cravat, and gold spectacles, and 
 stood as though his lower limbs were weafi, wavering 
 slightly, his hands clasped in front of him somewhat in 
 the attitude of prayer. 
 
 These two brothers, so little alike, had come from Eng- 
 land to see my dear father laid where he had so long 
 wished to be, by my mother's side in Pere le Chaise, 
 and to dispose of my future as they saw proper. 
 
 As for myself, I was passive, indifferent. The blow 
 had been so sudden and so severe that I had not yet 
 recovered from its benumbing effects. I wished to be 
 alone, I did not care to see my uncle, neither did I 
 desire to speak or to be spoken to, I remained most of the 
 time in the darkened study, caring for no other compan- 
 ion than the sorrowful, sympathetic face of my beloved 
 
S4 
 
 TlIK STORY OF AN KNTliUSIAST. 
 
 picture. With that bi'lbii! me, 1 lUd not feel entirely 
 bereaved. To look at it gave lae Btreugth and patience. 
 I had been an orpluin sevtual days, which seemed ages, 
 when my uncle and Lord Hardmoor arrived. My fath- 
 er's lawyer had sent for them directly, aa they were my 
 guardians, and my uncle Lorrimer was the only male 
 relative I had. I met them with the most chilling 
 indirterence. There was no lovo nor sympathy in the 
 cold, watery eyes of tlie Kev. Ernest Lorrimer, nor one 
 gleam of pity for the lonely, sensitive orphan in the 
 self-satisfied, worldly face of Lord Hardmoor. I shrank 
 from them as strangers ; and if 1 experienced any feeling, 
 it was one of aversion. Yet I knew that in a measure 
 my destiny was in their hands. 
 
 Iviy life had hitherto been so quiet, so refined and iutel- 
 !ec*-,ual, for I hud breathed an atmosphere of art and 
 pootry from my cradle, that the loud voice, the robust 
 figure and coarse face of one, and the grotesque feeble- 
 ness of the other, shocked my artistic sense, and jarred 
 painfully on my supersensitive organization, and I felt 
 that to spend my future life in th'3 society of these two 
 guardians Avould be a perpetual martyrdom. 
 
 I had not seen my father since that dreadful night, 
 but there were always before me the rigid features, the 
 distressed mouth with the line of froth between the lips. 
 I tried to think of him as he had looked in life, a hand- 
 some, melancholy face, full of tenderness as well as of 
 pride and strength; but I could not bring back the 
 living face, for the dead face was always before me. 
 
 The day he was taken away forever, I begged to be al- 
 lowed to remain at home and alone. Bettine, my old nurse, 
 wished to stay with me. I shuddered under her caress- 
 ing hand. There could be no more love or caresses for 
 
JSIAST. 
 
 nut feel entirely 
 b'th and patience. 
 Inch seemed ages, 
 ivrived. My futh- 
 
 118 they were n»y 
 as the only male 
 the most chilling 
 
 ■ sympathy in the 
 Loirimer, nor one 
 ve orphan in the 
 rdmoor. I shrank 
 ienced any feeling, 
 
 ■ that in a measure 
 
 refined and iutel- 
 sphere of art and 
 . voice, the robust 
 
 grotesque feeble- 
 ; sense, and jarred 
 ization, aud I felt 
 ueiety of these two 
 rdom. 
 
 at dreadful night, 
 rigid features, the 
 h between the lips, 
 ed in life, a haud- 
 uess as well as of 
 ot bring back the 
 ays before me. 
 ■, I begged to be al- 
 ittine, my old nurse, 
 
 1 under her caress- 
 )ve or caresses for 
 
 THK HEAD WITH THK ULACK HKI! 
 
 FT A. 
 
 lii 
 
 nu". My feeling of utter loneliness was ^ lOphetic. II 
 was the foreslmdowing of the dreariness, the lovelessnt-ss 
 of my future. 
 
 That night, when all was over, I was summoned to the 
 great dreary sttlo/i, where my two guardians were sitting, 
 Lord Hardmoor with his hands thrust into his jtockets, 
 his feet on tlie fender, and liia eyes on the ceiling, my 
 uncle Lorrimcr i)erched uneasily on the edge of u high 
 chair, liis toes inclined inward, his loose hands folded 
 over liis knees, and his watery, inexpressive eyes wan- 
 dering vaguely behind his spectacles, and I a little black 
 figure standing before them waiting silently for some 
 sign from these autocrats of my destiny. 
 
 After my uncle Lorrimer liad given three very weak 
 hem8 ending in a drone that sounded like uh-men, 
 he said timidly, as if afraid of taking the initiative, 
 "Brother Hardmoor, can we not leave to-morrow? I 
 think poor Markland's lawyer can attend to everything 
 here. The furniture, pictures, and ornaments had better 
 be sold, had they not ? " 
 
 "Certainly they had," replied Lord Hardmoor, tak- 
 ing his feet from the fender, and his eyes from the ceil- 
 ing, interested, now that something of a worldly nature 
 was under discussion. " Certainly, everything Imd much 
 better be sold at once. Of what use will these knick- 
 knacks be to the boy? 1 suppose they have a certain value ; 
 therefore, turn them into money and invest it profitably, 
 and when he is of age he will have something to use for 
 tlie improvement of his estate. Markland has sadly neg- 
 lected the practical side of life through his love for art 
 and poetry, and his estate, which might have been worth 
 something, is of very little account. I hold it a sin for 
 a man to neglect." 
 
 I 
 
26 
 
 THE STORY OK AN KNTlll'HI AHl. 
 
 "But," iiiUMiuptud my uncUs hcMitatiuKly, " hiuln't 
 we better iUscuhm thut hoiuo other time iiud attend to 
 more pressiuj} utt'airs now. X want to get hoi,. aH 8oon 
 aa poHsibU'. I think we can have an interviow with tlio 
 lawyer early in the niorninK, and be itn- pared to lake 
 the noon diligence tor CalaiH, and reach London the 
 next evening in time to take the maiUioach tor Had- 
 dingham." 
 
 " Yes, yes. It can be do: •^, but it hccihh to roe you 
 are rather in a hurry to get back to your tiock. One 
 day more or less won't matter much ; your sheep won't 
 scatter iu that time beyond the rcacli of your curate." 
 
 " It's not that, Hardmoor ; it's not that at all. I'm 
 thinking of Ernestine and the children; I am anxious 
 
 about iFhem." 
 
 From that remark I inferred that my uncle Lonimer 
 was a most devoted husband and father. 
 
 " Oh, yes, I understand, you are anxious about them," 
 returned Lord Hardmoor, with a grim smile, and an 
 unmistakable look of contempt. "Well, as there is no 
 time to lose, the first thing to consider is the sale. Had 
 there better be any reserve ? " 
 
 '• None, I should say, except the family portraits, and 
 they had better be sent to Markland Place." 
 
 Up to this point in the conversation I sat near them 
 silent and indifferent, only dimly conscious that they 
 were discussing some question respecting my future. Of 
 what nature, I cared little to know, until the remark 
 about the portraits fell on my ear; then I understood 
 what they were about to do. and looked aghast from one 
 to the other, horrified at what seemed to me a cruel 
 sacrilege, while my surprise and grief found expression 
 in angry, passionate words. 
 
wgly, " Imdn't 
 iiud attfiid to 
 
 huiii UH 80UII 
 
 view with the 
 paved to lake 
 u London tht' 
 ouch tor lliid- 
 
 luH to me you 
 ir flock. Oue 
 iir sheep won't 
 our cumte," 
 it at all. I'm 
 I am anxiouH 
 
 uncle Lon-imer 
 
 8 about them," 
 Hmile, and an 
 as there is no 
 the sale. Had 
 
 f portraits, and 
 e.» 
 
 sat near them 
 ious that they 
 ; my future. Of 
 til the remark 
 n I understood 
 ighast from one 
 
 to me a cruel 
 )uud expression 
 
 THK HKAI) WITH THK HLA(!K HKHUKTTA. 27 
 
 Htnrting to my feet ami trembling with exeltcmMnt, I 
 cried fmntii'.illy, "Yon don't mean to do that. \'ou 
 can't be mo wicked au t > sell tlicHc beautiful titinKS that 
 papa was all hi.s lil'u collecting. Tlicy are mine now, 
 and I tell you ^ou shall not sell them." 
 
 "IIuMh, husli," said uncle Lorrimer, soothingly. "It 
 is best to sell them." 
 
 " What ! do you mean to sell all the pictures that papa 
 loved so, and the Kaphatd too ? " and, (juite overcome by 
 my sorro.v and indignation, I sobbed convulsively, wring- 
 ing my iuuids in an agony of entreaty. 
 
 "Well, well," said Lord Ilardmoor, standing over me, 
 and looking down on me from his burly height, as 
 though I were a small black lamb, who in spiti' of its rej>- 
 utation for meekness and patience, had suddenly asserted 
 itself in a very unpleasant manner. "I am surprised! 
 who would have thought the boy had so much spirit ! 
 something of a Markland, af ar all. It's curious to see 
 the characteristics of a family come out in that way. 
 (Jentle and quiet as doves until something touches them ; 
 then they are as tierce as birds of prey. Now, stop 
 crying, Felix, my boy ; I like you quite as well for show- 
 ing a little temper, but it is no use to rebel against those 
 in authority. You are only a lad, and your father in 
 his wil] has named your uncle and me your joint guar- 
 dians, and has instructed us to act for your best interest. 
 Perhaps, if he had not been taken away so suddenly, he 
 might have left more explicit directions about tho dis- 
 posal of his personal effects. We, your uncle and my- 
 self, consider it for your best interest to sell this collec- 
 tion of pictures and curiosities, for the house is like a 
 museum, and they would be of no use to you, and very 
 unsuitable for a plain English country houses neither 
 
28 
 
 THE 8T0KY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 are you rich enough to liave their value lying idle, simply 
 because your father had the peculiar taste to spend his 
 time and money collecting them." 
 
 "But the Raphael," I cried, almost beside myself. 
 "You must not sell that, papa and mama both loved 
 it so much. 1 have heard papa say many times that no 
 amount of money would tempt him to part with it." 
 
 " Pooh, pooh, my boy, the Raphael is no Raphael at 
 all. That was one of your father's favorite hobbies; 
 he was always finding' old masters. Every antique 
 copy he came across was an original. This picture that 
 he thought a Raphael is in all probability a Giulio 
 Romano, or it may be a copy of Perugino. It is doubt- 
 less of the school of Raphael — a work of some of his 
 pupils, possibly." 
 
 " No, no. It is a genuine Raphael. Papa and all 
 the great artists who came here to see it said so. 
 Among papa's papers there is a history of it, and how 
 he came to get it. He has told me so many a time, and 
 I know if he could speak now he would say it was not 
 to be sold. Oh, uncle," I cried, turning to the Rev. 
 Ernest, who walked about uneasily, not daring to inter- 
 rupt the free torrent of Lord Hardmoor's authority, 
 "only keep this one picture and I will not complain if 
 you sell everything else. I have seen it ever since I 
 can remember ; it is all I have left of my happy days 
 with dear papa, and mama taught me to love it when 
 I was a baby. Papa and mama spent hours looking at 
 it, and they always told me it was a priceless treasure, 
 one of the great master's early paintings, his purest and 
 best style, and of more value than anything they had. 
 It was the last thing he ever spoke of, the last story he 
 ever told me. That night, O uncle, he was telling me 
 
 
 Ns'^. 
 
ilAST. 
 
 ying idle, simply 
 ste to spend liis 
 
 t beside myself. 
 Liaraa botli loved 
 ly times that no 
 lart with it." 
 s no Eaphael at 
 favorite hobbies; 
 Every antique 
 rhis picture that 
 bability a Giulio 
 ino. It is doubt- 
 rk of some of his 
 
 I. Papa and all 
 see it said so. 
 ry of it, and how 
 many a time, and 
 lid say it was not 
 ■ning to the Bev. 
 •t daring to inter- 
 Imoor's authority, 
 il not complain if 
 in it ever since I 
 of my happy days 
 e to love it when 
 ; hours looking at 
 priceless treasure, 
 igs, his purest and 
 inything they had. 
 , the last story he 
 he was telling me 
 
 THE HKAD WITH THE BLACK BERRETTA. 
 
 29 
 
 the history of the boy of Urbino, and how he wished 
 me to love and follow Eaphael when I became an artist. 
 He said he wanted me to keep the picture always with 
 me to teach me what to strive for. Let me keep it to 
 remind me of that and all my happy childhood ; with it 
 I am never alone. It is all the friend I want ; let me 
 keep it and I will try to be very good and patient, and 
 I will promise not to trouble you with my crying." 
 
 My uncle took off his spectacles, wiped them nervously, 
 and looked at Lord Hardmoor in mute appeal. Poor 
 little man, perhaps he had not a bad heart, but his will 
 was entirely dominated by that of his inflexible brother. 
 " It is of no use, Lorrimer," said Lord Hardmoor, in 
 reply to the look. " The boy is foolish and stubborn in 
 this. The picture can't be any more to him than the 
 hundred other pictures in these rooms. It must be sold 
 with the others, and as for its being a Eaphael, it's all 
 nonsense ; connoisseurs would laugh at me if I, a well 
 known art critic, should catalogue it as such. I told 
 Markland years ago, when I wrote my article on ancient 
 art, that it was a Giulio Eomano or an Andrea Man- 
 tegna. I now believe it to be the latter, and under that 
 name it had better be placed in the catalogue of the sale." 
 There was nothing more to be said. I had made my 
 last appeal, and I now felt myself to be powerless under 
 the iron will of my guardians. I swallowed my bitter 
 tears and sobs, too proud and sensitive to let them see 
 my suffering, and determined that they should not wit- 
 ness another outburst of emotion. I begged that I might 
 be allowed to retire. At the door I turned, and, hurling 
 all my anger at them in my words, I cried passionately, 
 "I hate you both. You have no heart. If you sell my 
 Eaphael, when I am a man and can do as I like, I will 
 
 f 
 
80 
 
 THE 8TOKY Or AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 search the world over until I find it, and then I will buy 
 it back if it takes every shilling of my money." 
 
 As I went out I heard my uncle Lorrimer say, in a 
 half -frightened voice, "Our guardianship will be no sine- 
 cure, brother Hardmoor." 
 
 I went to my father's study. Bettine was waiting for 
 me. "Bettine," I cried, bursting into a tempest of 
 weeping, " go away directly. I want to be alone. You 
 need not wait for me. To-morrow I am going to Eng- 
 land, and I shall never see this room again. I want to 
 stay here a long time alone with ray Eaphael. They are 
 going to sell it. Do you understand what that means ? 
 They are going to take this picture, that seems a part of 
 papa and mama, and sell it to any one who will buy it, 
 and I shall never see it again." 
 
 " Oh, mon Dieu! the English savages I" cried Bettine, 
 indignantly. "But my dear boy must not weep so, or 
 he will be too ill to make the journey to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh, Bettine ! dear Bettine ! I shall not be ill, I shall 
 not die, and I am too unhappy to live. I only want to 
 be alone. When I am tired I will go to my room." 
 
 The faithful woman left me reluctantly, and when she 
 was gone I locked the door, and, stepping upon a chair, 
 so that my face would be on a level with the pictured 
 face, I pressed my lips over and over again to the serene 
 mouth of my painted friend, and when I had caressed it 
 and told it ray sorrows in a low voice mingled with sobs, 
 I saw there were tears rolling down its face, and, child 
 that I was, I fancied the picture was weeping with me, 
 but now I know they were tears from my own eyes that 
 had fallen on it. 
 
 The next day, when all was ready, and I was about to 
 leave my home forever, I went for the last time into the 
 
 w 
 
lAST. 
 
 then I will buy 
 iioney." 
 
 rrinier say, in a 
 • will be no sine- 
 was waiting for 
 o a tempest of 
 be alone. You 
 n going to Eng- 
 gain. I want to 
 phael. They are 
 hat that means ? 
 ,t seems a part of 
 who will buy it, 
 
 i I " cried Bettine, 
 not weep so, or 
 >morrow." 
 not be ill, I shall 
 I only want to 
 my room." 
 bly, and when she 
 Ing upon a chair, 
 ivith the pictured 
 gain to the sereiie 
 I had caressed it 
 lingled with sobs, 
 ;s face, and, child 
 iveeping with me, 
 my own eyes that 
 
 ,nd I was about to 
 last time into the 
 
 THE HEAD WITH THE BLACK BERKETTA. 31 
 
 room to tiike my farewell of the head with the black 
 herretta. I was calm now. The inevitable had come, 
 and I knew tears were useless. With a still anguish, 
 impossible to describe, I looked for the last time at the 
 face whose soft eyes seemed to follow me with loving 
 wistfuluess, and, kneeling reverently before that picture, 
 which was to influence my whole destiny, 1 vowed sol- 
 emnly that when I was older I would search the world 
 over until I found it, and when I found it, I would get 
 possession of it if it were possible. 
 
 The rapid journey in the diligence from Paris to Calais 
 was dreary in the extreme. It was a cold, stormy day 
 in November. The rain and wind beat savagely at the 
 carriage windows, a heavy gray mist hung over the low 
 lands. There was nothing to interest me within or with- 
 out. Lord Hardmoor slept heavily in one corner of the 
 seat, a handkerchief spread over his face and his limbs 
 outstretched, much to the discomfort of the passengers 
 opposite. My uncle Lorrimer sat upright with a copy 
 of the church manual in liis hand, winking and blinking 
 behind his spectacles, while I sat between them — a for- 
 lorn figure, my heart aching intolerably, my head throb- 
 bing, and my eyes hot with unshed tears, most uncom- 
 fortable in a new suit of mourning that did not fit, 
 my feet pinched into shoes too small for me, and a 
 pin in the back of my collar goading my neck every 
 time I turned my head ; but I was too proud to com- 
 plain, so I bore my suffering in silence, scorning to ask 
 relief from those who had treated me so cruelly. 
 
 When, at last, we reached Calais, Lord Hardmoor 
 awoke with a start, and, standing up to speak to the 
 guard, trod upon my cramped feet until T almost cried 
 with pain, but I made no sign. I had appealed to him 
 
82 THE STOKY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 once, with all my childish energy of soul, and he ha.l 
 been deaf to my piteous prayer, and never again should 
 he know th; ;. he had power to hurt me. 
 
 When I went on board the packet that was to carry 
 us to England, and saw, for the first time, a rough, 
 stormy sea, a dirty, noisy crowd on the wet deck, and 
 listened to the loud voices of the English sailors as they 
 rushed here and there clumsily and boisterously per- 
 forming their duties, 1 felt, even at that early age, that 
 my poetic life was behind me, and that before me lay a 
 dreary, practical future, which must be met with all the 
 courage that I possessed. 
 
[7BIAS1'. 
 
 soul, and he had 
 lever again should 
 
 B. 
 
 that was to carry 
 irst time, a rough, 
 the wet deck, and 
 lish sailors as they 
 I boisterously per- 
 ;hat early age, that 
 at before me lay a 
 be met with all the 
 
 PART II. 
 DORETHEA. 
 
PART II. 
 
 DORETUEA. 
 
 
 I REMEMBER but little of the passage from Calais to 
 Dover, for I was stupidly sick, and lay like a log upon 
 one of the damp seats on the deck, while my uncle Lor- 
 rimer, pale and shivering, leaned over the railing, vainly 
 trying to keep up his clerical dignity by a close study of 
 the angry waves crested with little mountains of foam. 
 
 Lord Hardmoor, subdued for once into humble silence, 
 buttoned tightly in a great-coat, sat moodily nursing his 
 knees, his eyes closed, and his complexion of a bluish 
 gray. In their own misery both seemed to have forgot- 
 ten my existence, and I should have suffered from the 
 cold and dampness, if a kind-hearted woman, who doubt- 
 less thought I was an orphan from my mourning and 
 the neglect with which I was treated, had not folded a 
 thick warm shawl over me, saying, in a pitying tone, as 
 she did so, "Poor little lad, are you all alone ? " 
 
 These kind words opened the flood-gates of my heart, 
 and I wept freely under the shelter of her plaid. 
 
 In the coffee-room at Dover my uncle bade me eat 
 something, but I could not swallow a mouthful. Home- 
 sickness and sea-sickness together made me loathe food, 
 and, in fact, everything else. I pushed away the plat© 
 placed before me, ai. \ leane*' Lack in my chair, trying 
 
 35 
 
 li 
 
 ;: 
 
86 
 
 THB STORY OP AN KNTIIUarAST. 
 
 tlu'ii would 
 
 heroically to repress the tears that now and 
 escape and roll down my cheeks. 
 
 At last Lord Hardmoor seemed to Temeinber that I 
 existed, and, pushing a cup of coffee toward me, he said, 
 peremptorily, "Drink that; it will relieve the nausea." 
 With mechanical obedience I raised the cup to my 
 lips, and, my tears dropping into it, swallowed a mouth- 
 ful. It was very hot, and I was too timid to eject it. so 
 I held it in my blistering mouth until it cooled and then 
 gulped it down with a painful effort. I could take no 
 more, and begged to be allowed to lie on one of the sofas 
 until the stage started for London. Again my good 
 friend, God bless her ! covered me closely with her shawl, 
 and 1 fell asleep. 
 
 I remember little more until I reached Haddingham 
 Rectory. My first impression there was of a large, well 
 lighted room, with handsome furniture and curtains, and 
 a glowing fire in a grate at the far end. Near the door, 
 as we entered, stood a small, faded woman, dressed in 
 deep mourning, and with her a number of little folk, of 
 various ages and sizes. I had never in my life associa- 
 ted with children, and this unexpected group astonished 
 me. I remember I thought there were about twenty, but 
 when they were sorted out and arranged there were only 
 
 nine. t. i- a 
 
 The faded little woman was my aunt Ernestine, ana 
 the nine copies of her and my uncle were my cousins 
 Lorrimer. Before I was noticed my aunt and the chil- 
 dren saluted the Rev. Ernest with a formal kiss; then 
 my aunt drew rar; toward her -for I hung back shyly, 
 being cold and only half awake. As she stooped to kiss 
 me, I saw that shie was weeping. 
 The sight of her tears and the loving clasp of her arms 
 
luarAST. 
 
 ow and tlu-n would 
 
 to Temember that I 
 toward me, he said, 
 elieve the nausea." 
 sed the cup to my 
 swallowed a mouth- 
 timid to eject it, so 
 il it cooled and then 
 t. I could take no 
 3 on one of the sofas 
 n. Again my good 
 jsely with her shawl, 
 
 ?ached TIaddingham 
 was of a large, well 
 ire and curtains, and 
 end. Near the door, 
 d woman, dressed in 
 ber of little folk, of 
 r in my life associa- 
 ted group astonished 
 jre about twenty, but 
 nged there were only 
 
 aunt Ernestine, and 
 icle were ray cousins 
 ly aunt and the chil- 
 i a formal kiss ; then 
 • I hung back shyly, 
 ts she stooped to kiss 
 
 ring clasp of her arms 
 
 TU)11KTIIKA. 
 
 87 
 
 were too much for my tired, sore heart. I could not 
 speak, but clung to her, sobbing passionately. For a few 
 moments she held me closely to her heart, saying, " My 
 poor brotlier, my poor brother." Then she led me to a 
 sofa and, sitting beside me, she wiped my eyes and 
 soothed me tenderly, trying to divert me witli questions 
 about my journey, while my cousins stood near and 
 looked on with quiet curiosity. 
 
 My uncle Lorrimer was giving his hat and coat to a 
 servant, and Lord Ilardmoor was clasping and kissing 
 a little girl of about seven or eight years, who had 
 suddenly entered the room by another door. A pretty 
 child in a white frock .and blue sash. Her features were 
 small and pale, her eyes wide and blue, and her hair of a 
 beautiful golden color. 1 remember I thought she 
 looked like an angel in some old picture I had seen. 
 
 " Why Dolly, you little witch, how is it that you are 
 here ? " I heard Lord Hardmoor ask, when he had re- 
 leased her from a very fond embrace. 
 
 " I came to meet you, papa," replied the child, with 
 measured precision. " Mama said you would stay here 
 all night, because it would be too late to drive over to 
 the Hall, so she allowed Thompson to fetch me this morn- 
 ing, to be here to meet you when you came with the 
 little French boy. Is not aunt Ernestine good to allow 
 us all to sit up. Oh, we have had such fun. I have 
 been dressed in a black gown, and Ernest made a pulpit 
 in the library of some chairs, and I have been preaching 
 to the children, just as uncle docs, and they almost went 
 to sleep." 
 
 Lord Hardmoor broke into a hearty laugh. " So you 
 think that fun, do you ? Well, I don't believe your uncle 
 does. Oh, you sly puss! your aunt spoils you when 
 
88 
 
 THR 8T0KY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 you come liPve. Now, go and speak to the French boy, 
 as you call him." 
 
 He brought the little girl to the sofa, where I was still 
 sitting, and said, in a hard tone, " Felix, this is my little 
 daughter, Dorethea. I hope you will like her better thau 
 you do her father." 
 
 I was prepared to like her already. She had inter- 
 ested me, and my cousins had not. This unkind rebuke 
 from her father made my heart swell to suffocation, and 
 the ready tears started again to my eyes. When she put 
 her little soft hand in mine, and said, sweetly, " Cousin 
 Felix, I am glad to see you, and I am very sorry your 
 papa is dead," I could bear no more, and, in spite of my- 
 self, I began crying again. 
 
 For a moment she stood looking at me with wide won- 
 dering eyes ; then, quietly and with womanly dignity, she 
 sat beside me, and smoothed my face and hair with a 
 gentle, loving touch, that calmed me at once. 
 
 " Now," she said, smiling brightly, " you feel better, 
 don't you ? Mama says one must cry sometimes, and it is 
 a great relief, but if we cry too much it will make us ill. 
 You are pale, and your eyes are very red, so I think you 
 have cried enough. Now, you must come with me into 
 the dining-room and see what a pretty supper aunt Er- 
 nestine has prepared. And in the centre of the table is 
 a big cake mama sent you from the Hall. Take my 
 hand and come with me. May we not go, aunt, and have 
 supper ? " 
 
 "Yes, my dear," replied my aunt. "Felix is very 
 tired. After he has eaten something he must go to bed, 
 and to-morrow he will feel better ; then you can all get 
 well 'acquainted, and be very happy to;,'ether." 
 
 "Oh! we are acquainted now," returned the little maid. 
 
 * > 
 
II AST. 
 
 tlie French boy, 
 
 where I was still 
 
 this is my little 
 
 :e her better than 
 
 She had inter- 
 [S unkind rebuke 
 ) suffocation, and 
 I. When she put 
 jweetly, "Cousin 
 very sorry your 
 d, in spite of my- 
 
 e with wide won- 
 lanly dignity, she 
 
 and hair with a 
 
 once. 
 
 'you feel better, 
 
 imetimes, and it is 
 
 t will make us ill. 
 
 sd, so I think you 
 
 )me with me into 
 
 supper aunt Er- 
 ;re of the table is 
 
 Hall. Take my 
 go, aunt, and have 
 
 "Felix is very 
 ie must go to bed, 
 n you can all get 
 ;^ether." 
 led the little maid. 
 
 DOUKTirKA. 
 
 99 
 
 " I like him ond he likes me. Come, Felix." And, with 
 a pretty air of apprdpriation, she held out her hand. 
 One of my cousins came timidly to the othei side, and, 
 thus escorted, I entered the dining-room, where a Ijounti- 
 ful supper was spread for the tired travellers. 
 
 The day had begun drearily, but it was ending better 
 than I dared hope. There was something in my aunt's 
 smile that was like my father, and she had received me 
 with such kindness that my heart was soothed and com- 
 forted. At table I sat between my cousin Walter and 
 Dorethea. The little maiden prattled constantly, while 
 the timid boy scarcely sjjoke a word. Still, I knew he 
 liked me, and we were fast friends from that time. 
 
 My cousins, as it was very late, were only allowed a 
 light supper. Dorethea seemed to know just what she 
 should eat, and I was not restricted at all, only when 
 my little monitrcss would say, " Felix, if you eat that, 
 you will have bjid dreams," or " Mama says that is 
 indigestible at night." Not acquainted with English 
 food, I obeyed her strictly, only taking what she ad- 
 vised, and, by the time the pleasant meal was over, I 
 found myself wondering how I could be so cheerful. 
 Life seemed brighter, and I was not nearly as miserable 
 as I had been in the coffee-room at Dover.. 
 
 "The boy is better already," said Lord Havdmoor, 
 looking at me with satisfaction. " I have not seen him 
 eat as mrah as would keep a mouse alive until now. 
 My Dolly is a little witch for cheering one up. When I 
 have the dumps, she is bettur than sunshine or fresh air. 
 But, come, it is after midnight, and time my little maid 
 was in bed. Say good-night to all, and go to your nurse, 
 my dear." 
 
 I kissed my little friend very fondly as she went 
 
 •< 
 
40 
 
 THK STOIIY OK AN KNTIItrtlAHT. 
 
 away, shcw.k luinds .lutifully with my u..cle, ivuX alm.mt, 
 humbly with Uml llunlumor (as h« was Dorotheas 
 father, 1 waH ashamed a.i.l s.-iry that I had shown my 
 avevsiou so phiinly), embriveo.l my cousins in turn, and 
 then uiy aunt took mo to my room, where I was joined 
 by Walt(fr, whose l)ed I was to share. 
 
 After wo lia.l retired, and I had almost forgotten my 
 new experiences in sleep, my aunt came softly into the 
 room. Loaning over me, she kissed me tenderly, and 
 said: "My dear, you must look ui)on me as your 
 mother, and from this night I shall feel that I have 
 
 another child." . , ii„ 
 
 Half-asleep, I clasped her thin hand gratefully, 
 thanked her drowsily, and then drifted away into the 
 land of dreams, where I was with my father, looking at 
 my beloved picture, whose pensive eyes followed me, as 
 they were destined to do all my life. 
 
 II. 
 
 I SHOULD like to describe my cousins as they 
 appeared to me the next morning, but as they take no 
 important place in the story of my life, I will only men- 
 tion those near my own age who played their small 
 parts on the narrow stage of my childish joys and sor- 
 rows First, there was Clarence, an exact copy of his 
 father, next twins, named respectively Ernest and 
 Helen, then Walter, my favorite, and after him the 
 remaining five, in pairs and singly, to the youngest, about 
 
 three years old. 
 
 In the clear morning light, refreshed by sleep, and 
 my eyes free from tears, they all appeared plainer and 
 less prepossessing. My first sorrowful impression was 
 
rtlAHT. 
 
 iHcle, and ivlmoHt 
 I wiiH Dort'tht'ii's 
 I hiul shown my 
 sins in turn, iintl 
 lero I was joint'd 
 
 lost forgotten my 
 w softly into the 
 mo tenderly, and 
 )on me as your 
 feel that I have 
 
 hand gratefully, 
 ted away into the 
 
 father, looking at 
 38 followed me, aa 
 
 DOIIKTMKA. 
 
 41 
 
 cousins as they 
 it as they take no 
 le, I will only men- 
 played their small 
 dish joys and sor- 
 
 exact copy of his 
 lively Ernest and 
 ind after him the 
 the youngest, about 
 
 shed by sleep, and 
 ipeared plainer and 
 rful impression was 
 
 that my aujit lookeii very ill, my second that my uncle 
 Lorrimer, weak and yiehling though he app»iarod to 
 Lord Ilardmoor, exercised a pitileHS tyranny over his 
 family. My aunt was anxious and care-worn, the chil- 
 dren cowed and timid, and the only really bright face at 
 the break fast-tablo was Dorethea's, who sat next to mo 
 and chatted in her old-fashioned way. Hiie told me of 
 her dolls at the Hall, of her pony and her peacocks, of 
 the fountain and grotto idled with siiells, and many 
 other wonderful things. 
 
 "Are there many pictures?" I asked, turning to 
 
 Walter. 
 
 "Oh, yes ! a gallery full of thera," he replied, shyly ; 
 " men in armor and women in high ruffs." 
 
 "Irt there a Jlaphael among them?" I incpiired, 
 
 eagerly. 
 
 "A Kaphael ! I don't know. What is a Raphael ? " 
 I looked at him in silent pity and wonder. Could 
 there be any one, even a child, so lamentably ignorant 
 as never to have heard of Kaphael. I was so disap- 
 pointed in Walter that I could not answer him. So 
 I turned to Dorothea and asked her if she liked 
 
 pictures. 
 
 " I like flowers beet," she replied, her mouth full of 
 
 bread and butter. 
 
 « Flowers are prettier than pictures ! " Walter agreed, 
 not in the least abashed at my ill concealed surprise. 
 " They are real living things, and God makes them grow, 
 while it is only men who make pictures." 
 
 " But flowers fade and die, and pictures last forever 
 — at least, some do I " I returned, earnestly. " And the 
 genius that creates them is a gift direct from God." 
 
 Walter looked puzzled, and, making no reply, leanod 
 
 -m 
 
42 
 
 THK 8TOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 forward and asked Doretbea if he should take her to 
 the farm-yard after breakfast, to see his puppies. 
 
 The morning meal did not pass off so pleasantly as 
 the supper had the night before. Uncle Lorrimer 
 reproved Clarence sharply for grinding his knife on his 
 plate, and one of the small girls upset her milk in 
 Helen's lap, and was sent away to her nurse crying 
 loudly. My aunt looked pale and worried. Lord Hard- 
 moor sipped his tea with a wry face, and advised his 
 brother to get a new cook, as the muffins were raw and 
 the chops dried to a chip. 
 
 Uncle Lorrimer glanced reproachfully at my aunt, 
 and apologized to his lordship, who pushed his plate 
 away without eating, and left the table, saying that if 
 they would excuse him, he would ride over to the Hall 
 at once, as he wished to see his steward early on some 
 important business. He kissed Dorethea, who was to 
 follow later in the day, and, without noticing me, went 
 away, with a curt " good-morning " to my aunt, obsequi- 
 ously followed by my uncle. 
 
 The early part of my first day at the Rectory passed 
 pleasantly. In the company of my cousins and Dorethea, 
 we made the tour of the farm-yard, gardens, and dairy. 
 It was all new to me, and pleased me because of its 
 novelty ; but the noise of the children, their senseless 
 chatter, sometimes quarrelling, sometimes teasing, 
 wearied and disgusted me. I had been so carefully 
 nurtured, so tenderly cared for, I had been so sur- 
 rounded by all that was elegant, refined, and quiet, that 
 the contrast with this rude, commonplace existence robbed 
 th- homely scene of what little attraction it might other- 
 "iso have had. 
 
 "Come," I said, when I had grown tired of farm-yard 
 
IA8T. 
 
 lid take her to 
 puppies, 
 so pleasantly as 
 [Jacle Lorriiner 
 his knife on his 
 iet her milk in 
 3r nurse crying 
 ed. Lord Hard- 
 and advised his 
 IS were raw and 
 
 Uy at my aunt, 
 )ushed his plate 
 e, saying that if 
 3ver to the Hall 
 •d early on some 
 hea, who was to 
 oticing me, went 
 tny aunt, obsequi- 
 
 e Rectory passed 
 ins and Dorethea, 
 irdens, and dairy, 
 le because of its 
 n, their senseless 
 netimes teasing, 
 jeen so carefully 
 lad been so sur- 
 id, and quiet, that 
 !e existence robbed 
 ion it might other- 
 
 ;ired of farm-yard 
 
 DORETHEA. 
 
 48 
 
 sights and sounds. " Let us go into the liouse and look 
 
 at the pictures." 
 
 The boys opened their light eyes wide with surprise, 
 and all, even Walter, scampered off to the duck-pond to 
 sail their boats, while Dorethea said she would rather 
 watch the dairy-maid make curds. In honor of my arri- 
 val they were enjoying a holiday, and wandering about 
 the house was not at all to their taste. 
 
 "Will you come, Helen?" I asked, feeling very 
 wretched at the thought of spending my days in the 
 company of theae rude, noisy children, ruder and noisier 
 when free from restraint because of the pitiless curb 
 kept upon them when in the presence of their father. 
 
 Helen looked lingeringly toward the dairy, where the 
 maid was busy with the curds, but good-naturedly turned 
 with me toward the house. 
 
 In the drawing-room were a few good pictures, among 
 them a fine copy of the Sistine Madonna, a Sir Joshua, 
 and several copies after Gainsborough and other cele- 
 brated English artists ; over the mantel hung a portrait 
 of my aunt at seventeen, painted by Haydon, a sweet, 
 fresh face of no remarkable beauty, but interesting for 
 its soft color and gentle expression ; could it be possible 
 that the faded, plain woman I had seen at the breakfas1> 
 table was the original of the pretty picture before jne ? 
 The artist had beautified her unwarrantably, or else she 
 was but a wreck of her former self. Opposite, between 
 the windows, was a full-length representation of her 
 husband in his clerical robes, his long, thm hand on an 
 open book, his pale eyes a little less ^^f J' /^^^ ?^^^J: 
 selfish face a little rounder and more youthful, but still 
 his characteristics were there, although the artist had 
 done his best to ennoble his subject. 
 
 (MMHMMMW 
 
44 
 
 THE 8TOBY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 ^'/ 
 
 In the library hung a very fine copy of cue of Land- 
 seer's pictures. 
 
 " There," said Helen, " is my favorite. I like it better 
 than any other, because I can understand it. I'm so fond 
 of dogs, and these look as if they were alive." 
 
 While we were before the picture my aunt came in, 
 with her bonnet on and a basket in her liand. She 
 looked tired, and sighed heavily as she dropped into a 
 chair. 
 
 "Where are the children?" she asked, anxiously 
 looking at Helen. " I hope tliey have not been in the 
 house ; your father is in his study, and you know he does 
 not like to be disturbed; I hope you have been very 
 quiet, my dears." 
 
 "Oh, yes, mama," replied Helen; "we have just 
 walked about softly. Felix wanted to see the pictures." 
 
 My aunt smiled, as though it were an effort, and said 
 we were good children ; then takinr '^e basket, which I 
 thought too heavy for her, she we.it ' \-Hy out. 
 
 "Poor mama," said Helen, he. . following her 
 mother wistfully, "I shall be so ^^ ... when I am old 
 enough to help her with the parish work. Aunt Hard- 
 moor says she is killing herself with hard work, but 
 papa will have her do it — he thinks no one else should 
 take her place. And, then, all of us to take care of. I 
 think there are too many of us, don't you, and besides," 
 ghe added, in a low, confidential tone, " we are mostly 
 naughty children, very selfish and cross, and papa scolds 
 us always, even when we don't deserve it. Oh, Felix ! 
 I would not live here for anything in the world if it was 
 not my home. I should not like papa to know it, but 
 really I am always glad when he goes away. You don't 
 mind being teased, do you ? boys don't as much as girls. 
 
SIA8T. 
 
 of oue of Land- 
 
 . I like it bette;- 
 id it. I'm so fond 
 alive." 
 
 uy aunt came in, 
 
 lier hand. She 
 
 e dropped into a 
 
 asked, anxiously 
 
 not been in the 
 
 you know he does 
 
 I have been very 
 
 "we have just 
 see the pictures." 
 n effort, and said 
 e basket, which I 
 "cMy out. 
 
 c following her 
 . when I am old 
 ork. Aunt Hard- 
 a hard work, but 
 o one else should 
 
 take care of. I 
 i^ou, and besides," 
 , " we arc mostly 
 s, and papa scolds 
 fe it. Oh, Felix ! 
 he world if it was 
 la to know it, but 
 away. You don't 
 ; as much as girls. 
 
 \y' 
 
 DORETHEA. 
 
 45 
 
 Well, when papa is cross, and "Walter sulks, and Clar- 
 ence torments you, you can run away and go to the 
 Hall. Aunt Hardmoor is so nice, ever so much nicer 
 than uncle Hardmoor; but I must go now, and have my 
 hair brushed and a clean frock on for lunch." Then she 
 put up her plain little face for a kiss, and ran away, 
 leaving me alone in the dimly lighted room. 
 
 I stood looking blankly at the door after my cousin 
 left me. Her awful disclosures appalled me, and I felt 
 as much alone in that ill ordered household as though 
 I were on a rock in mid-ocean. . Not knowing how to 
 bear my trouble with silent endurance, I threw my- 
 self into a window-seat, and, covering my face, I cried 
 bitterly. 
 
 Presently I felt a timid hand on my shoulder, 
 and, looking up, I saw Walter standing over me. 
 
 " Don't cry, don't ! " he said, hurriedly. " It hurts me 
 to see you cry. Don't be so down-hearted ; when you get 
 used to it, it won't seem so bad. We all mean to be good 
 to you ; even Clarence says he won't tease you. So, now, 
 cheer up and dry your eyes. Mama sent me to fetch 
 you to lunch, and after we shall go for a walk, and I'll 
 show you a stream where there are lots of fish, and an 
 old mill-pond where we boys have no end of fun swim- 
 ming when the weather is warm, and, beside, from the 
 hill you can see the Hall, miles and miles away across 
 the moor. Mama says we shall go there soon and pass 
 the day with Dorethea." 
 
 This last assurance comforted me somewhat, and, 
 wiping my eyes, I allowed Walter to lead me to the 
 dining-room, where my aunt, looking very tired, was 
 cutting bread and butter for the whole brood. 
 
 After making a pretence of eating the food my aunt 
 
46 
 
 THE 8TOUY OV AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 helped me to, I said good-by to Dorethea, and went 
 away with the three eUlest boys for a walk. 
 
 On that occasion they were very kind to me, doing all 
 in their power to amuse me and to prevent me from 
 brooding over my sorrow. But as night came on and 
 we returned in the twilight to the house that could 
 never be my home, the full sense of my loss came over 
 me, and I missed my father as I never had before. That 
 hour was always passed with him, and to me it was the 
 most delightful hour of the day. Only a week before 
 I sat at his side in the pleasant study, the glowing fire, 
 the soft lamp-light, and the earnest eyes of my beloved 
 picture, making the room radiant. Now how desolate 
 I felt, in the chilly English twilight, on the lonesome 
 moors, and my father in his grave, my home gone for- 
 ever, and the picture that was so much to me taken 
 from me and perhaps even now in the possession of stran- 
 gers, who could never love it as I had. It was not until 
 long after, that I underatood the mysterious bond 
 between me and it, but without that knowledge it 
 seemed a part of me, a living thing, that must miss 
 me and mourn for me even as I did for it. 
 
 All these thoughts crowded upon me with such 
 force that it seemed as though my heart would break 
 under its load of grief. 
 
 On entering the house, I looked around for my aunt. 
 « She is always in the nursery at this time," said Helen, 
 and, following her directions, I found the pale, weary 
 woman busily plying her needle, a basket of children's 
 clothing beside her, and a pile of little stockings on the 
 table. She looked up and smiled a gentle welcome as I 
 entered. 
 
 "May I come and sit with you, aunt ? " I asked, as I 
 
UAST. 
 
 ethea, and went 
 alk. 
 
 to me, doing all 
 )revent me from 
 ;ht came on and 
 house that could 
 y loss came over 
 lad before. That 
 to me it was the 
 ly a week before 
 
 the glowing fire, 
 js of my beloved 
 ow how desolate 
 on the lonesome 
 f home gone for- 
 uch to me taken 
 >ssession of stran- 
 
 It was not until 
 mysterious bond 
 at knowledge it 
 , that must miss 
 for it. 
 
 me with such 
 eart would break 
 
 and for my aunt, 
 ime," said Helen, 
 I the pale, weary 
 sket of children's 
 stockings on the 
 itle welcome as I 
 
 ? " I asked, as I 
 
 DORETHEA. 
 
 47 
 
 drew a low stool to her feet ; " I want to talk with you 
 
 about papa." 
 
 "Certainly, my dear; I am glad you have come now. 
 Nurse is giving the little ones their supper, and we can 
 have a quiet hour. Sit here and tell me about your 
 father ; but, my child, you must be calm. This passion- 
 ate grief will kill you." ,. . , • 
 
 I was weeping my heart dry, with my face buried m 
 her lap, while her gentle hand caressed me with a lin- 
 gering, motherly touch. «0h, aunt," I cried, «if I can 
 only talk to vou sometimes about him. I loved him so ; 
 he was so good, and it was so sudden. Now I am just 
 beginning to feel that he is gone forever." 
 
 "My poor boy, my poor child, come to me when you 
 need me. I will always listen to you. I too love to 
 talk of him. He was very dear to me ; although I have 
 seen him but little for years, I loved him deeply. You 
 are his chiM. and with my own you are folded close to 
 my heart. Awhile I live, you shall never need sympathy 
 and love. Come to me at any time, freely, and tell me 
 all your troubles." Then she lifted my head and kissed 
 me while her hot tears rained on my face. 
 
 Calmed and encouraged by her kindness, with my 
 hands folded in hers and her gentle eyes looking love 
 into my sore heart, I poured out my sorrows in one 
 burst of confidence -telling her of the other loss that 
 was grieving me, of which she knew nothing. "If I 
 could only have brought it with me, I should have been 
 contented," I repeated over and over; "next to papa, 1 
 loved it better than anything in the world. It is more 
 than a picture to me. It is like a brother, a friend, and 
 I feel always here," laying my hand on ray heajt, "as if 
 something were drawing me to it, as if I could not live 
 without it." 
 
 (Hamtft-WMiwiw-i'"''-"" i.'~.« w«»wWB 
 
 mmm:,. <'v.mai*^' 
 
48 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 "How strange," said my aunt, iimsingly, "that you 
 should have such a feeling for a picture. I can't under- 
 stand it, and you must not be surprised, my dear boy, that 
 others cannot. To practical, wo.ldly-uiinded people, it 
 might seem morbid, unnatural, but s'r.ce you feel so 
 about it, it was cruel to deprive you of it; but you 
 must try to think that your uncle and Lord Hardmoor 
 acted for the best. Do not blame them too severely 
 because they erred on the side of prudence and reason, 
 and try to look upon them as your friends." 
 
 I understood my aunt's desire to put their cruel act 
 in the best possible light. She saw that by opposing 
 them I was preparing serious trouble for my future. 
 Improving the opportunity that this conversation gave 
 her, she spoke tendei'ly and wisely to me of my duty to 
 the guardians my father had himself selected for me, 
 and urged me to come to her with every trouble, saying 
 that I could trust fully to her sympathy and affection. 
 
 That hour's talk, heart to heart, did me more good 
 than I knew. " We can help each other," she said as 
 she kissed me and sent me to the drawing-room, where 
 my cousins, their father being absent, were engaged in 
 a noisy game. 
 
 III. 
 
 One day passed very like another at the Rectory. I 
 saw but little of my uncle. He was either in his study 
 or visiting among his parishioners, with whom he was 
 considered a self-sacrificing, faithful laborer in his 
 Master's vineyard, as well as a devoted husband and 
 father. 
 
 My three eldest cousins, Clarence, Ernest, and Walter, 
 
31AST. 
 
 Ugly, "that you 
 . I can't iiuder- 
 my dear boy, that 
 inded people, it 
 r.ce you feel so 
 I of it; but you 
 Lord Hardmoor 
 era too severely 
 lence and reason, 
 ds." 
 
 ; their cruel act 
 hat by opposing 
 for my future. 
 )nversation gave 
 le of my duty to 
 selected for me, 
 y trouble, saying 
 f and affection, 
 d me more good 
 er," she said as 
 i^ing-room, where 
 were engaged in 
 
 the Rectory. I 
 her in his study 
 th whom he was 
 
 laborer in his 
 ;ed husband and 
 
 nest, and Walter, 
 
 DOUETHEA. 
 
 49 
 
 went every day to study with the curate, who lived 
 some three miles from the Rectory. My uncle's parish 
 was large, and there was a small chapel surrounded by a 
 little village called East Haddingham, which formed a 
 part of the Hardmoor estate. This hamlet was in 
 charge of the curate, who, while he was caring for the 
 spiritual welfare of that portion of my uncle's flock, was 
 also devoting himself to the education of my three 
 
 cousins. 
 
 As I was rather delicate, and the distance somewhat 
 long for a city -bred boy, my uncle thought it best that 
 I should remain at home and study under the governess, 
 with Helen and the younger children. This was not at 
 all an injudicious arrangement, as I was not as far ad- 
 vanced in ordinary studies as most boys of my age. 
 
 Day after day I went through my English lessons, 
 mechanically, always longing for ray mother tongue, 
 associated as it was with all that was brightest m my 
 life. The governess was a kind-hearted woman who 
 had lived abroad during her youth, where she had 
 learned several languages uncommonly well. Her excel- 
 lent French was a great resource to me, as she often 
 talked with me, and allowed me to read my favorite 
 books to my cousins, that their accent raight be ira- 
 proved by raiue, which, she said, was very elegant. At 
 such tiraes I was quite happy, and I am sure she always 
 found me docile and obedient. 
 
 Another great pleasure was the drawing lesson.s which 
 she gave us regularly, although it was unnecessary for 
 me to repeat the rudiments, which I had already studied 
 with my father. I nevertheless went over them faith- 
 fully, niuch uo her surprise at my readiness in drawing 
 circles, lii.es, and angles to perfection. 
 
 *mm 
 
 BMMMtl 
 
 H I MOW 
 
60 
 
 TUB STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 After a few months I became weary of the monotony 
 of copying, and determined to strike out a new path for 
 myself. When my lessons were over I hasten 2d to my 
 
 room. 
 
 and there, with blocks, books, stones, sticks, 
 
 m 
 
 fact anything that I could arrange in groups, I began 
 to study from objects. So fascinated was I with this 
 new experience that very often I forgot to appear at my 
 meals, and sometimes even neglected the hours that 
 were set apart for family devotion, besides applying 
 myself closely when I should have been taking my daily 
 
 exercise. 
 
 Owing to my excitable nervous organization, such con- 
 stant study injured my health, and I became pale and 
 thin to an alarming degree. My aunt gently remonstrar 
 ted with me, and my uncle positively forbade me wast- 
 ing my time with such nonsense. I now knew that it 
 was owing to my aunt's intercession that my disobe- 
 dience in that matter was not punished in the beginning. 
 I would have willingly relinquished this favorite pur- 
 suit had it been only an amusement. But it was more. 
 It was a duty which I sincerely believed I owed to my 
 dead father as well as to myself. Something within me 
 always urged me on. A voice unheard save by myself 
 repeated over and over the memorable words of M. 
 Gerard: " Begin early : train the-eye with the mind." 
 
 After working for some time with charcoal, crayon, 
 and su'jh mediums, I began to feel the need of color to 
 perfect my designs. Seeing in the window of a shop in 
 the village a lot of Winsor & Newton's water-colors, 
 completely fitted with all the apparatus for drawing, I 
 resolved, by saving my small allowance of pocket-money, 
 to become its possessor. Frequently going to look at it, 
 with a foretaste of the pleasure in store, I made the ao- 
 
 
AST. 
 
 the monotony 
 a new path for 
 tiasteiisd to my 
 )ne8, sticks, in 
 roups, I began 
 ras I with this 
 3 appear at iny 
 ;he hours that 
 isides applying 
 taking my daily 
 
 ation, such con- 
 jcarae pale and 
 ntly remonstra- 
 •rbade me wast- 
 w knew that it 
 ihat my disobe- 
 n the beginning, 
 lis favorite pur- 
 ut it was more. 
 I I owed to my 
 thing within me 
 save by myself 
 e words of M. 
 th the mind." 
 iharcoal, crayon, 
 need of color to 
 low of a shop in 
 n's water-colors, 
 s for drawing, I 
 af pocket-money, 
 ing to look at it, 
 B. I made the ao* 
 
 DOUKTHKA. 
 
 51 
 
 quaintance of the shopkeeper's wife, who at one time 
 had been a maid in a family living abroad. In France 
 she had picked up something of the language, and she 
 wa^ always very civil to me, and never too busy to take 
 out my coveted treasure to discuss with me its numerous 
 
 merits. . . 
 
 Fearful lest I should spend my money if I kept it m 
 my possession, every month, as soon as I receivad it, I 
 ran to the shop with it, and saw the woman count it 
 and put it aside in a little box, which she called my 
 
 bank. .1 V 
 
 Many times before I had entirely paid for it, she 
 urged me to take it, saying she was not afraid to trust 
 so tine a little gentleman for the remainder. But I was 
 too proud to get in debt; therefore the box remained in 
 the window until I had paid the last shilling and took 
 it away in triumph. Consequently, it was valued in 
 proportion to the sacrilice it had cost me, and I am sure 
 I was never happier than on that day when, my lessons 
 over, I hurried away to my room to make my first draw- 
 ing in colors. 
 
 For some days I could not bear to leave my new treas- 
 ure. At early dawn I was at work, and the last ray of 
 sunlight that entered my little room found me bending 
 over my drawing entranced, unmindful of eveiything 
 save my delightful occupation. Walter complained be- 
 cause I would not walk with him. Clarence and Ernest 
 teased me incessantly, asking me when my great picture 
 was to be exhibited. Helen pouted because I would not 
 read French with her, and even the governess reproved 
 me for missing my lessons, and my aunt was anxious 
 about my pale face and loss of appetite. But I lived a 
 life apart from my surroundings. I was deaf to all but 
 
 i >M»-«>W»M U» *i « "'^g " -- " ■n i wuin ' iumB,«.^-^-"»«'"- ' i ' . '>■' ' »»«'»■«'«' ■ " ■' -i'* ''" " - ~.ar.' 
 
52 
 
 THK 8TOKY OF AN RNTHUSFAST. 
 
 the inner voioo, blind to all but tho beautiful visions 
 that urged mo onward. Shut iu my room, away from 
 iny uncongenial environment, I was in a world of my 
 own, an ideal world, that consisted of my own fanciful 
 dreams, a few crude sketches, and a box of Winsor & 
 Newton's water colors. 
 
 My aunt's birthday was near, and the children were 
 secretly preparing their presents for that occasion, when 
 I was possessed with the wish to surprise her with a 
 picture of my own painting. I was very shy about niy 
 drawings, and usually concealed them as soon as they 
 were finished. This was to be kept a profound secret 
 from all except Walter, whose room I shared ; therefore 
 it was necessary to take him into my confidence. I 
 tried to interest him in assisting me to select a subject 
 that would please my aunt, but Walter, although a good 
 boy, and my favorite, had no artistic perception. 
 
 " If I could only see Dorethea," I said to him, " she 
 could tell me just what aunt likes best." 
 
 Happily for me, in the midst of my indecision, the 
 little maid came to make her periodical visit. I had 
 seen but little of her in the almost two years that I had 
 been at the Rectory. Twice a year we were invited to 
 pass a few days at Hardmoor Hall, and at about the 
 same stated periods Dorethea came to visit her cousins. 
 These visits were eras in my life. I counted everything 
 either from our visit to Dorethea, or Dorothea's visit to 
 us, and now, when she came just in time to assist me in 
 such an important matter, my delight was boundless. 
 Embracing her heartily, I whispered that I had some- 
 thing to tell her if she could come into the library alone 
 after lunch. 
 
 Curious to know my secret, the clever child soon found 
 
AST. 
 
 sautiful visions 
 ora, away from 
 a world of my 
 ly own fanciful 
 X of Winsor & 
 
 i children were 
 ; occasion, when 
 rise her with a 
 y shy about niy 
 us soon as they 
 profound secret 
 lared; therefore 
 Y confidence. I 
 select a subject 
 although a good 
 •ception. 
 id to him, "she 
 
 ' indecision, the 
 sal visit. I had 
 years that I had 
 were invited to 
 id at about the 
 'isit her cousins, 
 mted everything 
 >rethea's visit to 
 B to assist me in 
 ; was boundless, 
 lat I had some- 
 the library alone 
 
 child soon found 
 
 inmiCTHKA. 
 
 68 
 
 I 
 
 had closed the door against 
 my drawings, ami told her of 
 
 an opportunity. When 
 
 intrusion, 1 showed lu-r 
 
 my desire to present my aunt with a picture on her 
 
 birthday. 
 
 " But 1 don't know in the least what to jiaiiit," I said, 
 anxiously. " I want to make a picture of something she 
 is very fond of. Dorethea, do you know of anything 
 that would please her — that she particularly likes?" 
 
 "Beggars and sick children," returned the little maid, 
 with a mischievous laugh. 
 
 " Oh ! I can't paint them. I have never tried to do a 
 face, but I would like to try yours some time, if you will 
 
 let me." 
 
 Dorethea shook her head, and replied that she was 
 sure she could never keep quiet, but if I wished it she 
 would try. Then she put her tinger on her pretty lip, 
 and fell to thinking of what our aunt would like best. 
 
 « Oh, I know ! " at last she exclaimed, brightly. " Your 
 flowers are prettier than anything else. You must paint 
 her some flowers, primroses — she is very fond of them. 
 I have heard her say so. I think there are still some in 
 the shady part of the woods. When we go to walk, we 
 will search for them." 
 
 My aunt was very much pleased when I proposed a 
 ramble, and told us not to hasten, as I had not been out 
 for a number of days. 
 
 On our way through the wood path we met the boys 
 returning from their lessons. Clarence took off his 
 cap, and with a low bow stood on one side, saying mock- 
 ingly : " Make room for the great artist." 
 
 " Oh, boys ! don't you know why Felix is out to-day ? 
 It is because Dorethea is with us 1 " cried Helen, spite- 
 fully. 
 
 ■MM 
 
64 
 
 TIIK HTOUY (»K AN KNTIIUSIAHT. 
 
 "Yes; that must l)o the reaHoii," said Ernes*,; "for 
 I've begKod him to walk with uw this hist month, and I 
 coidd not drag him away from his bits of paiMU- and duuby 
 ccdors." 
 
 "Dorothea! how charming! I an) jeiihnis," and Chironco 
 ran back to give the glittering curls a mischievous little 
 pull. 
 
 " You great rude boys ! " cried Dorethea, in a sharp, 
 high tone, while her face flushed a wild-rose tint. "Yon 
 should be a; hamed to tease Felix, lie is much cleverer 
 than you are, and I like him a thousand times better 
 than I do you ! " And the little maid turned her back 
 upon them, and walked away indignant. 
 
 Although I made no reply to their jests, I was hot 
 with anger, and a tlusli of mortified vanity reddened my 
 face. I could not endure to be ridiculed in the presence 
 of Dorethea. 
 
 When the boys had gone on their way, the dear 
 child put her hand in mine, and said, sweetly : " Don't 
 mind them, Felix. It is hateful in them. They are only 
 jealous because I like you best." 
 
 Dear little comforter! My heart was light in a 
 moment. Among the few pleasant memories of those 
 days, that scene comes before me bright with the glow- 
 ing tints of youth and hope. Now that I am so far from 
 it all, I love to close my eyes, and look backward down a 
 long vista of forest-trees flecked with summer sunlight, 
 an unbroken path green with soft, damp moss, a lovely 
 child, with golden hair and flushed, eager face, darting 
 here and there among the shadows to pluck the prim- 
 roses that were to be such a fatal gift for me. 
 
 Some years ago such a picture hung in one of the 
 rooms of the Royal Academy. Those who passed stopped 
 
 a nMii i» i ii to»w 'M«i*»t«"»- ■ 
 
tAHT. 
 
 .1 Eriuis^; "for 
 it month, atul I 
 paper and diuiby 
 
 18," and Claronco 
 ischiovous little 
 
 liua, in a 8luir|>, 
 ro80 tint. "You 
 is much clftvovor 
 nd times better 
 turned her back 
 
 josts, I wa8 hot 
 ity reddened my 
 I in the presence 
 
 • way, the dear 
 iwoetly : " Don't 
 I. They are only 
 
 was light in a 
 amories of those 
 t with the glow- 
 I am so far from 
 backward down a 
 mmmer sunlight, 
 ,p moss, a lovely 
 iger face, darting 
 pluck the prim- 
 or me. 
 
 ig in one of the 
 ho passed stopped 
 
 noKKTIIKA. 
 
 S6 
 
 but a moment to notiee its (juiot beauty. It was a mem- 
 ory of youth, a memory of that day of unclouded joy 
 and expectation. 
 
 When we returned home, wo were laden with tangled 
 vines, moss, and primroses, some of which I secretly 
 conveyed to my room, concealed in a basin, and covered 
 with a wet towel so that they would be fresh for my' 
 work at early dawn. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thr next morning, as soon as I could see, I was up 
 and at my pleasant task. I sketched a sheet of paper 
 and washed in a graceful tangle of vines and grass for a 
 background, keeping it low in tone and vague in outline. 
 My foreground of primroses I drew with great care and 
 delicacy, imitating what 1 saw in a thoroughly realistic 
 manner. There was no great breadth or power in my 
 little study, but there was the truth which I had tried 
 to express. It was the first thing I had done that at 
 all approached the ideal I had been striving after, and 
 I can truly say that no later effort wiis as dear 
 to me ae that simple sketch of wild-flowers. I jjlaced 
 it in many different lights, I looked at it from every 
 point of view, I was delighted to touch and retouch it. 
 I imagined over and over my aunt's surprise and pleas- 
 ure, and Dorethea's appreciation, and I even thought 
 that when my uncle saw it he would be so impressed 
 with its excellence that he would be reconciled to my 
 following the profession ho now disapproved of. In 
 short, I looked on it as the arbiter of my fate, the step- 
 ping-stone to fame and glory. 
 Walter was my only critic, and he accorded it but 
 
 ' i mBi' i mjMKHi ^- 
 
 ..niir mtimmmiKmimm 
 
 mMmi 
 
 \ 
 
 I . _' 
 
56 THE 8T0RY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 faint praise ; however, that did not discourage me. Con- 
 fident of my own power, elated at my success, I thought 
 him stupidly insensible to its merits. 
 
 My aunt had been ill for several days, and I had not 
 seen her. One evening, she sent for me to come to her 
 room. It was the eve of her birthday. 1 went in softly, 
 ■ much surprised at seeing her so ill. 
 
 When slie saw me, she smiled a welcome, and said, in 
 a weak voice, " Come and sit near me, my dear. I want 
 to talk to you seriously, and 1 know you will not oblige 
 me, seeing how ill I am, to say much in order to have 
 
 you obey me." • j 4.1, 
 
 "Oh, aunt, liave I ever disobeyed you?" I cried, the 
 
 hot tears springing to my eyes. 
 
 «No, my child; not me, directly, but your uncle. It 
 is he whom you have disobeyed, and he is seriously 
 offended at your persistence in shutting yourself in your 
 room, and neglecting your duties, as you haje^ for some 
 time To-day he has consulted with Lord Hardmoor, 
 and they have decided that something must be done to 
 insure your obedience in the future. I have entreated 
 them not to resort to severe measures, hoping, my dear 
 boy, that you will listen to me and be reasonable." 
 
 "I will, d^ar aunt," I replied, earnestly, for I was 
 touched to the h^art by her feeble voice. "I^^lbe 
 reasonable, only do.i't ask me to give it up altogether. 
 You know, I am co be an artist. It was papas wish, 
 and God has given me the talent, and I must improve it. 
 A voice is always urging me on, something that I cannot 
 resist forces me to study, to work, every moment I ha,ve; 
 _ I love it. It is my life, my only happiness. No matter 
 where I am, no matter what I am doing, I am always 
 thinking and dreaming of pictures, and, aunt, I hear the 
 
 M 
 
WSM 
 
 81A8T. 
 
 iourage me. Con- 
 uccess, I thought 
 
 s, and I had not 
 
 e to come to her 
 
 1 went in softly, 
 
 ome, and said, in 
 
 my dear, I want 
 
 )u will not oblige 
 
 in order to have 
 
 ou ? " I cried, the 
 
 it your uncle. It 
 d he is seriously 
 ig yourself in your 
 70\i have for some 
 I Lord Hardmoor, 
 ; must be done to 
 
 I have entreated 
 h, hoping, my dear 
 
 reasonable." 
 rnestly, for I was 
 
 voice. " I will be 
 5 it up altogether, 
 t was papa's wish, 
 
 I must improve it. 
 thing that I cannot 
 Bry moment I have ; 
 jpiness. No matter 
 ioing, I am always 
 nd, aunt, I hear the 
 
 DOBKTHKA. 
 
 67 
 
 voice always, and I see the eyes of Kaphael, of my lost 
 picture ; — they look at me earnestly, as though they read 
 my soul, then they gaze away beyond me into a distance 
 where I must follow." 
 
 "Poor little dreamer, poor little enthusiast," she 
 said, sadly. "You must not wonder that every one 
 cannot understand you. I am too ill and weak to reason 
 with you now, but I appreciate your impressions. They 
 would be singular in most children, y' t they are quite 
 in keeping with such an imaginative nature as yours. 
 Unhappily, the guardians your father selected do not 
 think as he did. They have a decided aversion to your 
 making a profession of art. They wish, when you are 
 of age, that you should live in England, on your estate, 
 and become a useful country gentleman. It is their 
 opinion that an artist's life is somewhat irregular and 
 Bohemian, and that by encouraging such a taste now 
 you will be unfitted for the serious duties of your 
 
 future." 
 
 "I can never give it up, aunt," I cried, passionately. 
 "I can never give up painting, and live in England. 
 Surely, you do not agree with them ? " 
 
 "Not altogether; I am inclined to think that you 
 must choose your own career, that you m'-tst listen to 
 the inner voice, the voice of the soul, before which all 
 others should be silent. Still, you must be reasonable ; 
 you cannot devote yourself to one duty while you neglect 
 all others. While you are under the control of your 
 guardians, obey them as far as you can without doing 
 violence to your conscience, and when your age frees you 
 from their restraint, you can follow your own inclination 
 in regard to your profession. Now, my doar child, will 
 you promise me to divide your time properly between this 
 
 
 K«ssnMsWlinMcai»s»W»w«ai»»!M^'^*» 
 
 )\ 
 
68 
 
 THE STORY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Study that engrosses you and your other duties, which are 
 no less pressing?" . 
 
 "I will, aunt; I will do as you wish," I replied, sin- 
 cerely sorry that 1 had grieved her. " You are right ; I 
 have lived in a dream these last few months, and I have 
 not been conscious of disobedience. My guardians shall 
 not have cause to complain in the future. I will attend 
 to ray other studies faithfully ; but I must have sOme 
 time to devote to my drawing. I can't give it up ; indeed 
 I can't." I was terribly in earnest, and my aunt saw it. 
 A.t the thought of being deprived of my only happiness, 
 my heart turned cold and still, and drops of sweat 
 started on my forehead. I felt as though I were plead- 
 ing for more than life, and that my aunt's decision was 
 to give me hope or plunge me into despair. 
 
 "Be patient, my dear boy, and when I am better I 
 will arrange everything for your best interest. My 
 wish now is that you should try to conciliate your 
 uncle by strict attention to your lessons. Begin to-mor- 
 row, and be at the breakfast-table in season, and do not 
 refuse to remain to prayers. Your uncle thinks tluit a 
 serious offence. Leave the rest to me ; I will see that 
 you have a certain time allotted you for your art-studies. 
 Now, my dear, I am very tired ; kiss me, and then go and 
 amuse yourself with you* cousins." 
 
 As I turned to leave her, after a heartfelt embrace, 
 her weak hand still clung to mine, as though she would 
 detain me. A happier expression than I had ever seen 
 on her worn face seemed to transfigure her, and her 
 voice had a new tone, something bright and expectant, 
 as she said, "My darling, beyond all these earthly 
 troubles there is an eternity of compensation, if we only 
 try to do our duty, and are patient and obedient. We 
 
AST. 
 
 uties, which are 
 
 I replied, sin- 
 ou are right ; I 
 ths, and I have 
 guardians shall 
 I will attend 
 lust have sOme 
 ve it up ; indeed 
 my aunt saw it. 
 only happiness, 
 irops of sweat 
 h I were plead- 
 t's decision was . 
 ir. 
 
 I I am better I 
 5 interest. My 
 conciliate your 
 Begin to-mor- 
 ison, and do not 
 le thinks that a 
 
 I will see that 
 your art-studies. 
 
 and then go and 
 
 iartfelt embrace, 
 liough she would 
 I had ever seen 
 ire her, and her 
 it and expectant, 
 il these earthly 
 sation, if we only 
 d obedient We 
 
 DORETHEA. 
 
 59 
 
 must not struggle against the unseen hand that ever 
 rests upon us. Its strength is far beyond ours, and we 
 must sub nit. Our journey upward is not easy, nor our 
 path free from obstructions, but we must put them 
 aside with a gentle hand, lest what we remove from our 
 own way we may place in that of another. I have done 
 what I could for you. dear Felix ; I have tried to remove 
 as many obstacles from your path as I could. Never 
 forget what I have said to you. May God bless and 
 guide you ; now go, and remember always that 1 love 
 
 you." 
 
 The next morning I arose early, full of good intentions. 
 It was my aunt's birthday, and I resolved to obey her 
 wishes strictly. Our little programme had been arranged 
 the previous evening. After prayers we were to go to 
 my aunt's room with our gifts and congratulations. 
 Dorothea was coming to pass the day and we were to 
 have tea on the lawn, 
 
 I dressed myself carefully, with a light heart, chatting 
 all the while to Walter, who was in a bad humor owing 
 to an accident that had happened to a pretty knitting- 
 box he had bought for his mother. Too impetuous in his 
 movements, he had dropped it and broken off the cover 
 at the hinges. For some time we both worked over it, 
 vainly trying to repair it. At last Walter took it to 
 Clarence in the hope that he might be more successful, 
 and I lingered behind to look again at my drawing, when 
 I discovered a leaf that needed a glaze of lake. " It will 
 take only a moment," I thought, so I opened my paint- 
 box. Just then the breakfast bell rang, and in conster- 
 nation I remembered my promise to my aunt. " I will 
 explain why I was late this morning," I said to myself, 
 « and after this I will always be punctual." 
 
 mutA^tttymiUimmm:. 
 
 i<aasgas«eg » 3w »«ii. i! jJ^. ij'**i ^"w w * *M 
 
 ■tMoaatl^MM 
 
60 
 
 TllK 8T011Y OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Before 1 was aware of it, I was utterly oblivious to 
 everything around me, for, on looking at the picture with 
 a fresh eye, I thought it needed a number of little touches, 
 a shadow softened, an outline strengthened, — for when is 
 a painting ever finished, to one who is a careful, faithful 
 student of nature ? 
 
 The first thing that disturbed me was the sudden open- 
 ing of the door, and, looking, I saw my uncle standing 
 before me, pale, and trembling with anger. His watery 
 eyes glared behind his spectacles, and his mouth had a 
 very ugly expression, quite a diabolical smile, which, I 
 felt, foreboded mischief. , 
 
 " Well, my young artist, here you are at it again, in 
 spite of your promise to your aunt last evening ! I see 
 your word is not to be trusted, and that you are deter- 
 mined to defy us all. It is now time for me to exercise 
 some authority, and, instead of reasoning with you, I shall 
 use surer means. Let me see the trash you waste your 
 
 time upon." 
 
 My drawing lay on the table, still wet with the last 
 touches. Seeing my uncle's intention, instinctively I 
 sprang before it, trembling like an aspen, and crying 
 desperately, "Oh, uncle! don't injure it! please don't! 
 It's for aunt. It's for her birthday gift. You can trust 
 me, after to-day I will do as you wish. I didn't mean to 
 disobey you this morning. I forgot how late it was, be- 
 cause I wanted to improve it a little before I gave it to 
 
 her." . , ^ , 
 
 Not heeding my frantic cry, he pushed me aside rudely, 
 and, seizing the drawing-board, he pulled the picture off 
 with one violent wrench, and, tearing ifinto small frag- 
 ments, he threw them at my feet. Then taking the 
 contents of my portfolio, without even glancing at them, 
 
 '-^-^iii, iiiiiiwi— liiili'i 
 
 i li Mj.utf^ ^W BtilW M Ml' 
 
3IAST. 
 
 DORETIIKA. 
 
 Gl 
 
 ;erly oblivious to 
 it the picture with 
 r of little touches, 
 ed, — for when is 
 a careful, faithful 
 
 J the sudden open- 
 ly uncle standing 
 ger. His watery 
 his mouth had a 
 \X smile, which, I 
 
 ire at it again, in 
 st evening! I see 
 lat you are deter- 
 'or me to exercise 
 ig with you, T shall 
 h you waste your 
 
 wet with the last 
 on, instinctively I 
 aspen, and crying 
 it! please don't! 
 ft. You can trust 
 I didn't mean to 
 ow late it was, be- 
 lefore I gave it to 
 
 led me aside rudely, 
 [led the picture off 
 it'into small frag- 
 Theu taking the 
 a glancing at them, 
 
 he flung them in pioces on the floor with tlio otliors. In 
 one instant the careful work of months lay in ruin before 
 me. My horror was too great for expression. With wide- 
 open ey(!8 and palsied tongue, I could only stare at him, 
 without the power of uttering one cry of entreaty. ^ly 
 paints and pencils lay on the table just as I had used 
 them. With a cruel sneer he gathered tliem up, and, 
 breaking them into splinters, he added them to the pile 
 of torn sketches. Then taking my last treasure, the box 
 of colors, that had cost me so much self-denial, he glanced 
 around for some means of destruction for them, when 
 the ^lop-j.ar caught his eye. " Ah, I see ! " he said, with a 
 brutal laugh ; " I will save you the trouble of mixing your 
 paints," and, before I fully understood his intention, he 
 turned the contents of the box into the jar of water we 
 had used for bathing. • 
 
 This was more tlian I could endure. A sharp pain 
 pierced me to the heart, a hot wave mounted hissing to 
 my brain, some chord stretched to the utmost tension 
 seemed to snap suddenly, and, with a loud cry of anguish 
 I sprang toward hini, and fell heavily to the floor in vio- 
 lent convulsions. 
 
 V. 
 
 This fearful and sudden shock caused a long and 
 serious illness which affected my brain principally. For 
 weeks I lay in a most critical condition, happily oblivious 
 of pain or sorrow. When, at last, I came slowly back to 
 consciousness, it seemed as though both reason and mem- 
 ory were gone. I was like an infant of a few weeks, too 
 feeble to think or speak ; even the room seemed strange, 
 and the subdued voices sounded far off and unfamiliar. 
 
 Eii■flne»t,*aa^^J.'UliMWlunl f 
 
THE STOUY OF AN RNXnUSrAST. 
 
 Sometimes I tried to remember who I was, wliere 
 I was, and what had hapi-ened, but the effort was too 
 much for my weak brain, and before I suoceeded in solv- 
 ing the mystery I usually fell into a stupor which they 
 called sleep. For a long time I thought I was another 
 person, so impossible was it to establish in my own 
 mind my identity and locality. At last, one day I re- 
 membered my name, and, looking up at the strange 
 woman bending over me, I asked for my mother. 
 
 "Poor darling! yes! yes!" said the nurse, kindly. 
 "You are very ill, and you must not talk; take this cool 
 drink, and then close your eyes and try to sleep." 
 
 I took the wine-whey and closed my eyes, but I could 
 not sleep. After a moment 1 looked up again, and said, 
 "Where is papa? I want papa." 
 
 "Hush, hush, my dear! "said the nurse, soothingly. 
 " I want papa." I persisted ; " and Bettine. Where is 
 Bettine ?» My mind had gone back to iny early child- 
 hood. , - , . 
 
 The nurse went to the door, and spoke softly to some 
 one. A tall, white-haired man came in and took my 
 hand, looking anxiously into my face; then he slipped 
 an arm under my neck, and gently raised me. " Do you 
 know me, Felix," he asked, stroking the hair away from 
 
 my forehead. 
 
 1 looked at him, and said again, « I want pa^ u i hen 
 he laid me back on my pillow, and sat beside me, hold- 
 ing my hand and stroking it gently. 
 
 One night I thought I saw a face look out from behind 
 the curtain. I was alone, and the face was always 
 there. I screamed loudly, and my uncle came forward 
 with a frightened look. When I saw him, swift as a 
 flash of light the whole scene of that dreadful morning 
 
 iiiiiiitwiiiiiii'ritu ■|-ffiij|>iii«'i»«s,-. 
 
I AST. 
 
 I was, where 
 e effort was too 
 uoceeded in solv- 
 ipor which they 
 it I was another 
 ilish in my own 
 st, one day I re- 
 ) at the strange 
 Y mother, 
 le nurse, kindly. 
 Ik ; take this cool 
 to sleep." 
 eyes, but I covild 
 p again, and said, 
 
 nurse, soothingly, 
 lettine. Where is 
 
 my early child- 
 
 ike softly to some 
 ! in and took my 
 I ; then he slipped 
 sed me. " Do you 
 he hair away from 
 
 vant pat v" Then 
 it beside me, hold- 
 
 ok out from behind 
 
 1 face was always 
 ncle eame forward 
 aw him, swift as a 
 b dreadful morning 
 
 DOKETHEA. 
 
 68 
 
 came before me, and I knew him. Starting from my 
 pillow, I implored him not to spoil my picture. I en- 
 treated and cried, wriiiging my hands pitifully. 
 
 Greatly alarmed at my excitement, my uncle tried to 
 calm and soothe me, looking toward the door for help. 
 While r cried and moaned, a sudden fear took possession 
 of me. My heart seemed to stop beating, drops of 
 sweat streamed down my face, and, trembling like a 
 leaf, I could only utter a succession of faint shrieks. 
 
 In a moment some one had his arms around me, 
 soothing me gently. I looked up, and the kind face that 
 I had seen before was bending over me. 
 
 "Send him away!" I gasped, "send him away! I 
 am afraid of him." 
 
 Once or twice after that I saw my uncle again, when 
 the same eonvulsion of terror seized me, and I trembled 
 until he left the room. 
 
 One morning, at early dawn, I looked a long while at 
 the man who sat beside my bed as still as a statue, his 
 eyes closed and his face pale and weary. At last I 
 knew he was Dr. Ijangham, whom I had often seen. 
 When he moved and looked at me, I asked : " Doctor, 
 why are you sitting by me ? " 
 
 " l^ecause you are ill, and I want you to get well," he 
 replied, with a pleased smile. 
 
 " I want to see papa," I returned, and then for the 
 first time I remembered that he was dead, and, covering 
 my face with my weak hands, I cried silently. 
 
 I have an indistinct recollection of sometimes seeing 
 Walter with red eyes, and swollen face, sitting by my 
 bed, as though he had cried a great deal, and once 
 Helen came in, dressed in a black frock, stoojied over 
 me, and kissed me, and then went away holding her hand- 
 
64 THE BTOBY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 kovcluef to her eyes. I thought that I was dead, and that 
 he .nounnng-f/ock was for ,ae. Like a burred pan- 
 raiua the little scenes of n>y sick-room papsed betoxo 
 me, and slowly, one by one, the various incidents of n.y 
 life came out on the dim background of -y "-^ ^S 
 all was dear again ; but it did not seem as though I had 
 bl;: an actor in thim, - they were rather like the scenes 
 in some story 1 had reiul. 
 
 The only thing that moved mo was a glimpse of 
 ,nv uncle. Nothing hurt, nothing pleased me. 1 was 
 indifferent to everything else. Thei. seemed no pas , 
 no present, no future. I was emotionless, dull ; my sou 
 floated in a vacuum crossed now and then by a face or 
 voice that left little impression. 
 
 One day the nurse raised me on a pillow, and someone 
 came softly into the room. I opened my «y«« ^'j;2' 
 and saw Lord Hardmoor. His face was ^f^^'y- 
 Something in his eyes touched me. I reached out my 
 teuk hands, and in an instant I was sobbing in his arms 
 At last I was becoming conscious of the needs of the 
 heart. I luid often wondered where my aunt was, but 
 some strange impression kept me «'!«;*• J^^^^ J 
 dreamed of seeing my picture in a pale light, and 
 kneeling before it were three figures. They turned and 
 . lookei at me, and I saw my mother, my father, and my 
 •unit After that I felt that she had gone away with 
 the others, and I should see her no more only in my 
 dreams. " If she was not gone she would --^« «- 
 me," I said, thinking of it as I lay m Lord Haidmooi s 
 
 '''^ " Who, my boy ? who woul4 come ? " he asked. 
 "My aunt," I replied. ■ ^^ 
 
 «0h! she has gone away for a little while. 
 
 ./ 
 
IIA8T. 
 
 as (lead, and that 
 a blurred pauo- 
 
 m paFsed before 
 incidents of my 
 my memory, and 
 
 I as though I had 
 
 lor like the scenes 
 
 vas a glimpse of 
 3a8ed ine. I was 
 ! seemed no past, 
 ess, dull ; my soul 
 ;hen by a face or 
 
 How, and some one 
 iny eyes languidly, 
 was full of pity. 
 I reached out my 
 Dbbiug in his arms, 
 the needs of the 
 my aunt was, but 
 
 silent. Once I 
 a pale light, and 
 
 They turned and 
 ny father, and my 
 id gone away with 
 > more only in my 
 would come to see 
 n Lord Hardmoor's 
 
 ? " he asked. 
 
 tie while." 
 
 DORETHEA. 
 
 66 
 
 " Yes, she has gone away," I said, dreamily ; " she is 
 with papa and mama. I have seen her, and she is 
 happy with them," 
 
 Lord Hardmoor looked at me with a sort of awe, and 
 whispered to the nurse, 'I'oor Doy! his mind wanders 
 
 still." 
 
 After a little while I asked, "Is Dorethea gone 
 
 too ? " 
 
 "No, Felix; she is at homo with her mother. You 
 shall see her as soon as you are strong enough." 
 
 "I am strong enough now. I want to see her," I said, 
 restlessly. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; you shall. Only bo very quiet. I mean 
 to take you to the Hall as soon as you are better, and 
 Dorethea shall nurse you." 
 
 I smiled contentedly, and, as I closed my eyes, I heard 
 the nurse say : — 
 
 " That's the first time I've seen him smile, and it's a 
 good sign. He's always looked so solemn-like." 
 
 Weeks passed on, and gradually, as the fevpr loffc me, 
 my brain became stronger, the mists dispersed, and left 
 my mind perfectly lucid, but languid and inactive. 
 When asked if I would see my cousins, I said : " No ; I 
 was tired." I refused the most tempting food, always 
 with the same answer, "I was not hungry." I had fallen 
 into a lassitude, in which mind and body were alike 
 powerless to rally. If I had any desire at all, it was for 
 the place where those I loved had gone. At times I saw 
 them in the radiant light of a dream, and I would awake 
 and weep bitterly. 
 
 One bright morning I was lifted on to a sofa for the 
 first time, and the curtains were opened to let in the sun- 
 lieht. Wheo I saw my white, thin face in a mirror 
 
 ' tlVll IIIMIH illlllliillllllTlillllHII I " • 
 
66 THK 8TOIIY OF AN ENTHimiAST. 
 
 op,o«it., the tears vollea down ,uy clu.ks, a.ul 1 l.;ul no 
 
 flowers on the table. 'Hu, smmner wus «... I .^"kul 
 what month it was, uu.l he tohl n.o wc were in Uctobei. 
 I Iwul been ill nearly three months. 
 
 While n.y cousin stood looking at mo, his face uU o 
 „ltv the .loor was softly opened, and I caught a gl.n.pse 
 ^ a Iri^^rfaoo In a n>o.nent Dorethea was knee hng 
 ;^^;;;!'v^h all her pretty hair spread c.e^^^^^^^ 
 I could not speak nor move; only my slow teais ttU 
 
 -^:r:m:"rr r::;iv:^— uer emouo. 
 
 Jd i:i.d up, smiling, as she said: " "o^ st.,. of u. 
 to crv ; but you look so white and sad. ^ow, 1 tlix, >ou 
 must heor up, and hurry to get better; for papa has 
 
 are quite well." ^^^ ^^^^^-^ 
 
 ""^i V„ow,a,™t .ever .« t,,e .""--J.f 
 „„w .he i» cone «lier» I «™ '!» """""S """" '"' . , 
 "Tvt, you can, dea,. Y»« can ijc^e LcH., f-y-g to 
 get well DO you think she is happy "l'"'" »'' J 
 Lne, to Itnow that you are suBermg here. «'. J-''^ 
 he i; looking at s«eet„r flo«.s now *- »2' triev 
 ..onM rive her. iet that comfort you, and don t fcncve 
 r^ anything t..at is past. I «™ f "'"/Zg' a*" 
 shall rest awhile, and the» we mil bwe a long talk. 
 
I AST. 
 
 s, ami 1 l.;»l "« 
 
 unch of autumn 
 
 HOIK". I .iHked 
 
 vero in October. 
 
 , his face full of 
 caught a glimpHo 
 uni waa kui-fliu^' 
 ,1 ov(^r my pillow. 
 y slow tears fell 
 
 Lilc. 
 
 lied lier emotion, 
 How stupid of me 
 Now, Felix, you 
 tor; for papa has 
 all as soon as you 
 irse you until you 
 
 , holding her hand 
 
 liut do you know 
 
 ver. 
 
 it it," she replied, 
 
 e primroses. And 
 ng more for her." 
 ise her by trying to 
 ppy where she has 
 g here. Oh, Felix ! 
 r than any that you 
 m, and don't grieve 
 sing to you, and you 
 have a long talk." 
 
 DORKTHEA. 
 
 67 
 
 Listrning to her sweet low vnm\ I fell asleep, and 
 dreanit'd thiit I was in my old liome wifli my I'lither, and 
 that IJapliat'l's eyes f(tllowed me witli the pensive, wist- 
 ful gazt! that I eould uevtu- forget. 
 
 After that I began to improve and to take some int«'r- 
 est ill my nurroundings, jiskcd to see m^ eousins, and 
 olleu talked with tlm duotor. " Would you like to see 
 your unole V " ho asked, one day. 
 
 "Oil, no!" I erii'd, shuddering. "I ean't see him. T 
 can't. I'm afraid of him." 
 
 " Never mind, my dear boy. You need not if you 
 
 don't wish to," said the doctor, looking at me closely 
 
 and anxiously. "But, tell me, why do you fear him V" 
 
 " Because ho is so cruel, ho lias hurt mo so ; h»t has 
 
 destroyed everything I loved." 
 
 I was fearfully excited, and, clinging to the doctor's 
 hand, I begged him to lake mo to Ilardmoor Hall at 
 once, for I felt that if my uncle should enter my room 
 the shock woidd be fatal to my reason. That idea took 
 such possession of my feeble brain that I could think of 
 nothing else. Every time the door was opened from 
 without, I started and screamed. I feared to sleep lest 1 
 should awake and iind him standing by my bed. At 
 last the doctor became alarmed, and decided that it was 
 better to remove me than for mo to remain in such a 
 state of excitement. 
 
 One mild, dull day in November, I was carried down 
 the Rectory stairs by the doctor ami Lord Ilardmoor, 
 laid a helpless burden in an easy carriage, and driven 
 slowly away from my uncle's door. And never again in 
 ■Jd my life did I cross the threshold of the house where 
 I had suffered so much. Through the carriage windows 
 I sa.vv the yellow let^ves clinging here and there to soddea 
 
 / 
 
OH TIIK HTOIIY (»K AN KNTIIOHrAHT. 
 
 brun.aioH. Tl.H kxul.m 8ky, tho gray moors luul distant 
 hills luusH b.lorn mo lik.< a l.iolur. in Had, ool.l coU.rB, 
 dcHtituto of li«ht and lif«. It was November, and my 
 iathor had buen deiul two yeats. 
 
 VI. 
 
 DoHKTiiKA'H m..th(M-, wlu.m I had soon but seldom, 
 wan a ..oble, tcn.lor-hourted won.an. To hor kindnoss 
 and caro I. owo in a measure my final restoration to 
 health and reason, altlu.ugh for somo timo alter I was 
 removed U, llardmoor Hall 1 lingered in a condition so 
 sinLMilar ivs to batHe the skill of a well known physician, 
 who was called from London to consult with Dv. Lang- 
 
 ham. . , ... 
 
 A strange hallucination possessed me, connectod with 
 the scene preceding my illness. 1 firmly believed that 
 th(* piiiture my undo destroyed was tho hoadot llap l.ael, 
 and that, in some mysterious way, it was physically a 
 part of myself. It had ceased to be a mental impres- 
 Bion, and had become an actual bodily agony. I com- 
 plained constantly of a pain about my heart, as if it was 
 being torn from mo in fragments. At times I suffered 
 horribly, and my morbid imagination rehearsed with pit- 
 iless fidelity over and over every detail of the parting 
 with my picture, and its imaginary sacrifice, and the 
 HMiding of it into pieces was the signal for a spasm ot 
 pain that left mo utterly exhausted. 
 
 Even Dorothea lacked tho power to arouse me from 
 the wretched condition into which I had fallen. All day 
 long I lay on a sofa, silently brooding over my trouble 
 with my uncle, the horrible end of all my hopes, and 
 the loss that nothing on earth could replace. The pic 
 
 amm 
 
 MUH 
 
1 
 
 DOIIKTIIKA. 
 
 69 
 
 UAHT. 
 
 jor« luul <li«tiiiit 
 
 Had, oold colors, 
 
 (VoiulK!r, imd my 
 
 loou but seldom, 
 To \mv kiiidnuss 
 lal rt'Htoratioii to 
 time aftur I wan 
 u a condition so 
 known physician, 
 It with Dr. Laug- 
 
 le, connected with 
 mly believed that 
 i head of llaphael, 
 was physically a 
 a mental impres- 
 ly agony. I corn- 
 heart, as if it was 
 t times I suffered 
 rehearsed with pit- 
 ail of the parting 
 sacrifico, and the 
 lal for a spasm of 
 
 o arouse me from 
 ad fallen. All day 
 g over my trouble 
 all my hopes, and 
 replace. The pic- 
 
 tured face took the place of my father'n. I saw it con- 
 stantly lH-f..re me, the eyes hllcd with t.-ars of somm, 
 an.l the liim white and (piivcring with anguish. Irmii it 
 to me there seemed invisible c.nls, that straincl and 
 tugged at my heart until the buffering was unlM,urabl.«. 
 
 At times, but rarely, the clou.ls that surrouml.-d me 
 were pierced by a goUUn ray, and in the light <,i aiy 
 dreams I saw the face I love.l, life-like, Hercn-ly 
 beautiful, but the eyes always h.ok."d beyond nic into 
 the infinite distance where I could lu. longer follow. 
 
 The voice that spoke to mo of art, nature, an.l beauty 
 was silent, and 1 heard it no more. A .^hord was broke,, 
 that destroyed all the harmony of my life. Often 1 
 pitied myself and mourned over my own rum. I shall 
 never love anything again. I shall never be happy 
 again. I can only remember and suffer as long as 1 
 
 live " 
 
 Dorcthea resorted to all sorts of devices to distract my 
 thoughts from myself. She talked to me of summer an. 
 woodland walks, of pi.rtures and painters, of music ami 
 sunshine, of everything bright and beautitul Hhe read 
 pleasant stories, sang and play.'d light cheerful airs, but 
 nothing she did could dissipate the morbid gloom that 
 enshrouded me. The Christmas holidays came and went, 
 with the attendant festivities, but I could not be in- 
 duced to leave my room, where I lay .lay after .lay, 
 neither forgotten nor neglected, but as hopelessly alone 
 as though I were enfolded in the silence and darkness of 
 the grave. In this way the winter passed, and spring 
 returned with renewed vigor to every living thing, but it 
 brought little change to me. 
 
 One day the doctor and Lord Hardmoor sat by the 
 Bofa, where I lay with closed eyes and dull, immobile 
 
70 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 face. They must have thought me sleeping, for they 
 were talking of mo as though I were not present. 
 
 " And can nothing be clone ? " I heard Lord Hardmoor 
 ask, after an e-iclamation of surprise, caused by arema-k 
 of the doctor's, which I had not noticed. 
 
 "I fear not: I have studied his case most carofnlly, 
 and have watched all its variations and complications, 
 and I must confess that it baffles me. I can't think 
 there is any heart trouble. 1 can't agree with Brown'u 
 diagnosis. I don't believe there is any seated disease of 
 the brain. It seems more of a mental torpor, an absence 
 of all interest, a sort of death in life. He appears to be 
 drifting towards imbecility." 
 
 " Good Heavons ! " exclaimed Lord Hardmoor, " and 
 he was such a bright, intelligent boy. It's of no use talk- 
 ing in that hopeless way ; something must be done to save 
 him from such a horrible fate." 
 
 « Ah ! but what can be done ? If he could be aroused 
 from this abnormal condition, could be made to exercise 
 some will and reason, he might throw off this lassitude 
 and with physical aid effect a mental cure, but as he is 
 deaf to all argument, utterly indifferent to his fate, and 
 will offer no moral resistance, the mind and body react 
 one upon the other and drugs have no effect upon 
 either. I thought the change of bringing him here 
 would be beneficial, but his case seems more hopeless 
 than ever; and that strange hallucination about your 
 brother, that intense craving for that unfortunate pic- 
 ture, are remarkable beyond any sympton- I ever 
 witnessed. I sometimes think that if it were possible to 
 get that picture back and put it where he could see it 
 constantly, it might be the means of curing him." 
 
 "But he is under the impression that my brother 
 
 msmmik>mm»- 
 
[AST. 
 
 DOUETHKA. 
 
 n 
 
 eping, for they 
 present. 
 Lord Hard moor 
 ised by a rema"k 
 
 most carofnlly, 
 complications, 
 I can't think 
 se witli Browii'b 
 ieated disease of 
 irpor, au absence 
 le appears to be 
 
 Hardmoor, "and 
 ;'s of no use talk- 
 s' be done to save 
 
 could be aroused 
 nade to exercise 
 ff this lassitude 
 ure, but as he is 
 . to his fate, and 
 I and body react 
 
 no effect upon 
 nging him here 
 as more hopeless 
 ition about your 
 unfortunate pic- 
 mpton „ I ever 
 t were possible to 
 
 he could see it 
 ring him." 
 ;hat my brother 
 
 destroyed it. If the veritable picture were put before 
 him I doubt if he would recognize it now. 1 really can't 
 believe that the boy had such an attachment for a bit of 
 painted canvas as to affect him mentally and physically. 
 In my opinion, it is all nonsense ; a mere freak of a sick 
 brain." 
 
 " Your lordship may be right. Nevertheless, I have 
 my tliccry about this case, which you may think rather 
 far-fetched, but if I could not find some solution of this 
 enigma in it I should abandon the study of Biology for- 
 ever. You know I have looked pretty deeply into hered- 
 ity. It is one of my hobbies, and this poor boy furnishes 
 the most interesting example I have ever happened to 
 come across." 
 
 " Why, doctor ! what in Heaven's name are you driving 
 at ? Do you nieau to say that the boy has inherited in- 
 sanity ? There never was a case in his father's family, 
 I'll swear. About his mother I'm not so sure." 
 
 "Not so fast, my friend. There are other things in- 
 herited besides diseases. There are characteristics, 
 impressions, likes and dislikes. Let me give you an 
 example, as briefly as possible. A mother, before the 
 birth of her child, has an insatiabl'' desire for something 
 difficult to obtain. That child goes through lite with the 
 same desire for the same object. You understand that. 
 It is purely physical, it is natural. Now for an example 
 of mental impression. A highly wrought, sensitive 
 organization hears a musical composition that touches 
 her profounc" , — it maybe sacred or profane, — and the 
 child is always susceptible to the influence of the same 
 melody. These are only hints. I have no time to go 
 into the subject of atavism in all its ramifications, but 
 I think you see clearly into my theory. This boy's 
 
 ■: 
 
72 
 
 THE 8TOBY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 ^ 
 
 mothex- came from a family of artists, and was of an 
 impressionable character. His father was an enthusiast 
 on art. They marry, and pass the first mouths of their 
 married life in Italy, the hot-bed of art. It is pictures 
 and painters, painters and pictures, day in and day out. 
 Raphael is the favorite master, therefore Raphael is 
 studied constantly. A strong affection for that master's 
 works is created by that study, and that affection natu- 
 rally begets a desire for possession. Don't look in- 
 credulous. It is truer thai, you think, and your mistake 
 in separating the boy from that picture, although a 
 natural one, may prove fatal to reason and even life. 
 Well, to go on : the mother returns to Paris still desiring 
 to possess a picture by Raphael. Accidentally the father 
 comes across one for sale, and purchases it." 
 
 "Oh, no ! I can't go so far as to allow that the picture 
 was a Raphael," interrupted Lord Hardmoor. 
 
 "Never mind. They believed it to be one. It had 
 all the characteristics. The impression was the same. 
 The mother saw it constantly, admired it, doted on it ; 
 the consequence was that the child was imbued, bred 
 and born, with an intense love for that same picture. 
 Much such a clinging, yearning love as a twin child feels 
 for its mate. It was part of him, or another self if you 
 will, and when he was deprived of it he really felt the 
 suffering which you think impossible, and with this you 
 must consider his mental and physical organization. 
 They are uncommonly delicate and sensitive ; he is keen- 
 ly alive to the least unfavorable impression. To such a 
 nature the most tender and judicious treatment if. an 
 absolute necessity. Some are strengthened and hardf.ned 
 by severe discipline, others are crushed and killed ; he is 
 one of the latter. If he recovers from this illness, his 
 
[AST. 
 
 and was of an 
 
 iis an enthusiast 
 
 nonths of their 
 
 It is pictuves 
 
 in and day out. 
 
 ore Raphael is 
 
 or that master's 
 
 affection natu- 
 
 Don't look in- 
 
 md your mistake 
 
 ure, although a 
 
 a and even life. 
 
 aris still desiring 
 
 ntally the father 
 
 I it." 
 
 that the picture 
 moor. 
 
 be one. It had 
 n was the same. 
 I it, doted on it ; 
 ras imbued, bred 
 lat same picture. 
 a twin child feels 
 other self if you 
 le really felt the 
 .nd with this you 
 cal organization, 
 litive ; he is keen- 
 sion. To such a 
 I treatment if an 
 ned and hardt.ned 
 and killed ; he is 
 1 this illness, his 
 
 DORETHKA. 
 
 78 
 
 character will remain the same, and life for him, I fear, 
 will be but a succession of disappointmenf-s and defeats. 
 Therefore, an early death would be the greatest boon to 
 desire for him. Still, we must do all we can to save 
 him. For the present, he must be indulged in all his 
 fancies, and he must not be thwarted in any way ; he 
 must be drawn out of himself, instead of being left to 
 his own resources. Only the utmost gentleness and pa- 
 tience, with a constant effort to renew his interest in 
 what he formerly liked, can awaken the dormant ener- 
 gies of his mind. Otherwise, I greatly fear that in a 
 little while he will be a hopeless imbecile." 
 
 " How terrible ! I have never understood the true 
 condition of the boy until now," said Lord Hardmoor, as 
 he and the doctor left the room. "However, nothing 
 shall be wanting on my part to restore him to health if 
 possible." 
 
 After they went out, I tried to remember what they 
 had said I would become, — an imbecile. What was an 
 imbecile ? In the confusion of my thoughts, I could dt- 
 taf h no meaning to it, when, suddenly, a little scene in 
 my past life came vividly before me. It was of a morn- 
 ing walk with my father through one of the narrow 
 streets of Paris, where we had seen an unfortunate crea- 
 ture sitting at the door of a cobbler's stall — a wretched, 
 bent, drivelling creature, with meaningless eyes, open 
 mouth, and distorted limbs. That horror, my father 
 told me, was an imbecile. And I should become like 
 that ! — I shivered as though I had received a sudden blow, 
 and instantly a feeling of resistance against such a fate 
 sprang to life within me. I could die, I wished to die, 
 but I could not become such a frightful thing. No, no 1 
 it was impossible ! I remembered the doctor had spoken 
 
 M»«»svafes:-. 
 
74 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 of wi'H and couraffe ; I would take courage, I would strug- 
 gle to shake off this fearful oppression, I would arouse 
 myself from this dull stupor at once. I would tear my- 
 self from the chains that held me. I would live and be 
 
 well again. 
 
 When Dorethea came in, a few moments after, I sur- 
 prised her by saying that I would like to be taken into 
 the garden. "This room is dark and lonesome ; J want 
 to see the sunshine and the trees waving in the wind." 
 
 The dear child ran quickly to tell her father. Lord 
 Hardmoor, with a pleasant smile and hearty words of 
 encouragement, wrapped me in a rug, and, with the help 
 of a servant, carried me to a recliniug-chair that v. its 
 placed under a tree on the lawn. Lady Hardmoor 
 brought her embroidery, and worked beside me. Dore- 
 thea flitted here and there, searching the borders for snow- 
 drops and crocuses, while Lord Hardmoor smoked his 
 cigar at a little distance, watching me closely all the 
 
 while. 
 
 I could not talk, but lay silently, looking into the 
 infinite depths of the blue dome stretched above me ; and, 
 as I looked, the prison bars of ray soul fell away, and 
 my mind, so long enclosed in darkness and uncertainty, 
 soared lightly toward the blue ether. A new life ran 
 through my veins. Spring, God's smile, lay over the 
 earth ; its influence made ray heart throb with pleasure, 
 and its sweet breath cooled and calmed my aching head. 
 From that day I lived in the open air ; the house seemed 
 to oppress me ; only under the wide expanse of the sky 
 could my thoughts rise above my feeble body. Lady 
 Hardmoor and Dorethea watched over me with the ten- 
 derest care. Every wish was gratified, and nothing that 
 could cor tribute to my comfort or amusement was 
 
 mtwm 
 
■*''■!* 
 
 J8IA8T. 
 
 ige, I would strug- 
 11, I would arouse 
 I would tear my- 
 ivould live and be 
 
 lents after, I sur- 
 to be taken into 
 lonesome ; I want 
 ng in the wind." 
 her father. Lord 
 I hearty words of 
 and, with the help 
 Lug-chair that "v.iAS 
 Lady Hardmoor 
 beside me. Dore- 
 le borders for snow- 
 imoor smoked his 
 ine closely all the 
 
 , looking into the 
 led above me ; and, 
 oul fell away, and 
 ss and uncertainty, 
 [•. A new life ran 
 unile, lay over the 
 ;hrob with pleasure, 
 3d my aching head. 
 ; the house seemed 
 expanse of the sky 
 feeble body. Lady 
 r me with the ten- 
 d, and nothing that 
 or alnusement was 
 
 DOUETHEA. 
 
 75 
 
 iifglected. Lord Hardmoor himself wheeled me about 
 the avenues of the park in an invalid-chair. He was as 
 gentle and compliant as a woman. Perhaps there was 
 some remorse mingled with his thoughtful care. Dore- 
 thea, during our excursions, often filled my lap with 
 wild-flowers. One day she brought primroses ; I thought 
 of my aunt and cried bitterly. After that I saw no 
 more primroses. 
 
 The summer passed away like a peaceful dream, and 
 every day I grew stronger and better. My cousins 
 often came to visit me, and even my uncle ventured to 
 dine at the Hall, and for the first time since my illness 
 I met him without a shudder. He looked so sad and 
 subdued that I pitied him, but he never won either my 
 love or respect. For Lord Hardmoor I felt an increas- 
 ing affection and esteem. Although we were always 
 antagonistic in many things, yet I appreciated what was 
 good in his character, and, in spite of his stubborn will 
 and great egotism, at that time, I felt a real regard for 
 
 him. 
 
 In the autumn, as I was comparatively well and 
 strong, my guardians decided that I should reside for 
 a while with the cm-ate, and begin the study of classics 
 with my cousins. The hamlet of East Haddingham was 
 less than a mile from the Hall ; therefore, T was satisfied 
 with the arrangements, as it did not separate me from 
 Dorethea and her mother. 
 
 VIL 
 
 I WAS fourteen when I began my studies with Mr. 
 Lonely, the curate of East Haddingham. Of this unpre- 
 tending scholar, to whom I owe all my knowledge of 
 
 e*53ws?s*s5ss^~ ■- ■ ■"-'^ 
 
76 THE STOnY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 boolc8, I must say a few words of an introductory 
 character. To manners singularly gracious and win- 
 ninK were united a form of manly perfection and a face 
 of more than ordinary beauty, stamped with earnest 
 thoughts and profound gravity. The mournful shadow 
 in his eyes, and the lines impressed by sorrow, told that 
 he had received the baptism of anguish that leaves its 
 traces forever both on the heart and face. He was 
 about forty, unmarried, and lived alone, with the excep- 
 tion of an old servant, in a small cottage, whose garden 
 reached to the rustic graveyard that surrounded the 
 
 little chapel. , . 
 
 Over this lovely spot brooded a soothing calm tha. 
 was never disturbed save by the presence of my cousins 
 when they came for their lessons, but so hrm yet 
 gentle was the curate's control over them that they 
 were usually quiet and studious. ^ , .u^ 
 
 From the first hour that I became an inmate of the 
 cottage I felt at home, for I had a strong impression 
 that the curate had taken me into his heart as well as 
 his house. My youth and loneliness, my long illness, 
 and my pale, sad face must have touched some i;espon- 
 sive chord while they appealed to him for sympathy 
 
 I remember well my first evening in the cottage 
 parlor, so unlike the large, brilliantly lighted rooms at 
 Ilardmoor Hall, with Lady Hardmoor in her rusthng 
 silks and Dorethea flitting about in muslin and ribbons 
 lere all was quiet, simple, subdued. The fire glowed 
 brightly in the grate, the light from the shaded lanip 
 fell over a table piled with books, bringing out the 
 warm tones of the crimson covers, and the rich leather 
 bindings of the large volumes, which appeared to be in 
 constant use, while it lingered with a Caress on the 
 
[AST. 
 
 m introductory 
 Icious and win- 
 
 Btion and a face 
 Id with earnest 
 lournful shadow 
 |orrow, told that 
 that leaves its 
 face. He was 
 
 with the excep- 
 e, whose garden 
 
 surrounded the 
 
 thing calm thai; 
 ;e of my cousins 
 mt so firm yet 
 them that they 
 
 in inmate of the 
 trong impression 
 
 heart as well as 
 , my long illness, 
 ihed some respon- 
 for sympathy. 
 5 in the cottage 
 ■ lighted rooms at 
 r in her rustling 
 aslin and ribbons. 
 The fire glowed 
 
 the shaded lamp 
 bringing out the 
 d the rich leather 
 ippeared to be in 
 L a Caress on the 
 
 DORETHEA. 
 
 77 
 
 Mm 
 
 curate's handsome head and shapely hands as he turned 
 the pages before him. I always noticed his hands, they 
 were so slender and white ; on his third finger he wore a 
 heavy gold band. There was but one picture in the 
 room, and on that my eyes loved to linger. It was of a 
 lovely girlish face, drawn in pastel ; the coloring was 
 exquisite and the modelling delicate and plastic. It was 
 evidently the work of one in love with his art as well 
 as with the charming face he portrayed. 
 
 We had finished our simple supper ; Hester had carried 
 away the tray, put on fresh coals, brushed the hearth, 
 and then closed the door, leaving us in perfect quiet. 
 For some time I sat in deep thought, my chin resting on 
 my open palm, my eyes fixed on the glowing grate. It 
 seemed as though I were again in the study in Paris, 
 sitting at my father's feet, silently waiting for him to 
 awake from one of his deep reveries, which I respected 
 too much to disturb. The clock on the mantel told with 
 faithful precision the story of Time and Eternity, the 
 October wind moaned softly outside, the cat purred at 
 my feet, and the silence was only broken by the rust- 
 ling of the pages which the curate was turning. 
 
 A great peace seemed to have fallen upon me, the 
 restful content of my old life, and when I raised my 
 eyes it was almost with the expectation of seeing my 
 father in his accustomed seat and the face of Kaphael 
 beaming upon me ; but instead I saw Mr. Lonely read- 
 ing with bent head, and the young girl's rosy lips smil- 
 ing from the picture before me. 
 
 After a wlme tlic cvT^te closed his book, and, drawing 
 his chair nearer the fire, began to talk in a low, even 
 voice, that seemed full of restrained power. " You 
 piust pardon me, my dear boy, if I have neglected yon 
 
78 
 
 THK 8TOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 for the hist hour," ho sahl, pently; "but my hpbit of 
 burying n.ysolf in my books after supper is so cou- 
 lirined that it is not easy to change it. 1 fear you will 
 find mo a anil companion and the cottage very quiet utter 
 vour peasant lii!c at the llaU." 
 
 « Oh no ! " I vcplieil. earnestly ; " T like to be quiet - 
 it reminds me of my old home and papa. The only one 
 I miss is Dorethea," and I gave a little sigh when 
 thought of the pleasant hours we had passed together at 
 
 the Hall. 
 
 "It is natural that you should regret the eompaniou- 
 
 ship of your little friend," said the curate, smiling ; " but 
 your lessons will soon occupy you, and you will be very 
 happy, I hope. I must question you a little to see how 
 far you are a.lvanced, and then we will arrange a plan 
 for your future studies." 
 
 For more than an hour he talked with me kindly and 
 cheerfully, gaining my confidence from the first. It was 
 80 easy to unburden my heart to him, to tell him ot my 
 losses and disappointments. My troubles seemed very 
 great to me, and he listened as though he too felt them 
 to be serious. When the clock struck ten, he told me I 
 could retire, but before I left Kim he pressed my hands 
 closely in his, and said, with deep feeling, "May God 
 bless you and guide you, my dear child, and make you 
 so happy in the future that you will cease to grieve for 
 the past. You are young ; you have a lifetime in which 
 to fulfil all your hopes." , u t i i 
 
 As I went up stairs to my room, I wondered why i had 
 not told him of the voice that used to haunt me so per- 
 sistently. Well, it was silent now, and why should I 
 wish to hear it again ? I had listened to it once, and it 
 had nearly ruined me ; perhaps it was better to forget it 
 and all my dreams connected with it. 
 
ilAST. 
 
 jut iny lipbit of 
 
 pppr is so con- 
 
 1 fear you will 
 
 e very quiet after 
 
 ike to be quiet — 
 L The only one 
 ttlo sigh wlu'H 1 
 asaod together iit 
 
 t the compauiou- 
 te, smiling ; "but 
 you will be very 
 little to see how 
 11 arrange a plan 
 
 ith me kindly and 
 
 the first. It was 
 
 to tell him of my 
 
 ibles seemed very 
 
 he too felt them 
 
 ten, he told me I 
 
 pressed my hands 
 
 ■eeling, " May God 
 
 liild, and make you 
 
 iease to grieve for 
 
 I lifetime in which 
 
 vondered why I had 
 I haunt me so per- 
 and why should I 
 to it once, and it 
 3 better to forget it 
 
 DOllKTHKA. 
 
 79 
 
 The next morning I entered the study with my cous- 
 ins, when! I found a now world, the world of books, 
 which I knew F nuist understand before I was fitted to 
 enter the world of men. In a little while my lessons 
 began to interest me, and I never found my quiet, regu- 
 lar life d\il\ or monotonous. Out of study hours we 
 took long walks over the moors that lay anmnd Had- 
 dingham, sometimes stopping to visit a pcor parishioner 
 or to chat with some of the small farmers; on other 
 days we rowed down the river, which flowed a few paces 
 below the chapel walls. 
 
 We also had our seasons of pleasure and recreation in 
 the society of others. Lady Hardinoor and Dorothea 
 were very fond of Mr. Lonely, and onc(^ ji twice a week 
 we dined at the Hall. These were golduii days for me. 
 After dinner the dear child would lead me to some quiet 
 corner in the drawing-room, and there, nestled close to 
 my side, she told me of every little event that had hap- 
 pened since our last meeting. Often Lady Hardmoor 
 and Dorothea walke^'. over to the cottage, bringing us 
 fruit or flowers, a new book, or a review that contained 
 some article to interest the curate, and when the weather 
 was fine they joined us in our rambles or rowed with us 
 on the river. 
 
 During the long winter evenings the curate read aloud, 
 or, in a more sentimental mood, sat for an hour at 
 the piano playing the music of Mozart or Mendels- 
 sohn, his face full of inspiration and his fine eyes 
 tender with some sweet memory. He taught me chess, 
 and soon I became quite a formidable opponent. Many 
 an evening while the winter storm raged without, we 
 sat over the board making our respective moves with not 
 a sound to break the silence save the ticking of the clock 
 
 (^®5%SSSS$*Sv^ 
 
 ' i 
 
80 
 
 THK STOllY OK AN KNTIIimiAHT. 
 
 ami the purriiiK' of the cat. Hiit, 1 think, of a'.l our 
 oviMiings I likt'il tliose host when he road aloiul. From 
 hearing his hcaiitil'ul voice repcatinK the Huhlinif pas- 
 sagos of Milton and Shakespeare, 1 became familiar 
 with and learned to love both of those glorious authors, 
 and later, when I undcrslood Greek and Latin, what a 
 new world of heroism and divine sacrifice he .ronght 
 before mo in the noble epics of the classic writers. 
 Under his excellent training, my intellectual growth was 
 rapid. He often said that I drank in knowledge as the 
 tliirsty soil drinks iu rain. This constant associiation 
 with him was continual instruction, and, like Dante, I 
 followed my gentle teacher and guide, loving and learn- 
 ing as I went. 
 
 1 had not been many days at the cottage before I no- 
 ticed that every evening, at the hour of sunset, ttio curate 
 was in the habit of visiting the graveyard. I saw his 
 tall figure cross the little enclosure where it sloped 
 toward the river, and there, n the shadow of a clump of 
 laurel, he would remain some time, and when he ap- 
 peared his face was beautiful with the tender smile of 
 one who had just left the presence of his beloved. 
 
 Of course, I soon made my pilgrimage to this sacred 
 spot, prompted by curiosity as well as an interest in all 
 that concerned my teacher. In the sliadow of the t vws 
 was a slender marble slab, almost covered by ivy, but 
 under the leaves I discovered the simple inscription, 
 
 Alice. Aged 20. 
 
 On the 15th of each May, during all the years that I 
 lived with Mr. Lonely, he was invisible to every one. 
 He spent that day alone in his room, and .what passed 
 there was kuowu only to God and himself, With the 
 
I AST. 
 
 ink, of all our 
 d aloud. From 
 lie Hnbliim' pas- 
 jecanie familiar 
 [lorious authors, 
 d Livtin, what a 
 itioe lie Drought 
 classsio writers, 
 •tual growth was 
 uowledgf! as the 
 itant asanciiatioii 
 id, like Dante, I 
 oviug and Icarn- 
 
 age bof'^re I no- 
 luuset, tlie curate 
 y^ard. I saw his 
 where it sloped 
 ow of a clump of 
 ,nd when he ap- 
 tender smile of 
 is beloved. 
 ;e to this sacred 
 \n interest in all 
 idow of the t iiH'3 
 ered by ivy, but 
 .e inscription, 
 
 the years that I 
 ble to every oue. 
 and .what passed 
 raself, With the 
 
 DORFiTflKA. 
 
 81 
 
 exceptlou Oi these periods, the ruratc was asocial, choer- 
 f.il companion. He loved nature under all its phases, 
 and he gradiuilly acicustonunl me to long walks aiul 
 rides in the most severe weather. Lord Hardmo-.r gave 
 me a tine little mare, and mounted on her, beside the 
 (•urate on his strong cob, 1 lovCd to dash over hills and 
 downs with a strong north-east<'r in our faces. I was 
 always intoxicated with the wind. It liad a peculiarly 
 exhilarating effect upon me, and the frc*, swift nu)tlon 
 added to tlu- pleasurable excitement of those long ridf^s. 
 At seventeen, under Mr. Lonely's skilful training, I 
 had so improved in health and developed in form that 
 not a trace of my former delicate comliticMi remained. 
 I was tall, brown, and muscular; and Dnretlu^a, the 
 sweet little flatterer, said 1 was the handsomest boy in 
 
 the county. 
 
 Was I less a dreamer, less an enthusiast? I think 
 m, character was nnn-e composed and reasonable, more 
 pnu'tical and philosophical ; my simple, hardy, busy life 
 left me little time for poetic fancies, and there was no ' 
 art atmosphere, no association with pictures, no talk of 
 the divine gift, to awaken my old longings. When I 
 went to Hardmoor HaU I never visited the picture gal- 
 lery. In looking over the jmriodicals of the time, I 
 avoided the criticisms and descriptions of works of ai-t 
 which the world pronounced wonderful. 1 tried to 
 forget my ambitious dreams, and carefully drew a veil 
 over that episode in my life that had resulted so sadly, 
 so near fatally, for me. It was a tender spot, which, I 
 felt, would ache at the slightest touch, and I had no de- 
 sire to suffer again. But at times some exquisite scene 
 in nature would rekindle the old fire in my benumbed 
 soul, and fill it with the old pain. The mysterious eyes 
 
 
83 
 
 TUB HTOUY OK .»N KNTIHTSlAftT. 
 
 of my lost i)ict,uro would look al iu(^ veproachfully, and 
 the nli-adiuK voic« would luuiMiuir pitcouHlv at the our of 
 my hoart; but I woidd not listou. Lik« one poss^'ssod 
 by some rostlcHS Bpiiit, I would l."iry ovev hills and 
 moors, or ri.lo in tlui faco of tho wino o' -r drco downs, 
 or I would m-izo my oais iwA pull -swiftly U>wn the 
 rivor until tho dashiuK water drowned the ;;,vi complain- 
 ing that disturbed sno, 
 
 VITl. 
 
 DiiKiNO the Ihr.-.. yoars that I had Veon with the 
 ,!urate, gr.Mit chang.M had tal«^ii place at the Uect(n-y. 
 My uncle had marrii'd again. Tho only daughter of a 
 rich nianufiwjtnrt. ; rnopted the (V-lle little man, be- 
 cause he was Lord Uavdnu.or's brother, and might ut 
 time Buocoed to the title. Clarence and Ernest had 
 gone to Eton, ami tiio younger boys had a tutor at home ; 
 80 Mr. Lonely and I were loft to ourselves, which was 
 not unpleasant to either of us. 
 
 On the 15th of May, the day of the curate's seclusion, 
 I went to my room to examine a box of books. They 
 had belonged to my father, and had just been discovered 
 in some of the revolutions at the Rectory. For some 
 time I stood irresolute, not knowing whether it were 
 best to revive old memories by a sight of these precious 
 relics of my childhood. At last I summoned courage, 
 and opened the books one by one reverently. They 
 were the works my father had read most, and were much 
 worn, and full of wnarginal notes. As 1 looked them over 
 my tears flowed freely, for it seemed as though he spoke 
 to me from the pages. 
 Near the bottom of the box I came across a handsome 
 
I AST. 
 
 proiiohfiilly, "ii'li 
 hIv at th« ear of 
 ,e one jm^hhcswmI 
 ovev hillH and 
 '1- droo' • downs, 
 iviftly li'Wn the 
 he ii.vi oomplaiii- 
 
 i beon with tlifi 
 at th«> Unctory. 
 ly (huighfiT of a 
 a little man, be- 
 ar, and might in 
 and Ernest had 
 a tutor at liome ; 
 lelvea, which was 
 
 lurato'a seclusion, 
 
 of books. Tliey 
 
 it been discovered 
 
 ctory. For some 
 
 whether it were 
 
 of these precious 
 
 immoned courage, 
 
 reverently. They 
 
 )st, and were much 
 
 . looked them over 
 
 is though he spoke 
 
 across a handsome 
 
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DOKKTIIKA. 
 
 83 
 
 book clasped with eiigravtul silver; on opening it, T saw, 
 nuu'U to my surprise, that it was a jonrnal in my father's 
 handwriting, and the date ou the iirst page was the 
 (lav of his marriage. 
 
 i began to read it standing,%3 I had taken it from the 
 box ; then, entirely forgetful of time and jdace, 1 i.aeed 
 my room, my eyes fixed on the pages, and my heart 
 tlirobbing painfully. At last, uneonseiously I sank 
 down on the edge of my bed, still devouring this reeord 
 of my father's daily life, aiul it seeme"d as though eaeh 
 word was addressed to me with startling emphasis. 
 Sometimes when he referred to me tenderly, as his 
 precious treasure, his darling child, his hope for the 
 future, I buried my face in my pillow and wept freely ; 
 then I read again, never losing a sentence or a word, 
 while the tears I shed dried on my hot cheeks. At one 
 date, shortly after his return to I'aris, he made the fol- 
 lowing entry: — 
 
 « Oct. 7. — It seems as though all good and beautiful 
 things were coming to me with my darling wife. To- 
 day I have seen a wonderful picture, an exquisite head 
 of Raidiael. M. Michelet has been with me to see it, 
 and he pronounces it an undoubted work of the great 
 master. His oiiinion decides me in ray own conviction, 
 known as he is to be the first connoisseur in Europe. 
 It is our ardent desire to possess a picture by this be- 
 loved master ; and if I can purchase it, I shall do so, 
 although there is some obscurity about its history. It 
 evidently belongs to the period of loOo, and was doubt- 
 less painted at the time when the Duke Guidobaldo I., 
 in returning thanks to Henry VII. for the order of the 
 Garter, presented him with the St. George, which the 
 duke ordered expressly from liaphael, with the iiijunc- 
 
84 
 
 THE STOUY OP AN ENTIH^SfAST. 
 
 tion to paint tho insignia of the order on the left leg of 
 tlie saint. (Juntoniponiry historians speak of a portrait of 
 the great master, painted hy hiinseli', \vlii(!h accompanied 
 the St. George to England. Su(di a pietnre is iiowheri! 
 to be found anion ; *-iie ooll<ictions of that country ; what 
 is, tlien, more reasonable than to suppose that it is now 
 in France. Doubtless, during some of the negotiations 
 between the courts of France and England, this pictur(> 
 was sent as a gift (n- bribe by an English monarch to 
 a French king or (picen. And what makes this supposi- 
 tion more i)lausible is that the picture has descended in 
 a direct line from one of the ministers of Louis XV. 
 Tlie last n\end)er of this now impoverished family wishes 
 to sell this wonderful work of art at a reasonable valua- 
 tion, and my attention has been called to it by a friend, 
 who believes it to be a veritable Ka]>hael." 
 
 Some weeks later he writes, after noting the price he 
 l)aid for it, and some details of its transfer : — 
 
 " At last this wonderful picture is ours, and we are de- 
 lighted with our good-fortune. Some might think me 
 unwise to i)ay so much for this small canvas, but I am 
 more than satisfied to own sucli a treasure. And my 
 dear wife shares my happiness; she can scarcely leave 
 the picture, she is so enraptured with it. It has a pow- 
 erful fascination for her. That in itself is a strong 
 proof of the unequalled genius of the divine master." 
 
 A few weeks after my birth, he says : — 
 
 " The Raphael has transformed my home into a temple 
 of art, so many worshippers are coming to offer their 
 homage. . . . How wonderful is the influence it exercises 
 over all who see it. It seems to glow and throb with 
 life, the life that genius gives to the inanimate. . . . Day 
 after day I lift my baby to a level with the beautiful, 
 
 L.. 
 
irART. 
 
 noUKTIlKA. 
 
 85 
 
 1 the left leg of 
 k of a iiorti'ait of 
 lich aconipaiiieil 
 itiire is nowhere 
 it country ; what 
 !e that it is now 
 the ncf^otiations 
 and, this pietun^ 
 ;lisli nionarcli to 
 Ices this supjjosi- 
 las descended in 
 's of Louis XV. 
 led family wishes 
 reasonable valua- 
 it by a friend, 
 el." 
 
 ing the price he 
 fer : — 
 
 rs, and we are de- 
 might think me 
 janvas, but 1 am 
 asure. And my 
 m scarcely leave 
 ;. It has a pow- 
 iself is a strong 
 divine master." 
 
 inie into a temple 
 ig to offer their 
 uence it exercises 
 and throb with 
 limate. . . . Day 
 th the beautiful, 
 
 oarnost face, so tliat he may milice it from the very first, 
 and drink in its influence witli his mother's milk. I 
 wisli it to be associated with his earliest memories, to- 
 gether with his mother's face and mine. . . . We bring 
 him to it as to the shrine of a saint, and invoke the 
 genius and virtues of the divine Raphael for our child." 
 
 On another page he says : — 
 
 "This morning our little Felix laid his tiny finger on 
 the lips of the IJaphael and smiled ; then, leaning forward, 
 he touched it with his rosy mouth as if it were a living 
 face. We feel, on looking at him, as if he had been con- 
 secrated to art. . . . Although only a baby, he loves the 
 picture; he stretches out his little arms and cooes and 
 smiles at it in the same eager joyful way tliat he greets 
 his mother." 
 
 Here and there such sentences as the following filled 
 my heart to overflowing ; they seemed like prayers from 
 the lips of the dead. 
 
 " It is the fondest wish of my heart that my boy 
 should live to be an artist. The love of art, which was 
 thwarted in me, will perhaps find expression in him. . . . 
 To see my son a great painter would reconcile me to my 
 own failure. . . . The love of art was born with me, and 
 1 feel that I have transmitted it to him. God grant that 
 it may not be to him, as it has been to me, but an inheri- 
 tance of sorrow. ... If he lives, he shall follow the incli- 
 nation of his own heart ; his talents shall not be thwarted 
 and stunted by adverse influences, as mine were. ... If I 
 am not permitted to see him settled in life, I shall rejoice 
 in heaven, if it is given us to know aught of earth there, 
 if my son has the strength and courage to throw off the 
 shackles of society in order to follow so worthy a profes- 
 sion. ... I would rather have him listen to the voice of 
 
 ,».>ii rt^ ja. a ?a 
 
 a-i 
 
 .mmmm ^ " ' <'Msi ' ^^ * T" 
 
86 
 
 THE HTOKY OF AN KNTHI'SIAST. 
 
 liis soul, and devote his life to the devidopiiieiit of the 
 talents God gives him, tlian to see him a king upon a 
 throne." 
 
 After my mother's death he writes with touching sad- 
 ness: — 
 
 " My boy is all I have left. All my worldly hopes are 
 centred in him. He is like his mother, endowed with 
 her beauty, her tender, refined nature, her love of every- 
 thing excellent. Even now, at his age, I can see plainly 
 that he lias inherited her enthusiastic, impetuous tem- 
 perament as well as the talent that may be fatal to his 
 happiness. Oh; if I were not doomed to the grave! 
 If I were not torn to pieces with a desire to be at rest by 
 her side and an equally strong desire to stay with my 
 boy, I might be the guide and support of this exquisite 
 nature, so unfitted to battle with the cruel realities of 
 life." 
 
 On the last page, written the day before his death, he 
 says, as if the premonition of the end was strong upon 
 him : — 
 
 "I know that soon, too soon, he will be alone. My 
 lamb, my tender lamb ! who will temper the wind to thee 
 •when I am gone ? 1 leave thee to the God of the 
 fatherless, in the firm trust that he will protect thee and 
 keep thee in the paths of virtue and truth, and I know I 
 shall not be forgotten. My instructions for his future, 
 which I have imparted to him as well as I could with- 
 out wounding his tender heart, or causing him useless 
 pain aiul anxiety, will, I am confident, be kept sacred in 
 his memory, and all my wishes, hopes, and ambitions for 
 liim will be fulfilled. My voice Avill speak to his soul ; 
 death cannot silence it. I love him so, I so desire his 
 truest happiness, that even the grave will not sever the 
 
 16W„_^ 
 
ISIAST. 
 
 nORKTilKA. 
 
 87 
 
 velopiiieiit of the 
 ill! a. king upon a 
 
 nth touching sad- 
 worldly hopes are 
 ler, endowed with 
 her love of every- 
 , I can see plainly 
 c, impetuous tem- 
 ly be fatal to his 
 ed to the grave ! 
 ire to be at rest by 
 to stay with my 
 of this exquisite 
 cruel realities of 
 
 fore his death, he 
 was strong upon 
 
 ill be alone. My 
 iv the wind to thee 
 3 the God of the 
 11 protect thee and 
 •uth, and I know I 
 lus for his future, 
 
 as I could with- 
 ,using him useless 
 
 be kept sacred in 
 , and ambitions for 
 
 speak to his soul ; 
 30, I so desire his 
 will not sever the 
 
 tender bond that binds us together. IIo will listen to \\w 
 when I am no more ; ho will love what 1 love and strive 
 to obey my wishes. 1 leave him the assurance of my 
 undying love, together with my greatest earthly treasure, 
 my Kaphael, knowing that he will never forget the one 
 nor part with the other." 
 
 When I finished reading this record of my father's 
 hopes and wishes, with the touching evidence of his 
 great love for me, I felt as though he had appeared from 
 the grave and spoken to me in the most emphatic lan- 
 guage. At times I wept bitterly; tears of passionate 
 sorrow drenched my face, while moans and sobs broke 
 from my full heart. I was crushed with rrtnorse and 
 penitence. I was unworthy of his love, his anxious care 
 for my future. I had neglected the solemn commands 
 he gave me with his last breath, had resolutely silenced 
 the haunting voice that urged me to obedience. I had 
 been weak and wavering. I had trifled with the divine 
 gift and tried to hide it even from my own soul. But it 
 was not too late to make amends. Thank God ! it was not 
 too late to obey his wishes. That book had been sent to 
 me to show me my father's heart, to arouse me from the 
 mental torpor, the stupid content into wliich I had 
 fallen, to show me emphatically that I must follow the 
 career he had designed for me. The words he had 
 written so many years before sounded in my ears like 
 the blast of a trumpet calling me to immediate action. 
 
 « I must begin now," I cried ; "I will begin at once. 
 The power within me is not dead ; it only sleeps, and it 
 will awaken at these loud demands. Oh, my father ! for- 
 give me. I have disobeyed you. For three long years 
 I have struggled with myself to kill my love for the 
 beautiful, to crush the natural desires of my soul. Once 
 
 "vm. 
 
8d THE KTOIiY OV AN KNTIU'STAST. 
 
 I tried to r.,ll(.w tlu-.n, au.l I w.s lluviirto.l, baffliul at 
 every turn, until I tLuuglit that in urd.-r t.. hvc and 
 save .ny r.ason 1 naist forgot the past and nutrk out a 
 r A lor n.y unwilling fe.t. W- ' to uuo t^J 
 
 they robl...d n.c of the treasure y-^;^"V'"Vl 1 d 
 picture that wouhl have been an .nspiration . If 1 h- d 
 had that always before lue, I eould not have iorgotten. 
 i:l;i;i.los^andinuvy never hud it. ^ot c. y^^ 
 but saerilieed, degraded by the natne of a --"- ^^^j 
 liut I will search for it ; 1 swear to you that 1 wdl search 
 
 for it until I lind it." ■ ■ e ,«,. 
 
 It seemed to me that 1 had reached the cr.sis of m 
 life; my -father's words sounded i.nperatively tout 
 urging n,e to action. Something n>ust be done, but 
 what ^ How could 1 change the routine of my life at a 
 moment's warning V I was in a fever of exciten.n 
 My eyes burned with scahling tears, my throat ^uu, 
 parched, n.y limbs tren.bling, as I paced the floor with 
 
 "^SltlHo to Mr. Lonely for advice. It was the 
 day that none, even though his need we^e t;r^"'^VP'-«- 
 sumed to intrude upon his seclusion. Hester knocked at 
 my door, and told me it was long past my dinner hour. 
 I said I was ill and could not eat ; she went away grum- 
 bling, and I resumed my anxious questioning. How 
 shall I be-nn? Once more I read my father's words, 
 p f ing t; reflect on my new resolution. "There is a 
 glorious career for me," I said to myself ; "my father 
 foresaw it. Only yesterday I scoffed at destiny I 
 scorned my old dreams, and called them illusions, childish 
 illnsions, now • sonl is full of them again There are 
 such things as ,enins, art, and glory ; my father speaks 
 of them from his grave, and 1 must seek for them. It 
 
 l ittmi 
 
<l.\sT. 
 
 DOItKTMKA. 
 
 89 
 
 varteil, haffloil ;it 
 (Icr to live iuul 
 iiiul niiirk out ii 
 1 to bliiiuc that 
 I U'I't iiu', oi" the 
 ition? If 1 liiwl 
 t have I'orgottoii. 
 Not only gone 
 ' a uunvnt'i" artist. 
 I that 1 will search 
 
 the crisis of my 
 pcrativi'ly to me, 
 uat be done, but 
 ne of my life at a 
 TV of excitement. 
 ■i, my throat was 
 jed the floor with 
 
 Ivice. It was the 
 id were great, pre- 
 Hester knocked at 
 it my dinner hour, 
 e went away gruni- 
 qnestioning. How 
 ny father's words, 
 tion. "There is a 
 lyself; "my father 
 [fed at destiny. I 
 m illusions, childish 
 1 again. There are 
 ; my father speaks 
 seek for them. It 
 
 is tlie inheritance he left nie ; he himself bequeathed to 
 me this longing of the soul, this desire that I cannot 
 kill. My i'allier! my latliev! 1 have been dull, sense- 
 less, deaf, blind ! l'>ut I will begin now to seek for truth ; 
 I will dev(jte the remainder of my life to the calling you 
 loved and vevereiuied." 
 
 With my impulsive nature, I was idways a slave to the 
 idea of the moment. I eould not wait calmly until the 
 next day to consult with my teacher. 1 felt an impera- 
 tive need to rush at once into action, to begin my new 
 career, to discard my old dnties, to leave my i)resent 
 course of studies and to plunge at once into my new life. 
 I'aris, my father's favorite haunts, his friends, the old 
 days as fresh and bemitiful as ever, all returned to mo 
 uit,h wonderfid vividness. The years between were 
 blotted out with one stroke, and no other life than that 
 of my childhood seemed possible to mc now. 
 
 I looked from the window ; alre;uly the day was gone. 
 The sun was throwing his last rays over the quiet 
 ehurch-yard ; a fresh breez(! bent the willows and poplars. 
 '• I will go out," I said. "The wind will cool my fever 
 and calm my troubled spirit." I rushed from the cot- 
 tage and hurried away over the desolate moor. In the 
 face of the wind, under the serene light of the stars, I 
 stormed over the hills and downs, imiielled by some 
 resistless power. At last, exhausted by my rapid walk, 
 my fasting, and my mental sutYering, 1 returned to the 
 cottage. The lights were tmt; all was silent. It was 
 past midnight. I had wandered for hours, and it seemed 
 as though I hatl been absent but a little time. 
 
 During my broken slumbers, suspended, as it were, 
 between sleeping and waking, a shadowy form seemed 
 to stand by my bed. It was my father, and, looking at 
 
 -~:^s^ m:t&!^^^ ^ss ^&&s s & ; ^ si. 
 
90 
 
 THK 8TOUY OK AN KNTHL'SIAST. 
 
 ,nc rcproacl. fully, he pointtnl into a mystm-ious dist.tuoi', 
 whero beamed a li^l.t I could not look ui-on. 1 tried to 
 kneel before hiui, to clasp and kias his hands, but he re- 
 pulsed me coldly, saying, ii. tones that chilled me, M 
 know you not; you ar. not my child." The,,, in an. 
 agony of grief, I awoke. My heart seemed to have 
 turned to stone ; groat drops of sweat rolled down my 
 face; I looked around wildly, -already the gray dawn 
 was creeping into my room. 
 
 At breakfast the curate perceived that I was in trou- 
 ble. My haggard face and disturbed manner betrayed 
 
 1T16 
 
 "What is the matter, Felix ? " he asked, kindly ; " are 
 
 you ill?" • f T 
 
 Leaving my food untouched, without answering liim, i 
 
 rose from the table, and, throwing myself on the sofa, I 
 covered my face and burst into tears. In every ex- 
 tremity of my life, tears have been the natural relief to 
 my overburdened lieait. 
 
 When I was calmer, :Mr. Lonely came and sat beside 
 me, and, putting his arm around me, he said, gently, 
 " Now, my dear boy, tell me your trouble." 
 
 I was ready to unburden my sutTering heart at the 
 first word of kindness, and like a freed torrent I began 
 pourin" rapi.Uy and half incoherently all the story of 
 my sorrows into his willing ears. I told him first of my 
 love for the wonderful picture, and its sacrifice, of my 
 desire to be an artist, of my efforts a few years before, 
 and of the dreadful check given to my childish aspira- 
 tions by my uncle, which resulted in my almost fatal 
 illness, and, since, how I had tried to forget it all and 
 to be happy in my new life. Then I laid the journal 
 before him. '' .See ! " I cried ; " there are bis own words, 
 
 iiiW iii Mf'in'' ii i'iy''^^^'^*''''''*''""''^*''''''' 
 
lAST. 
 
 tii'ious dist.iuoi', 
 poll. I trm\ to 
 ;iii(1h, 'out he re- 
 
 chilUul me, " I 
 ." Then, in an 
 jeemed to have 
 lolled down my 
 
 tho gray dawn 
 
 it I was in tron- 
 11 aimer betrayed 
 
 ed, kindly, "are 
 
 answering him, I 
 ilf on the sofa, I 
 I. In every ex- 
 natural relief to 
 
 le and sat beside 
 he said, gently, 
 lie." 
 
 •ing heart at the 
 , torrent I began 
 ' all the story of 
 Id him first of my 
 ts sacrifice, of my 
 few years before, 
 y childish aspira- 
 L my almost fatal 
 forget it all and 
 [ laid the journal 
 are his own words, 
 
 DOIIKTIIKA. 
 
 1>1 
 
 ;^ia»iii»rtWi«'mT>-ifffl-'i«ifM 
 
 written by his own hand. Ho says tliat I am to \w an 
 artist, and I must obey him. My guardians have no 
 right to prevent me; they should nut disivganl his 
 solemn commands. My father, my dear dea-l father, 
 speaks to me, and I know ho is listening in Ktermty lor 
 my answer, and my own soul urges me to b"gin. The 
 voice I heard so long has returned again — and repeats 
 over and over, ' Begin now, begin now.' " 
 
 "Try to be calm, Kelix, and listen to me," .said the 
 curate,' in a firm voice; "let me tell you a little of »/// 
 history, and then you may be better able to jmlgo 
 wheth'er it is right to become the slave of your desires, 
 to follow with heedless impetuosity tho wishes of your 
 own heart, while you disregard tho advice of those who 
 are interested in you." 
 
 « But my father ! It is my father I wish to obey ! 
 Surely, his last words to me should be sacred ! " I cried, 
 passionately. 
 
 " Yes ; a father's commands should be obeyed, but I 
 question whether the wishes of the dead should como 
 between us and our duty to the living. But let ine tell 
 you of the bitter punishment I have suffered for follow- 
 ing ray own headstrong will. Wlien I was of your age, I 
 too had my dreams and aspirations, and I had the same 
 vehement, impulsive nature. I loved art; my soul was 
 full of glowing fancies, of fame and future glory. I 
 was the youngest of three sous, and my father destined 
 me for the church. Early in my youth. I loved a dear 
 and gentle girl, the only child of the former rector of 
 Iladdingham, and we were betrothed. Although I knew 
 mv father's most sacred wish was to see me a pnest ot 
 the Most Higli, I went through my collegiate course 
 with the secret determination to follow my own ineli- 
 
 IRSSSSSSSS^^' 
 
<|'J TMK RTOUY OK AN KNTIII'HIAHT. 
 
 nation uiul booon..- an i.Hist as h..ou as 1 was Knuluat.-l. 
 About tbo tin... I liLisl..'.! n.y st...li.H ill <>xl..nl, tlu" 
 m-torof Ha.l.lin^'l.an. .ii.'.l an.l l.-ft his dmiKlit.-r poor 
 ,,„a ,a..nc iu U... wo.1.1. Tl... fovn.or Lord llanlmoor 
 who was a tVuMHl ..!■ my latluT. olT.Mv.l n... the living o 
 „,.l.linKhani if I wonhl lak.. o.-l-.s. My tutln«r urgnl 
 unci imi.h.n..!. an.l Mi.', joi.n.l Wv K.-ntU- .nln"at,..s to 
 bis for th." Poc^r gill was obli«...l to aoeq.t the situation 
 of Kovcn.oss in a hirt,'o family ; but 1 wonhl lisfn t., no 
 arK'Uinent in favor of th.- .•huirh. I was obstinately vf 
 Bolvod to follow my own .■air..,., altl.ongh fortnn. s.-ome. 
 to smile on mo by off.-rinK n..- an exeel lent living at 
 once. I couM have married Alice ami settle.l .h.wn to a 
 useful, hapi-v life, but I was possesse.! witli my idea, ami 
 would neither listen to the voice of reason or the de- 
 maiKls of my own heart. 1 refused to take (U'ders, and 
 in direct opposition to my father, I went to London an.l 
 beL'au mv art studies with a .udebrated painter. A year 
 passed away in my beloved pursuit, and 1 was making 
 rapid strides in my profession. I wrote trequcnt glow- 
 ing letters to Alice, telling her of my bright hopes and 
 the proud position T should soon have to olTer her. ller 
 letters to me, although outwardly cheerful, had an u.i- 
 dertonoof sadness and weariness; but I, m my selhsh 
 occupation, di.l not see that the poor child was killing 
 herself with her arduous duties. One day I received a 
 letter from my father, the first for many months, telling 
 me that Alice was ill and to hasten to her with all possi- 
 ble speed. I was just tiiiishing my Academy picture; 
 and if I left it, 1 could not exhibit it that year. With a 
 heartlessness that I cannot now understand, I remaimnl 
 two days after receiving that letter, in order to complete 
 iny work, lint when T reached her, I was too late — she 
 
 l iA ii ji i 
 
 ■ fi^dt Ju i^ WN Bi iijM»M I1| iiil l i ' ^ i-i ^itf— 
 
ilAHT. 
 
 I \v:lH ^{I'illlUilttMl. 
 
 i III Oxi'.inl, till' 
 ,S llilUKl'ttT li<>«'>' 
 
 Lord Ilanliuoor, 
 iiu! till! liviiiK' of 
 My liitht'i- ur^'ftl 
 itlc fulri'iitica to 
 ('lit the Hituation 
 koiilil listen to no 
 :iis obstinuti'ly n;- 
 irli fortune HftMUtMl 
 xcellent living at 
 settled down to a 
 with my idea, and 
 reason or the ile- 
 ) take orders, and, 
 'lit to London and 
 I painter. A year 
 iiid I was making 
 ite freijuent glow- 
 bright hopes and 
 toolTerher. Her 
 leerful, had an un- 
 lit I, in my selfish 
 !• cliiUl was killing 
 ) day I received a 
 my months, telling 
 ) her with all possi- 
 Aoademy picture ; 
 that year. With a 
 I'rstand, I remained 
 n order to complete 
 was too late — ahe 
 
 ItOUKTIIKA. 
 
 98 
 
 had heon dead soiiu' hours. My refusal to coiiu' to her 
 UiUeil her; her gnitle heart broke under the cruel blow. 
 Here," h« said, taking my liand, and leading me to tho 
 picture over tlie mantel-piece, '• lii're is my last work. I 
 painted it from memory after lier death ; llieii I mado a 
 grand holocaust of everything pertaining to my art 
 studies, my Academy picture and all, and strewed the 
 ashes on her grave. Vour uncle, who. in the meantime, 
 had decided to take tin- living I iiail refused, needed 
 a curate. My ambition was buried with her, and 
 1 had no other wish than to live out my few and evil 
 uays near her last resting-place; therefore I took urilers 
 at once, and accepted your uncle's offer. For tifteen 
 years I have buried my.self here, and I liave wet every 
 blade of grass on her grave with my tears of repentance. 
 Now," he cried, grasping my hand passionately, his face 
 pale and stern, and his eyes full of gloomy sorrow, '• now 
 that 1 have told you of my folly, will thv. punishment I 
 have suH'ered serve as a warning to you ? or do you still 
 think it best to carry out your own iilans, in deliauce of 
 all advice to the contrary." 
 
 "I do," I replied, firmly. "It is not only my own 
 desire, but the cherished wish of the one who had a 
 right to dispose of my future. I am not seltish in this. 
 There is no one living to sufTer from my resolution. It 
 concerns mo aloiu', and it was my father's dearest hope 
 on earth, aiul 1 feel that he knows to-day that I have not 
 regarded it. I am full of remorse for neglecting his 
 last wishes so long, and now, in spite of all opposition, 
 come what will, I must obey them." 
 
 "Well, I cannot control you in this matter, nor do I 
 wish to. You must do as your own conscience and your 
 guardians' judgment dictate. Neither can I advise you 
 
 ..^ iHi feiixUt l ttJJgJg' 
 
94 
 
 THE STORY OK AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 
 or help you. The whole subject is hateful to me, and 1 
 l.e<' of you never to mention it to me M<,';un. Ami never 
 let' me see lu.y of the apparatus of the profession. I 
 have a horror of everything pertainin- to it. The smell 
 of paint overcomes me completely. It unnerves me. It 
 is a weakness I will admit, hut I cainiot help it. One 
 who had murdered a fellow-creature would not lik(> 
 to see the weapon he had committed the crime 
 
 with." 
 
 "I understand you, sir," I said, ctldly, for I was bit- 
 terly disappointed that he had failed me in this extrem- 
 ity. " You mean that yon will have nothing to do with 
 this matter, that I am not to come to you for advice or 
 assistance in carrying out my plans, and that you will 
 not allow me to paint under ye;ir roof." 
 
 "Yes; I mean that exactly, and, now that we under- 
 stand each other, we will not refer to the subject again. 
 Tn everything else I am your best friend; and," he 
 added, more gently, " I am truly sorry that I cannot 
 
 help you now." 
 
 "Since you cannot, I must see Lord Hardmoor at 
 once," I replied, firmly. "Tliere is no time to lose." 
 And without another word I left the cottage, and hurried 
 through the park to Hardmoor Hall. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Lord Hart>moor had just finished his last cup of tea, 
 and was looking over the Tivu-s, when I entered the 
 breakfast-room, my face flushed, my manner hurried and 
 
 excited. 
 
 " What now ? " he asked, looking up with some sur- 
 prise. " You enter like a whirlwind." 
 
 I. 
 
 <' i ll)I ii m i n i il<i** i wi* «i ' ii'»i "''' i '''i i '' i " 
 
ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 is liiitcful to me, and 1 
 [) mo a<,';uii. Ami never 
 s of tlK' profession. I 
 aining to it. The smell 
 y. It unnerves me. It 
 I cannot help it. One 
 reature would not like 
 committed the crime 
 
 d, ccldly, for I was bit- 
 ailed me in this extrem- 
 have nothing to do with 
 me to you for advice or 
 plans, and that you will 
 ir roof." 
 
 and, now that we under- 
 ifer to the subject again, 
 r best friend; and," he 
 ■uly sorry that I cannot 
 
 see Lord Hardmoor at 
 ere is no time to lose." 
 t the cottage, and hurried 
 Hall. 
 
 uished his last cup of tea, 
 VIC'S, when I entered the 
 d, my manner hurried and 
 
 Qoking up with some sur- 
 .•Iwiud." 
 
 DOHIOTHKA. 
 
 05 
 
 «I wish to see you alone, sir," I replied, in a resolute, 
 
 strident voice. 
 
 Dorothea glanced at me uneasily, and Lady Hardmoor 
 
 said : — i • i 
 
 "Why, Felix, you seem troubled. Has anything hap- 
 pened?" 
 
 "Nothing of importance to any one but myself, 
 I returned, curtly. "I wish to see my guardian 
 
 alone." 
 
 "Very well," said Lord PLardmoor, laying down his 
 paper reluctantly. " Since your business is so impera- 
 tive, come into my study, and I will hear what you have 
 
 to say." 
 
 Scarcely was the door closed upon us, when I opened 
 my father's journal, and, pointing to the passages I had 
 marked, I said : — 
 
 "Head this, please, and then you will understand my 
 father's Avishes regarding my future." 
 
 Lord Hardmoor read the brief sentences with a 
 flushed, uneasy face; and when he had finished, he laid 
 the book down, saying, nervously : — 
 " Well, what next ? " 
 
 He evidently wished to appear cool and indifferent, 
 but I coidd detect an inward anxiety. 
 
 "First,* you see, sir, that what I told you about the 
 picture was correct ; that it was a llaphael. And you 
 have sacrificed it," I replied, bitterly, "and not only 
 deprived me of a treasure, but you have injured the 
 reputation of the picture by ascribing it to some other 
 
 artist." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, Felix! don't repeat that again. A 
 Raphael ! Why, it is simply absurd ! I tell you it was 
 one of your father's foolish ideas, but his thinking so 
 
 jii il Lirmir" i r"'-'-^-'- « ■!■ ~.<.t«a«» . ■- 
 
 -W' 
 
 rs msm v mxiva^! h j^jn^^^s^m ^,ij A^iS": vx u gyg 
 
96 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 
 did not make it so. It did not even sell as an original 
 Mantegna, but as a copy." 
 
 "Do you know who bought it?" I asked, trembling 
 with indignation at his contempt of my father's opin- 
 
 ion 
 
 "No. How should 1 ? I tlid not conduct the sale." 
 "Then you will nuike no ettort to recover it? " 
 "rooh'l pooh ! don't be a child, llecover it, indeed! 
 
 Why, every trace of it was lost years ago ! " 
 
 "Well, it does not matter. If I live T will find it, 
 
 even though I spend my life and fortune to recover it," 
 
 I replied, resolutely. , -rr i 
 
 " Is that all you wish to say to me ? " and Lord Hard- 
 moor got up as though he thought the conference wcs 
 
 at an end. 
 
 " No, sir. I came to tell you that I wish to begin my 
 art studies, which were interrupted so unfortunately four 
 
 years ago." . 
 
 "Good Heavens ! don't start that subject again. You 
 know what we think of it, and you remember what it 
 led to once. I thought you had grown sensible and 
 dropped that absurd fancy." 
 
 " It is not an absurd fancy to me," I replied, firmly. 
 " It was my father's wish. Therefore it is sacred." 
 
 "Your father did not understand as well as we do 
 what is best for you. Your uncle and I have other plans 
 for you, and I beg of you not to refer to your father s 
 visionary schemes again. He was a good man, but he 
 was not practical, and he nearly ruined himself with his 
 fantastic ideas. We want you to be a sensible, useful 
 man : to devote your youth to proper studies and your 
 maturity to your estate, which your father sadly 
 neglected. We mean to act for your best interest, and 
 
 ijlHiu.miiiirtiiii'liiiiiai 
 
8IA«T. 
 
 11 as aa original 
 
 asked, trembling 
 ny father's opin- 
 
 luluct the sale." 
 
 cover it ? " 
 
 jcover it, indeed ! 
 
 tgo!" 
 
 /e T will find it, 
 
 le to recover it," 
 
 " and Lord Hard- 
 le conference wcs 
 
 wish to begin my 
 unfortunately four 
 
 bject again. You 
 remember what it 
 own sensible and 
 
 ' I replied, firmly. 
 
 it is sa(!red." 
 
 as well as we do 
 
 1 have other plans 
 !• to your father's 
 
 good man, but he 
 id himself with his 
 ! a sensible, useful 
 r studies and your 
 rour father sadly 
 ■ best interest, and 
 
 DOllKTHEA. 
 
 I'T 
 
 it is n.ost annoying to find you always opposmg out 
 views. Now, go back to your lessons, and see if you 
 lan't get ovJ this new access of folly." And Lord 
 Hardmoor went to his desk, and began turning over some 
 papers, to remind me that the interview was over, and 
 
 he wished to be alone. . , , • „f„ 
 
 I could not endure this cool dismissal, and my impetu- 
 ous temper broke all bounds. I was fearfully in earnest, 
 and this trifiing evasion of the subject maddened me. 
 Starting to my feet, 1 cried, in a voice that trembled in 
 soite of my effort to control it, " Lord Hardmoor, I am 
 .0 longer a child, and I will not be treated as one 
 I know my own mind. I am in earnest, and I will not be 
 thwarted and opposed. I remember all that Dr Lang- 
 ham said three years ago, when my uncle's cruelty and 
 your severity drove me almost to death, or worse - o 
 insanity You have not forgotten wliat the doctor told 
 vou then I know you remember it, because your treat- 
 ment since has been considerate and kind. I escaped a 
 terrible fate then, but I have lived and recovered my 
 heat' only to continue the struggle that I was then oo 
 weak to endure; and I implore you not to make it too 
 severe for me. I shall never appeal to my uncle. You 
 al-Ithe only one whose counsel and assistance I can ask 
 If you refuse to listen to me, I shall disobey you and 
 defy you. You cannot imprison either my body or my 
 soul I shall break my bonds and leave England or- 
 ever I will go to Paris and put myself under Ure protec- 
 tion"of my father's friends, who will help me because of 
 
 their love for him." 
 
 "There, that will do," Miterrupted Lord Hardmooi^ 
 sternly. "You are hot-headed and unreasonable. I 
 only want you to listen to common-sense. God knows 1 
 
 ■lilJMBiia i lf i tiffl i Wi'l l 
 
 ' ^v»"'i"<4 ' fe4iai-tteM,yiai-Uig.iiw-'^ ' i'" i' g ' ' *' ^ 
 
98 
 
 TIIK STOKY OK AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 don't want to be severe with you. I was cured of tliat 
 when you were ill; but I want to do what is best for 
 your future happiuoss. I think you are too young to go 
 abroad to study, even if I were disposed to consent to 
 such a step. Now, let us try to settle our differences 
 sensibly. In two years you will finish your course of 
 classics with ^Ir. Lonely, and then you can do as you 
 please Until that time, if you wish to paint, and will 
 not allow it to interfere with your other studies, I will 
 do all I can to give you a chance." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, thank you," I cried, clasping his 
 hand eagerly and gratefully. 
 
 « There, there, young volcano, calm yourself, he saul, 
 withdrawing his hand half angrily, half gently, "and 
 don't be so delighted because you have had your own 
 way You are the most impulsive creature I ever saw. 
 For heaven's sake, learn to control yourself if you don t 
 want to appear ridiculous." 
 
 " I am so glad, so grateful to you," I replied, humbly, 
 and half ashamed of showing what I felt. " Biit where 
 can I study ? ^Ir. Lonely is not willing that 1 shoukl 
 work in the cottage." 
 
 "What objection can he have if you confine your 
 daubing to your own room?" asked Lord Hardmoor, 
 
 impatiently. .,, v i 
 
 " He says the smell of paint makes him ill ; he does 
 not like it, and I should not wish to make him unconx- 
 
 fortable." , 
 
 "Oh, I remember there was a story of his killing that 
 poor girl by taking up art, and leaving her to work 
 herself to death, when he might have married her and 
 had the living of Haddingham. Remorse, insteac of the 
 smell of paint, I fancy. I don't wonder he dislikes it. 
 
 i Wimm i t i wrtif- i I '' ' ''"^'" """" 
 
 HHiMtli pi i 
 
IST. 
 
 cured of that 
 hat is best for 
 JO you'.ig to go 
 L to consent to 
 our differences 
 your course of 
 can do as you 
 paint, and will 
 ' studies, I will 
 
 d, clasping his 
 
 irself," he said, 
 f gently, "and 
 e had your own 
 ture I ever saw. 
 3lf if you don't 
 
 •oplied, humbly, 
 t. " liut where 
 IS that 1 should 
 
 )u confine your 
 Lord Hardmoor, 
 
 him ill ; he does 
 lake him uncom- 
 
 ' his killing that 
 Qg her . to work 
 married her and 
 56, instead of the 
 ler he dislikes it. 
 
 DOIIKTIIKA. 
 
 99 
 
 You see what a pretty mess h.-'s inado of his life, and 
 I'd advise you to take warning by it'." 
 
 "I will try to please you. You'll not have cause to 
 complain of me," 1 said, contritely, "if you will only 
 think of some place where I can study, and set apart 
 some time, with Mr. Lonely's approval, - that I can 
 
 be sure of.' „ 
 
 «I don't know of any place that you can have for 
 your exclusive use, except that little lodge at the east 
 gate. It's near the cottage, and there's a good window 
 in it You can have your traps there, and use it when 
 vou like. I'll have it put in order for you. Give me a 
 list of artist's materials, and I will order them from 
 town Now, let's have no more nonsense. Go to your 
 books like a sensible boy, and when you are older and 
 disgusted with your youthful fancies, you wdl see that 
 I was not so far wrong in discouraging thom. 
 
 I went back to my lessons quite satisfied. Mr. Lonely 
 did not inquire as to the result of my interview with 
 Lord Hardmoor, but one rapid glance at my contented 
 fa^e explained as well as words could have done that the 
 matter was settled to my satisfaction. 
 
 When the little rustic lodge, with its pointed roof and 
 octagon walls, was in order, and my easel set up, my 
 paints and brushes neatly arranged, I was more than 
 satisfied. Lady Har<lmoor was greatly interested, and 
 she and Dorethea insisted on hanging some pretty 
 draperies about, and arranging a few pieces of antique 
 furniture and scraps of old china in the most artistic 
 way. At last, when everything was ready and I wa^ 
 fairly at work with Dorethea's pretty face for a mode , 
 I felt that every ambition and hope was about to be tul- 
 filled, and that my father looked on with approval from 
 his home above. 
 
 ■ ■ g ^jjSas ' i!.Mt!^.MJilttW)jife ' JJW 
 
100 
 
 THE STOIIY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 This sudden moriil awaki-niiig added years tj ray 
 hitliei'to childish character, I became serious, thought- 
 ful, almost reverential in my devotion to my duties. I 
 felt the solemn responsihility of taking my destiny in 
 my own hands as it were, and tried by every means to 
 make the most of life and its opjiortunities. I was 
 strictly conscientious in keeping my promise to Lord 
 Hardmoor, and never allowed the time I devoted to 
 painting to interfere with my other studies. Mr. Lonely 
 was quite satisfied with tlie progress I made in classics, 
 and Lady Hardmoor and Dorethea were enthusiastic 
 over my pictures. 
 
 The dear little maiden was very clever in devising a 
 variety of subjects in " still-life " for my pencil. There 
 was a collection of rare bronzes and casts at the Hall, 
 which Lord Hardmoor objected to having disturbed, but 
 Dorethea, with her persuasive ways, soon overcame his 
 scruples, and one by one some very serviceable models 
 found their way to my little den. 
 
 There was one thing 1 particularly coveted as a study. 
 It was a cast of a grotesque mask taken from one of the 
 friezes by Sansovino in the Ductal I'alace at Venice. It 
 hung over an arch leading to the main stairway. 
 
 " I asked papa if yon might use it," said Dorethea, one 
 day, when we were discussing its merits, " and he said 
 he would rather not have it disturbed ; however, if you 
 are patient I think I can get his consent to take it down. 
 You know I can do anything with papa; he never re- 
 fuses what I really wish." 
 
 " It would be impossible for any one to refuse you a 
 favor," I said, looking at her admiringly, she was growing 
 so tall and maidenly ; " but don't insist on having it, 
 D ;r?thea, for I would rather paint your face again." 
 
 
 ■W ii8 i j fiJ i n !»i lM # W*' t I'q »»t'M?i»«g g ^ 
 
 '^^m. ijiiLM)iu.iiiMm«mm^^iimk' ' 
 
SIAST. 
 
 DOKKTIIKA. 
 
 101 
 
 1(1 years tj ray 
 serious, thought- 
 ;o my duties. I 
 g my destiny iu 
 every menus to 
 tuuities. I was 
 romise to Lord 
 e I devoted to 
 ies. Mr. Lonely 
 iiade iu classics, 
 ere enthusiastic 
 
 3r in devising a 
 y pencil. There 
 sts at the Hall, 
 ig disturbed, but 
 on overcame his 
 iviceable models 
 
 veted as a study, 
 from one of the 
 e at Venice. It 
 itairway. 
 lid Dorethea, one 
 ;s, "and he said 
 ; however, if you 
 t to take it down, 
 pa; he never re- 
 
 to refuse you a 
 , she was growing 
 ist on having it, 
 
 face again." 
 
 <'0h, no," she said, gravely, "you must change. It's 
 not good to work on one subjtMit too much ; papa says 
 one gets Umiti-d. You (iufj;ht to make some copies from 
 tlie best pictures at tiie Hall ; papa says it would help you 
 with color, and give you breadth." 
 
 I was delighted at the suggestion. Lord Hardmoor, 
 in spite of his opposition to my making art a profession, 
 was deeply interested in all that pertained to it, had a 
 fine collection, and was considered quite an authority on 
 old painters, and had written several very readable 
 papers on the subject, but 1 had little confidence in his 
 opinion or knowledge since he had not recognized a work 
 of Raphael when he saw it. 
 
 One glowing day iu June — I remember it so well, it 
 is another picture of my youth that will never grow dim — 
 through the open door of the lodge I saw a long vista 
 of grand old trees gilded fresh with the matchless rays 
 of a summer sun. Tall clumi)S of marguerites and 
 flaming scarlet poppies stood like clusters of pearls ami 
 rubies among the emerald grass, and across a break in 
 the mass of verdure the river flashed and danced, lightly 
 uplifting the white-sailed boats that were jiassing to 
 and fro. 
 
 It is an excpiisite scene, it is full of light and color. 
 I will make a study of it. And straightway I wheeled 
 my easel into position and began sketching rapidly, 
 when, without the least warning, a merry laugh fell on 
 my ear, and, looking up, I saw the slim figure of Dorethea, 
 her nmslin frock, her fluttering ribbons, her graceful 
 arms uplifted ; but the golden head and laughing face 
 were concealed by the grotesque grinning mask she held 
 before her. 
 
 " Oh, you darling! " J cried, startled and pleased at the 
 
 -'i>jj ii ijij*» 'I 
 
 ! !{HWfe«« i i2K'a>a»iaiBWMi< ' ;a«SM^^ ■< jm 
 
 MtBWlj-WWi. ' A ' .''i 
 
102 
 
 TIIK Sl'OKY OK AN KN TIIUSI AST. 
 
 same time. " I see you liiivo had your way, as usiiii', ami 
 the poor old IJaochanto has had to oonu' (U)\vii rroiii liis 
 lii^'h position to cover your pretty Taec, so that 1 sliall 
 not be dazzled by seein.t,' its brii^htiiess too suddenly." 
 
 "Well! well! a line speeeli I'roni a lad to a little 
 maiden of twelve," said I-nnl I lanlnioor. appearing in the 
 door much to my eonfu-inn. '■ Til avow when I was of 
 your age 1 was not so ready with my tongue. lUit don't 
 Hatter the child ; she is 8i)oiled now ; she has not only 
 succeeded in getting the mask down, but she has nuide 
 me fetch it all the way from the Hall, to assist her in 
 acting her little comedy. ' Lord ! what fools we mortals 
 be.' " 
 
 " It's delightful ! It's charming for a picture," I cried. 
 " Oh, Dorothea ! please don't move; i)ray stand as you 
 are for a few moments, and 1 will make a little study 
 of you." 
 
 Lord Hardmoor watched me while, with considerable 
 skill, I rapidly drew the salient points of the quaint 
 composition, and, when I relieved Dorothea from her 
 fatiguing position, he clapped me heartily on the 
 shoulder, and said : " Excellent, my dear boy ; you've got 
 talent, there's no doubt of it. It couldn't be better 
 done." 
 
 These first words of praise from Lord Hardmoor filled 
 me with joy; and Dorethea clung to her father's neck, 
 aud almost smothered him with kisses. 
 
 •X. 
 
 The next two years were very happy, peaceful years, 
 and in every way satisfactory as far as my progress in 
 my studies was concerned. Every day my intercourse 
 
 ■aWJ l iMMI'lill^.MW t ' li Wt i 
 
 W i W i>#ltoa*J fee«^^*'a***w'^ - 
 
I AST. 
 
 ly, aausiiii', and 
 down riDiu hin 
 so tli.it 1 shall 
 (o suddenly." 
 lad to a littlo 
 apix'aring in the 
 when I was ol' 
 ij^uc. lUit don't 
 ic has not only 
 t sho has niado 
 to assist her in 
 fools we mortals 
 
 |)icture," I cried. 
 iiy stand as you 
 e a little study 
 
 ith considerable 
 i of the quaint 
 rethea from her 
 lieartily on the 
 :• l)oy ; you've got 
 luldu't be better 
 
 Hard moor tilled 
 n- father's neck, 
 
 ', peaceful years, 
 
 my progress in 
 
 r my intercourse 
 
 DORKTHKA. 
 
 ion 
 
 with the curate became more intimate. .Mthough the 
 subject of art was never mentioned between u.s, h<) 
 strictly respected the hours that I was in the habit of 
 devoting to it. And I, on tlu; other hand, tried to pre- 
 vent him from feeling that my mind was occupied with 
 any other subject beside my books. 
 
 Hy rising at dawn I always managed to have i)erfect 
 recitations, as well as my usual time for exercise and 
 recreation. Nor were our pleasant evenings interrupted ; 
 we had our (piict intellectual feasts, our music and chess, 
 and nothing of moral, mental, or physi.'al training was 
 neglected, while I was making fair [.rogress m my art 
 studies. Although I felt the need of teachers and 
 models, and sometimes groped blindly after the truth, 
 yet I was doing the best I could under the circumstances, 
 and that made me happy and contented. 
 
 The winter that completed my nineteenth year was 
 ushered in with a succession of wild storms, that drove 
 the swollen river over its banks until the water covered 
 Alice's grave, and crept even to our cottage door. The 
 winds moaned ominously, the air was heavy with chill- 
 ing mists that swept ghost-like over the moors, hiding 
 the distant hills in an impenetrable veil, and shutting 
 out every glimpse of sky for days together. 
 
 One night a large ship from some foreign port drifted 
 on the rocks at the entrance of the harbor, and the next 
 morning the sands were strewn with dead bodies together 
 with the dehris of the wreck. 
 
 As soon as it was known, the lower class of the village 
 hastened to the spot in order to secure what booty they 
 could before the underwriters from London arrived to 
 take charge of the property cast up by the ruthless 
 waves, 
 
 mMi/miili» i li^ 'i ''^ i '' < >i l ii^^ '' 
 
 >•»'l^^lUi^ ^ mJml! l ll l :l' s mmlm3e ! m« l a! l 'sJ»t' " 
 
 -«SSP 
 
104 
 
 TliK HTOUY OF AN K.NTHUSIAMT. 
 
 Mr. Lonely was also among tlio first to visit, tlio sceiif 
 of till) (lisastiT; hi.s duty was to sco that the bodies were 
 interrtnl with suital)le religious ritea, and for several 
 days lie was absent iiuist of the time on his melaucholy 
 mission. 
 
 " I foresee a terrible calamity in this," he said, one 
 eveninj,', with a weary sigh, "for I am convinced, of the 
 nine dead bodies washed ashore, seven or eight, at the 
 time of their (hMth, were ill with some dreadful disease. 
 Dr. liaiigham has examined them, as well as the other 
 physicians about here, and all agree that they were in 
 the dilTereiit stages of an infectious fever, and it is my 
 opinion that there were not enough well men to manage 
 the ship, which accounts for her being out of her course, 
 her total wreck, and the loss of every soul on board. 
 Now, these poor dishonest creatures who have secreted 
 this infected booty, Avhat a horrible punishment is in 
 store for them, for without a doubt this disease will 
 spread over the whole population, and will be doubly 
 fatal because of their poverty and the severity of the 
 winter." 
 
 " Oh, how terrible ! " I cried ; " can nothing be done to 
 keep them away from the wreck ? " 
 
 " It is now too late ; hundreds of them were doubtless 
 infected before they had the least intimation of their 
 danger. My dear boy," he .added, after a few moments 
 of deep thought, "1 think you must leave me; for, if my 
 fears should prove true, my duty will take me constant- 
 ly among these suffering creatures, and I do not wish to 
 expose you to danger from contact with me." 
 
 " Uh, Mr. Lonely ! " I cried, earnestly, " don't speak of 
 my leaving you. T can't ; indeed I can't. Do you think 
 1 am so weak and cowardly as to desert you when you 
 
 - v^*sKW'*»*A*il'"*-**'''*'''* ' >'*W'*' 
 
 MtejBii^!e?**«Nte^ »*^^ 
 
lUrtlAUT. 
 
 b to visif, UiO scene 
 liat the bodies weri' 
 'S, and for several 
 on his niohiuclioly 
 
 this," he said, ont- 
 1 (ionvinccd, of tlie 
 >n or eight, at tin- 
 le dreadful disease. 
 I well as the other 
 I that they were in 
 ever, and it is my 
 rell men to manage 
 g out of her course, 
 /ery soul on board, 
 who have secreted 
 e punishment is in 
 t this disease will 
 uul will be doubly 
 the severity of the 
 
 I nothing be done to 
 
 ;hem were doubtless 
 intimation of their 
 Fter a few moments 
 eave me ; for, if my 
 1 take me constant- 
 nd I do not wish to 
 ,ith me." 
 
 ;tly, " don't speak of 
 lau't. Do you think 
 ;sert you when you 
 
 DOKKTIIKA. 
 
 105 
 
 need me, when you are in danger V If there is work for 
 you, there is also work for me, and there is nothing 
 so bad that I can't share it witli you." 
 
 " My brave, true boy I (Jod bless you ! 1 f yonr heart 
 tells you to stay, do so, and we will try to do our duty, 
 trusting in the only help we can salVly rely upon." 
 
 It was as he feared. Before a fortnight ha.l passed the 
 pestilence stalked abroad at noonday, and hundreds of 
 the poor villagers were stricken down like flax belore a 
 tire There was a fearful panic ; every one wlio could 
 h.ave the infected spot fled as though a demon pursued 
 him. The Rectory was closed, and my uncle, with his 
 family, took refuge in the next county, never thinking of 
 me in his hurried departure. Lord Hardnioor, after 
 vainly trying to induce me to accompany him, left with. 
 Lady Hardmoor and Dorethea for London, where he 
 said he should remain until every trace of the pestilence 
 had vanished. 
 
 So, deserted by all but old Hester, Mr. Lonely and I 
 stood faithfully at our post in the plague-stricken village 
 distributing the medicine, food, and fuel which Lord 
 Hardmoor had generously provided for our use. 
 
 What scenes of pitiful distress we witnessed as we 
 went from cottage to cottage, where the sufferers lay 
 deserted by all save the doctors and a few heroic soids, 
 who counted their lives as nothing if they could allevi- 
 ate the agony of the dying or soothe and comfort the 
 
 living. , 
 
 Nearly every hour the church-yard gates were opened, 
 and another weary sufferer went to his last resting-place, 
 while Mr. Lonely stood with uncovered head beside the 
 row of new-made graves and read the burial-service lu 
 clear, unfaltering tones. 
 
 ■ n «ii jJi W> i i i i mud i iWi>» iii >iw»W »' m'« i! »" ' .tf ■ "I ' ■- '"'-.*'■ 
 
io(; 
 
 TIIK ST(»ltY OK AN KNTIIl'SI AST. 
 
 AI'tiT some \v(M<ks of (Irciidful morttility, tho fury of 
 tlic lu'stilfiicf iibiitt'd. 'riiiTti wiTo fewer new cases each 
 (lay, ami many were not fatal ; the weather was milder, 
 and a lonj,' thaw set tiie iee-luuind river free, lioatin^ 
 away on its hoHoni many of tliu impurities that had 
 gathered around it. 
 
 One evening Mr. Lonely eanie home from a h\irial-ser- 
 vico (luite late, lie .seemed very weary, hut more hope- 
 ful. "Thiink (Jod." he said, as he threw himself in his 
 arm-ehair, "tlien-are no new ea.sea to-day. How com- 
 fortable it is here. How sweet to rest after such painful 
 labor." JIo sat lor some time silent, with liis eyes elosed, 
 and, as I watelied him, I saw there were tears slowly 
 rolling down his i)ale, tired face. 
 
 • The Hre burned brightly, t^^he kettle hissed on the hob. 
 Hester had brought the tea, niitl 1 urged him to take 
 some. Smiling gently, he raised the cup to his lips, but 
 a deathly pallor passed over his face, and witliout drink- 
 ing he put it down. 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Lonely, are you ill ? " I cried, going quickly 
 to him, for I saw that he was suffering, and was trying 
 to conceal it from me. 
 
 "Don't be alarmed," he said, quite calmly. "Yes; I 
 think I am ill, but don't fret about it. Take care of 
 y(mrself, my dear boy. Oh, what a blessing you have 
 been to me. I am very tired, I need rest — a long, long 
 rest." And, still smiling, he held out his hands. "Help 
 me to bed. Felix, it is well with me. But you — you 
 — I can only give you into God's care." 
 
 I put my arm around him, and led him to his room, 
 my heart sinking and njy limbs trembling. When I had 
 assisted him to undress and lie down, I hastened to de- 
 spatch Hester for Dr. Langham, saying, « Run quickly. 
 
 . 4^i^»w i tf M C 't WM l MM»W. i WWW 1 ilW^ 
 
 ~;(^JKBf*K1BBilPR"^^^ 
 
'HI AST. 
 
 vlit.y, tho fury of 
 •r luiw c;i8i'8 t'lK'li 
 itlicr was luiltltT, 
 iver fi'cp, lloiitiiij^ 
 ui'itica tliiit hud 
 
 from a Imrial-ser- 
 ', l)\it juort! liope- 
 \v hiinsclf in his 
 (lay. How eoiii- 
 iftcr S'lcli [jaiiifiil 
 Ji his eyes iiloscd, 
 vere tears slowly 
 
 lisst'd on the hob. 
 rgpd him to take 
 up to his lips, but 
 lid witliout drink- 
 
 ied, going quickly 
 g, and was trying 
 
 calmly. "Yes; I 
 it. Take care of 
 jlessing you have 
 est — a long, long 
 Ills hands. "Help 
 . But you — you 
 
 him to his room, 
 ling. When I had 
 I hastened to de- 
 iig, "Run quickly. 
 
 IJOUKTIIK.V. 
 
 107 
 
 'I'lll the d(H'tnr Mr. Lonely is vtry ill ar.d tu vuuW ^vith 
 
 1 S|>l't'(l." 
 
 For four day.s and nights T never left him. Sitting by 
 liis bed, 1 watched the .steady progress of the blighting 
 di.seaso. From the first we knew there was no hope ; the 
 fever Ininied steadily and fierrely until lie hank into a 
 heavy .stupor, from which he oidy awoke for a lew mo- 
 ments to partial consciousness. 
 
 The fourth night I knew the end was near, heoaiise 
 his hand, which seemed to cling to mine, grew cold and 
 (lamp in my clasp, and a mist settled over his mournful 
 eyes. Fmm time to time, he murmured broken sen- 
 tences. Once he said, in a low, pathetic voice, " Alice, 
 am I changed so that you do not know mt; V " Then, 
 after a moment, he cried, anxiously, "Give Betty Link a 
 cup of wat(!r." 
 
 For an horn- he breathed so softly th^'t I thought he 
 was over all pain. A deep silence, solemn, oppressive, 
 tilled the room. Day was breaking, and its ghostly 
 light crept slowly over the still, white face. Suddenly 
 he opened his eyes, — those beautiful, sad eyes, — and, 
 lifting his hand, he said, emphatically, "The flowers from 
 her dust will blossom in eternity." After that, he lay 
 lierfectly quiet, until a bright ray of sunlight darted 
 between the curtains and shone like a halo of glory over 
 his head. He evidently felt the soft (caress of the new- 
 born day, for, looking up, his wide eyes full of mystic 
 light, he said, "It is sunri.so." Then the lids fell over 
 the windows of his sold forever, and I stood alone in the 
 cold presence of death while lie entered into eternal 
 morning. 
 
 T saw him laid beside Alice. The sun shone brightly 
 but coldly on the new mounds heiped here and there, on. 
 
tr 
 
 108 
 
 Til 10 STOllY Ob' AN KNI'MUSIAST. 
 
 tlie dancing river free frcn its ioy fetters, ar.il on ll.c 
 narrow slab that marked tlie spot of his buried love. A 
 curate from the nearest parish read the solemn service 
 hurriedly, trembling with fear and cold. The old sexton 
 and myself were the only mourners, and I alone dropped 
 the last tear into his grave. Thank God that I was able 
 to show to the very last my love and reverence for him. 
 
 After all was over, 1 went back to the desolate cottage, 
 and, shutting myself in my room, I wept and prayed as 
 I never had before. I thought much of life, its duties, 
 its earnestness, and its solemnity. Another chapter of 
 my history closed with another loss, and again I was 
 alone, orphaned for the second time, listening for the 
 second time to this canticle of eternal sorrow sung 
 between the living and the dead. 
 
 After waiting for some weeks, to be sure that I was 
 free from infection, and until the pestilence had entirely 
 disappeared, I made a farewoil visit to my rustic studio, 
 went again to that place of silence and eternal repose, 
 to leave another tear on the grave of my friend and 
 teacher, and then turned my face toward London — to 
 begin a new era in my life. 
 
 »H5«-i:i^:>:*sS&r*«^f1»!Se«Bs?r»i3S(SfaeiSSiB^ 
 
 ih"^ 
 
N KN'I'HUSIAST. 
 
 its ioy fettt'i's, ar.J on llic 
 ipot of his buried love. A 
 1 read the solemn service 
 ' and cold. The old sexton 
 irners, and I alone dropped 
 Thank God that I was able 
 jve and reverence for him. 
 lack to the desolate cottage, 
 Dom, I wept and prayed as 
 it much of life, its duties, 
 mity. Another chapter of 
 her loss, and again I was 
 nd time, listening for the 
 e of eternal sorrow sung 
 }ad. 
 
 eks, to be sure that I was 
 the pestilence had entirely 
 il visit to my rustic studio, 
 silence and eternal repose, 
 e grave of my friend and 
 ' face toward London — to 
 
 PART III. 
 P O L O N /E. 
 
 u ^ jm^^^ ^ mm^^i ^isi^'^s^^t^sii^^nr 
 
 f - . g^ Ji^f i i j g jtiM i jBijl ^ F'tt a f I !!!; wtJ 
 
3!¥(!W«««ses*sfc 
 
 -j* ! lji!Si! f W.U i iaiM I IH* » fe>-'<'"g***> 
 
tART TIL 
 
 POLON.'K. 
 
 I. 
 
 It was nearly night when I reached Lord Hardmoor's 
 house in Berkeley Square. The servant wlio opened the 
 door informed me that the family were dressing for din- 
 ner and would be down shortly. 
 
 When I entered the large, dimly lighted drawing-room, 
 I thought it was quite empty, but I soon discovered a 
 little white figure almost buried in a large arm-chair 
 drawn before the fire. The opening of the door did not 
 disturb her, so I went softly forward and saw Doretliea 
 nestling there sound asleep, with a little dog that I had 
 given her clasped in her arms. 
 
 Silently I looked at the sweet sleeper. She had evi- 
 dently been fretting, for her face was pals and sad, and 
 more than once she sighed heavily, like a child that had 
 cried itself to sleep. While I looked at her, her pretty 
 lips parted, and between a sigh and a sob, she murmured 
 my name. 
 
 Unable to control my emotion, I bent over her, and 
 kissed her pretty golden head tenderly and reverently. 
 As I did so, one of my hot tears fell on her face and 
 awoke her. 
 
 She looked at me for an instant in bewildered sur- 
 prise ; then, springing forward, she clasped my neck, 
 crying, " Felix ! oh, Felix ! it is you, and you are here 
 
 111 
 
 aaM I «ia»W<>«MMSiW r 
 
 tftmntim m ti I > " ii.iWiaaiiiiiuim 
 
 MMMkc 
 
112 
 
 THR STOnV OF AN ENTHUSrAST. 
 
 alive and well. Oh, I am so thankful ! I feared yoi. were 
 ill, and perhaps dead, with that dreadful fever, and I 
 have cried so much." , • i 
 
 " My darling, God spared me," I said, kissing her 
 sweet face shyly and tremulously, my soul in a tumult 
 
 of wild joy. 
 
 « But you look pale and sad, and you are m mourning. 
 Oh, Felix, is Mr. Lonely — where is Mr. Lonely ? " 
 
 "Dorethea, Mr. Lonely is at rest forever, or I should 
 
 not be here." , , , i. 
 
 "At rest forever— then, he is dead," and she burst 
 into tears. " I loved him dearly, he Avas so gentle and 
 good. Oh, Felix dear, how you have suffered, and I not 
 there to help you." And, leaning her head on my shoul- 
 der, she wept bitterly, while I forgot my own sorrow, 
 trying to comfort her. 
 
 After awhile, she wiped away her tears resolutely, 
 and tried to smile, but her lips quivered as she said, "I 
 ought not to cry when you are safe, but it has been so 
 dreadful, this anxiety and suspense. The weeks since 
 we came up to town seem longer than all the rest of my 
 life. Well, it is over at last, and you are here, and 
 shall be happy again. I must run and tell papa 
 
 wc 
 
 and mama that you are come ; but, oh, Felix, T never 
 thought until this moment! — is there any danger in 
 your coming ? " 
 
 " Not the least, or I should not have come. 
 
 "Papa and mama are so afraid. AYhy, papa will not 
 allow a letter to be sent from the Hall." 
 
 "You need have no fear, Dorethea. I have taken 
 every precaution." 
 
 " Sit in this arm chair and rest while I go and tell 
 them ; you look very tired, but I shall take good care of 
 
SIAST. 
 
 [ feared yoi. were 
 ful fever, and I 
 
 said, kissing her 
 soul in a tumult 
 
 are in mourning, 
 r. Lon(;ly ? " 
 L-ever, or I should 
 
 ," and she burst 
 ras so gentle and 
 uffered, and I not 
 lead on my shoid- 
 my own sorrow, 
 
 tears resolutely, 
 sd as she said, " I 
 but it has been so 
 
 The weeks since 
 all the rest of my 
 ou are here, and 
 un and tell papa 
 h, Felix, I never 
 re any danger in 
 
 e come." 
 
 A'hy, papa will not 
 
 ?a. I liave taken 
 
 ^hile I go and tell 
 1 take good care of 
 
 I'OiiON/i:. 
 
 11:5 
 
 you now." Ami, with a luippy smile, she ran out of the 
 room, and I lieiird lier light steps fairly Hying up the 
 
 stairs. 
 
 A few moments later, Lord Hardmoor entered liur- 
 riedly, with a wild, frightened look. I went forward to 
 meet liim, but he waved me away, saying, " Don't, pray 
 don't come any nearer ! Good lieavens ! what possessed 
 you to come here ? Do you want to kill us all '! If 
 you intended coming, why didn't you h-t me know, so I 
 could have been prepared '.' '' 
 
 " I'ray, don't be alarmed, sir," I said, calmly ; " there 
 is no danger. There have been no new cases of the dis- 
 ease for over two weeks, and 1 have not been exjjosed to 
 it since Mr. Lonely died — nearly a month ago. Still, 
 if you wish me to, 1 will go away directly." 
 
 "Certainly, you must; 1 can't expose Lady Hardmoor 
 and Dorethea to such danger." 
 
 "I have already seen Dorethea; I found her here 
 when 1 came in." 
 
 "Yes, I know it, and it was most imprudent; but you 
 umst not go near her again — her mother is almost 
 insane with fear." 
 
 Disappointed and disgusted with his unreasonable 
 terror, I was about to leave, when suddenly an idea, 
 which seemed an inspiration, occurred to me. Taking 
 my hat, I turned towards the door, saying, " Very well. 
 Lord Hardmoor, since you wish me to go, I will go at 
 once, although I assure you your fears are groundless. 
 However, that doesn't matter. I have only a few words 
 to say : I wisli to tell you that I intend leaving for Paris 
 to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Paris. AVhat nonsense ! Why didn't you stay where 
 vou were until it was safe to go wandering about V I 
 
 *r- 
 
 i%»MMtm 'i ^.«w * *» ' iii»i 
 
 Mlfei,|Y,ii 
 
 
114 
 
 TIIK HTOKY OK AN KNTIIU8IAST. 
 
 shouldn't woiulev if you spread that plague over half ol 
 
 Europe." 
 
 I smiled in spite of myself, and eontinued: "bince 
 my studies with Mr. Lonely have ended so unexpectedly 
 and so sadlv, I am free to begin my new life. 1 shall 
 hnd some ot my father's friends, and they will advise 
 me in regard to my art studies ; my letters and remit- 
 tances you can send to my fatlni-s former banker, Kue 
 de llivoli. ^Vhen 1 am settled I will inform you. Give 
 my love and good-bys to Lady Hardmoor and Dorethea. 
 I hope you will alhnv Dorethea to write to me." 
 
 <' Certainly ; 1 don't mind her writing to you, if you 
 really intend to go." 
 
 My heart throbbed so that I could hardly speak, and 
 it was with difficulty that I restrained my tears. I was 
 very lonely, and had just experienced such a sad loss . 
 It seemed to me that I never needed a friend as much as 
 I did then, and the two good angels of my life were near 
 me, ready and longing to console me, and because of a 
 stupid fear I must be banished, and sent out into the 
 world heart-broken and desolate. 
 
 Perhaps Lord Hardmoor felt some pity for my un- 
 happy situation ; for, as 1 turned toward the door, he said, 
 (luite gently, "I am sorry, my boy, very sorry; but you 
 needn't leave London. There is no sense in your doing 
 things so rashly. You can take lodgings for a while, and 
 I will see you as soon as it is safe." 
 
 '< Thank you ; that would be useless. It has always 
 been mv intention to go to Paris as soon as 1 finished 
 with Mr. Lonely. Unhappily for ine, it is a little sooner 
 than I anticipated. Since I can't see Lady Hardmoor 
 iuul Dorethea, there is nothing to keep me here. I may 
 as well leave to-morrow, and I am anxious to begin my 
 
 I 
 
SI AST. 
 
 igue over Lalt' ol 
 
 intimied: "Since 
 I so unexi)ecU'(lly 
 new lite. 1 shall 
 they will advise 
 letters and remit- 
 iiier banker, Kue 
 it'orni you. Give 
 or and Dorethea. 
 i to nie." 
 ig to you, if you 
 
 lardly speak, and 
 my tears. I was 
 such a sad loss! 
 friend as nmch as 
 lay life were near 
 and because of a 
 sent out into the 
 
 pity for my un- 
 i the door, he said, 
 ry sorry ; but you 
 nse in your doing 
 igs for a while, and 
 
 3s. It has always 
 soon as 1 finished 
 it is a little sooner 
 e Lady Hardmoor 
 p me here. I may 
 xious to begin my 
 
 I'OLON.E. 
 
 115 
 
 new career." As 1 reached the door, 1 held out my hand 
 saying, "(Jood-by. It may be sonn^ time before I see 
 
 you again.'' 
 
 Lord Hardmoor drew back from my proffered hand as 
 though it had been a i)oisonous reptile. "I'm sorry, 
 n'ally," he said, with some embarrassment ; " I'm very 
 st)rry, birt really I am afraid to shake hands with you. 
 It's most unfortunate for you to come and go this way, 
 but I'm afraid, you know, for I^ady Hardmoor and 
 Dorethea. Howevi-r, this danger will soon be over, and 
 I don't believe you will stay long in Taris ; a change will 
 do you good. Hadn't you better go at once ? Perhaps 
 you can cateh the night mail. You know every moment 
 you stay here I'm in danger." 
 
 With a gesture of contempt that I did not care to 
 conceal, I hurried from the house that was the home of 
 the being I loved best in the Avorld, my sweet Porethea. 
 As I went, I looked back, and saw a pale, tearful face at 
 an upper window. It was the dear girl watching for my 
 departure. She kissed her hand, and then covered her 
 face as a sign of sorrow. Poor child ! I know she wept 
 herself to sleep that night. 
 
 IL 
 
 One morning I awoke to find myself in Paris. Spring- 
 ing from my bed, I threw open my curtains and looked 
 with rapture on the great white city spread before me. 
 How clean and bright, how joyous it seemed, after dirty, 
 smoky London. 
 
 The first thing I did, as soon as I was dressed and had 
 taken a light breakfast, was to send for a Jiacre and 
 drive hurriedly to the Kue de Grenelle, Saint Germain. 
 
 »r 
 
 ^ 
 
 - n iH giyW^a »>'^ iijift 'ii']ft^ - *# *t ^' f > '* 
 
UG 
 
 THE STOKY OK AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Alighting at our old muiiber, which I had not foivjotteii, 
 I entered the little room of the eowlft'ge, and there was 
 Fadette, the same good-natured woman, only a little 
 older and a little stouter. 1 recognized her at once, but 
 of course she did not know me. 
 
 " What will monsieur have ? " she asked, coming for- 
 ward politely. 
 
 " Ah, Fadette ! " 1 cried, holding out my hand. *' Is it 
 possible you have forgotten me ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I have, monsieur," she replied, with a 
 puzzled smile. 
 
 " Look back eight or nine years ago ; do not you see a 
 pale little boy, dressed in black, running in and out, and 
 always stopping to put his fingers between the bars of 
 this same cage that stands here to-day, just as it did 
 then, and once this very parocpiet b'.t Ins finger badly, 
 and you bound up the wound very tenderly, because he 
 had no mother to do it for him ! " 
 
 "Ah, monDkn! yes! it must be ! yes — I place you 
 now ; you are Monsieur Felix, but so grown and changed, 
 how should I know you at first. AVhat a tall, handsome 
 youth, and like your father too ! " 
 
 " Thank you, Fadette. I am so glad you think so. I 
 want to be like him." 
 
 " You may well wish to be, then, for he was a hand- 
 some man, and as romme il fuut as he was handsome. 
 Ah, I shall never have another lodger like monsieur 
 your father." 
 
 " Fadette," I asked, my voice trembling in spite of 
 myself, " can T see our apartment ? I should like to so 
 much if I can." 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, 1 think you may some time, although 
 there is a very cross old dowager in it. Still, if you will 
 
 5S8SSf«55S9'*SS^*5>' 
 
rsiAST. 
 
 I'DLONvE. 
 
 117 
 
 [111 not forrjotteu, 
 te, and there was 
 m, only a little 
 . her at once, but 
 
 3ked, coining for- 
 
 my hand. " Is it 
 
 e replied, with a 
 
 do not 3'ou see a 
 If,' in and out, and 
 iveen the bars of 
 ly, just as it did 
 liis finger badly, 
 derly, because he 
 
 'es — 1 jdace you 
 own and changed, 
 t a tall, handsome 
 
 you think so. 1 
 
 r he was a hand- 
 le was handsome. 
 ;er like monsieur 
 
 ibling in spite of 
 should like to so 
 
 me time, although 
 Still, if you will 
 
 call at a proper time, for it is much too early now, I 
 think she will allow you to go over the rooms." 
 
 After a little more conversation, I took my leavi', 
 promising to come again. Sonunvhat saddened, I mwt 
 visited the Luxembourg. There in those lovely gardens 
 I drank in the first breath of spring. It was the middle 
 of ^farch, and tlic season was much farther advanced 
 than it was in England. Already the Howers were 
 springing up in the borders, and the grass was fresh and 
 green. I low many hours 1 had walked there with my 
 father ! Each copse, fountain, arbor, and shaded seat 
 were familiar, and 1 no longer felt alone— his dear 
 presence seemed to surround nu'. When I mounted the 
 stairs that led to the galli'ry of paintings, a shadowy 
 form went with me, for memory had obliterated the 
 years between, and again 1 was a child, with my hand 
 clasped in his. 
 
 That day I feasted among pictures, wandering from 
 room to room, studying form, design, and color ; awed, 
 amazed, almost trembling, before the majesty of art. 
 How insignificant 1 felt. What had I done in my 
 rustic studio ! and what could I do to compare with 
 what had been done ! How infinitely small and feeble 
 were my efforts, how infinitely preposterous were my 
 aspirations ! At times, dejected and disheartened, 1 
 covered my eyes to shut out the glory around me ; I was 
 blinded, bewildered, before the vastness of man's 
 achievement. They I questioned myself closely con- 
 cerning the sincerity of my intentions. Was I only 
 deceiving myself Avith an imaginary talent ? Was I de- 
 luded by my own foolish conceit into thinking that I 
 possessed the divine gift ? So far I had done nothing, 
 nothing, and 1 reproved myself severely for my pre- 
 
 tSgsaa iffe^M ' HSa^raT * 
 
 D i MM li Mt ttt d l ii^iilAlJ^ 
 
118 
 
 Till'; STOllV OK AN ICNTIIL'SIAHT. 
 
 sumi)tiuu ill tliiiikiii;^ that 1 could evt-r stuml beside 
 tiii'se great souls in the glory of immortality. 
 
 The day passed like a dri'am. I did not know it was 
 late until tlie eiistodian touched me on the shoulder and 
 told me it was time to elose the gi^Uery. Then 1 looked 
 iiround and saw that the rooms were empty ; but I was 
 not alone, for genius peopled them with lorms that 
 seemed to move anil live and breathe. 
 
 The next day 1 hastened to the gallery of the 
 Louvre, where I soon found the portrait of a young 
 man by Raphael. That picture, luy father said, re- 
 sembled in many l>i)ints the one in his possession, and, 
 when 1 saw it again, it was like looking into the face of 
 an old friend ; there were the same dark, mysterious 
 eyes, the same haunting expression, the same soft curv- 
 ing mouth with its gentle, reticent smile. It moved me 
 strangely, it was so like my Kaphael, the beloved of my 
 ehildhood. Certainly both portraits must have been 
 painted from the same model, and the model must have 
 been the master himself. The first, the one in the 
 Louvre, is of a youth between hfteen and sixteen years of 
 age ; the other, of a more mature and thoughtful e'.-r- 
 ucter, represented a young man of twenty, but indispu- 
 tably the faces were the same. 
 ■ I could scarcely tear myself away from this picture, 
 and day after day 1 haunted the gallery of the Louvre, 
 where I divided my time between that and the other 
 works of Raphael. I was like one wjio, half-famished, is 
 suddenly set down to an abundant feast, and who, in his 
 eagerness, scarcely knows what to devour first. But 
 after a while my hunger became in a measure satisfied, 
 and I was able to examine more leisurely and study 
 more carefully, selecting what 1 liked best, and making 
 
siAsr. 
 
 k't'T Htuiid besidi: 
 
 tiility. 
 
 not know it was 
 
 the HlnniUlor and 
 
 . TIk'11 I looki'd 
 
 nipty; but I wa.s 
 
 with lornis that 
 
 ■trait of a young 
 ry t'athiT said, ve- 
 s possession, and, 
 ig into the face of 
 dark, mysterious 
 ,e same soft curv- 
 ile. It moved me 
 tlie beloved of my 
 must have been 
 model must have 
 t, the one in the 
 md sixteen years of 
 d thoughtful o'-.-^v- 
 I'enty, but indif^pu- 
 
 from this picture, 
 ery of the Louvre, 
 that and the other 
 to, half-famished, is 
 ist, and who, in his 
 devour first. But 
 L measure satisfied, 
 leisurely and study 
 d best, and making 
 
 roliON.K. 
 
 Ill) 
 
 now and tlien aketehes of design and iiints of color 
 which were of great service to me in my later studies. 
 
 III. 
 
 I HAD been in I'aris for more than a week before it 
 occurred to me that 1 had made no effort to find my 
 father's friends. Taking his journal, I noted down the 
 names mentioned tlierein : (Jerard, whom France had 
 lost some years before; David, who had died in exile ; 
 and Vernet, who was then director of the Fren(di Acad- 
 emy in Rome. Those still living and in Taris at that 
 time were Hersent; (Jros, J)elaro(die, Delaborde, and 
 IMichelet, the well known expert, who had jjronounccd 
 favorable judgment upon the Raphael ; also M. Lefond, 
 who had settled up my father's affairs after his death ; 
 him I decided to see first, as through him 1 might be 
 able to learn something of the lost picture. Ho received 
 me kindly, but coidd give me no information. However, 
 he referred me to M. Goudon, Rue Drouet, who had sold 
 the collection, and also gave me the address of M. 
 Michelet. 
 
 I found M. Michelet in his study, surrounded by old 
 engravings and half-obliterated canvases. When I 
 entered, he was examining, with a microscope, a small 
 fragment of soiled paper, on which appeared the faintest 
 pen-and-ink-sketch; without looking up. although T had 
 been announced, he continued his careful scrutiny, en- 
 tirely unmindful of ray presence. At last, after what 
 seemed to me a long time, he glanced up, and, seeing me 
 standing before him, he started, and, coloring slightly, 
 said, " Pardon me, M. Markland. I am very much inter- 
 ested in this little piece of paper ; but I am glad to see 
 
 ■ iiM»»iin»»n-ii«MMii 
 
 J 
 
120 
 
 TIIK HTOKV <»!'• AN KNTIIl'MIAMT. 
 
 you, all tho sumc. Tlio son of my old friend 18 niost 
 wt'lconi*', t'Hpi'cially wlu-a ho brings aucliun introduction 
 as his fath»,'r's face and smile." 
 
 Alter shaking hands heartily, ho looked at lae closely, 
 and added, " Vou are a liner young nnui than your ehild- 
 hood gave promise of. Let mo soo, you have been in 
 Kngland since you lost your father, have you not '/ " 
 
 I answered in the athrmative. 
 
 " Well it's a line country to dnvolop tho physical, 
 but heavy and uninteresting, a thoroughly practic^id 
 nation, with little liking for an ideal e.xistinee. Hut look 
 at this," and he jjushed tho soiled seraii of paper toward 
 me; " I supiKKSo you have your father's line tastes. Do 
 you see anything remarkable hero ?" 
 
 I frankly avowed that I did not. 
 
 " Take tho glass and examine it closely. What, what ! 
 can't you see the touches of a master's hand '! " 
 
 I held the glass at the right focus, and looked with all 
 my eyes, but I could only discover a few faded, vague 
 scratches, that presented neither form nor meaning. " I 
 am sorry," 1 said, humbly, "but I don't understand ia 
 the least what it is.'' 
 
 " Well, why should you ? If you did, you would know 
 as much as I do, and that can't bo e.xi)eeted. That scrap 
 of paper was sent me by my old friend, General Obaldi, 
 ■ who has a renuvrkably fine collection of original draw- 
 ings. He came across this in some out-of-the-way place, 
 and sent it to me to see if I could make it out. And 
 what do you think it is ? " 
 
 I ^liook my head ; it was a mystery to me. 
 
 " Why, it's no less a thing, that soiled scrap of paper, 
 than Kai)hatd's first motive, first rougii sketch, for tho 
 ' Msion of Ezekiel,' now iu the I'itti Palace in Florence. 
 
• '"». 
 
 HHIAST. 
 
 l'tH,ON-K. 
 
 m 
 
 lid fricnil in iiiohI 
 di un intruductiou 
 
 iked at uw closely, 
 II than your cliihl- 
 you luivo bi'i'ii in 
 vu you not ? " 
 
 slop tlio pliysiciil, 
 )ronglily iiriu!ti(!al 
 istincf. Hut look 
 p of iiupur toward 
 'a line tastes. Do 
 
 ely. What, what ! 
 
 i iiand ? " 
 
 nd looked with all 
 few faded, vague 
 nov meaning. " I 
 
 )n't understand ia 
 
 d, you would know 
 L'cted. That serap 
 d, General Obaldi, 
 of original tlraw- 
 it-of-the-way place, 
 nake it out. And 
 
 to me. 
 
 ed scrap of paper, 
 gli sketch, for the 
 L^ilace iu Florence. 
 
 I've no doul)t of it; I can niaki ii»it the uuuipuitiliuu per- 
 fectly ; it's a trcasuic, a little fgeim,'** 
 
 " is it posnihlc '.' I n.'Vf r drc.uned that it was of any 
 value!" 1 replied, (piite awed \>\ his wonderful knowl- 
 edge. 
 
 " Value ! ah, one can't set any value on such things ; 
 tiiey are uniipic, almost prici less. IJy the way, where is 
 your fatiier's picture — the l[<'ad with the black ber- 
 retta '.' Did it go to Englauil with you ? I was out of 
 I'rance when your fatlu'r died so suddenly. 1 was sent 
 for by the Kniperor of .\ustria to give my opinion on a 
 floubtful picture. It was the must stupid thing I ever 
 hearil of. Those thick-headed (jlermans had attributed 
 it to Di'irer, and what should it prove to be but a Mengs. 
 Totally ditferent, you know, in style and manner. Ah I 
 what a commotio" there was when I exposed their 
 stupidity "; and at the retiollection the little connoisseur 
 threw himself back iu his chair, and laughed heartily. 
 "To call a Mengs a Diirer ! "' he continued, wi[iing his 
 eyf>s and adjusting his glasses. " It was too ridiculous. 
 Well, they had to swallow their niortitication, for they 
 did not dar" disagree with me when I gave a verdict. 
 There was some doubt about your father's jiicture — 
 some obscurity about the history; but the first glance 
 was sufficient to decide me. It is an exami)le of 
 Kaiihael's best period — his purest style, before he was 
 influenced by Micliael Augelo's bolder manner." 
 
 " It is of that picture that I have called to speak to 
 you," I said, with a dreadful trembling at my heart. 
 "It is not in my possession. It is lost." 
 
 "Lost! Mon Dieu! What do you mean? A pic- 
 ture like that cannot be lost, no more than St. Peter's 
 could be. The world is not large enough to lose it in." 
 
 ^wi i i i i .i fei ii i 
 
1-2:2 
 
 THK STOKV OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 " Nevertheless, I fear every trace of it is gone. Whea 
 uiy father died so suddenly, my uncle and Lord Hard- 
 nioor, whom he had chosen as my guardians, came from 
 England to arrange his affairs, and to take me back with 
 them. Tliey thought it best to sell the collection at 
 auction. It was done hastily, without proper considera- 
 tion, and that picture was put up for sale with the 
 others, and catalogued as an Andrea Mantegua, but was 
 sold only as a copy of that master, and there seems no 
 way of finding out who purchased it." 
 
 <'JVom de Dicu ! You don't mean to tell me they 
 were guilty of such a sacrilege as that." 
 
 "Lord Hardmoor would not allow that it was a 
 
 Raphael." 
 
 "Lord Hardmoor! Oh, I know him — an art ^/«em- 
 teur, a connoisseur, a great overgrown English ass. Why, 
 he knows more about a pig than he does about a picture, 
 and in the face of my decision he dared to do that ! As I 
 live, I will make him the laughing-stock of the whole 
 Continent. It is as much as my reputation is worth to 
 allow such an affront to pass unnoticed. This very 
 day I will write the most scathing article I am capable 
 of for the Revue des Deux Mondes, aud place this English 
 littemteur connoisseur blockhead in his true position." 
 
 " But that Avould be very injudicious," I interrupted, 
 « for it would destroy every chance of my gaining pos- 
 session of the picture. You can see that such an article 
 would at once attract attention, and the fortunate 
 owner, learning .the value of his property, would never 
 be Aviliing to part with it, unless he was paid a price far 
 beyond my modest means." 
 
 "That is true ; my dear boy, you have more practical 
 sense than I have, but I am too indignant to be reasou- 
 
 s^s#r^' 
 
ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 face of it is gone. When 
 y uuclo and Lord Hard- 
 iny guardians, came from 
 vnd to take me back with 
 to sell the collection at 
 ft'ithout proper considera- 
 ; up for sale with the 
 iidrea Mantegna, but was 
 ister, and there seems no 
 sed it." 
 
 't mean to tell me they 
 as that." 
 ,ot allow that it was a 
 
 Lnow him — an art littera- 
 grown English ass. Why, 
 n he does about a picture, 
 le dared to do that ! As I 
 ghing-stock of the whole 
 ny reputation is worth to 
 js unnoticed. This very 
 thing article I am capable 
 lies, and place this English 
 id in his true position," 
 1 judicious," I interrupted, 
 hance of my gaining pos- 
 an see that such an article 
 ition, and the fortunate 
 his property, would never 
 ess he was paid a price far 
 
 y, you have more practical 
 too indignant to be reasou- 
 
 POl^ON^. 
 
 123 
 
 able. J3o you know how much your father paid for that 
 
 picture ? " 
 
 " I judge from an entry in his journal that he gave 
 about three hundred thousand francs for it. I know he 
 sacrificed a great deal to possess it." 
 
 " Mon Dieti ! Is it possible ? And 1 sui)pose it sold 
 for a few hundred. Do you know who conducted the 
 
 sale ? " 
 
 "Yes, monsieur; M. Goudon, a dealer in the Hue 
 
 Drouet." 
 
 " Ah, Goudon I 1 know liim, and he is an honest man. 
 Come with me ; we will go to him directly. Perhaps we 
 may learn something from him. He should know to 
 whom the picture was sold." 
 
 On our way to the Kue Drouet 1 urged upon M. 
 Michelet the necessity of using the utmost caution in 
 our inquiries ; « for," said T, " if we should discover the 
 present owner, and he should believe the picture of uo 
 special value, he might be induced to part with it for a 
 reasonable sum." 
 
 " If you find it, you must make any sacrifice to repos- 
 sess it," said M. Michelet. 
 
 " I am determined to," I replied. " I will never give 
 up the search until I find it. It is a solemn duty I owe 
 to my father." 
 
 M. Goudon was at his desk, and, knowing M. Miche- 
 let to be an autocrat in the art market, he came forward 
 politely and offered his services. 
 
 The little man plunged at once into business. " Do 
 you remember," he asked, " having sold a collection of 
 paintings, some eight or nine years ago, which be- 
 longed to an English gentleman, M. Markland, Kue de 
 Grenelle ? " 
 
 t ^..»y!**wt,ft»->-?V^^ 
 
 -<MitoW)** «i '»i' w 'i Btf ' *'*" ' * ■' 
 
 ^.^^■^^...^:.u:^:^.- 
 
 ■Tl'iit'H-ni'ififtf~"i-"i'r r*-' 
 
 iJSM 
 
124 
 
 THE STOUY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 "Oh, yos, perfectly well, luoiisiour," replied the dealer, 
 promptly. 
 
 " Can you turn to your Ixjuks of that period and give 
 me the names of the ])ur('h;isers and the prices paid ? " 
 
 "Certainly, monsieur," and, entering an inner ottice, he 
 took down an immense ledger, an'il turned over the pages 
 until he came to an entry which he i)ointed out, 
 saying : — 
 
 " There, monsieur, is the copy of the sales, with the 
 names of the pmndiasers and the prices paid." 
 
 Together M. ;^[ichelet and I scanned the column, until 
 we came to the record we sought : " Head of a yountj man, 
 Andrea Manteyna ; sold as a coiiy, for iive hundred and 
 fifty francs.'' IJut there was no name of the purchaser. 
 
 "Why is this?" asked M. Michelet, pointing to the 
 blank after the price. " Do you not know who bought 
 tl. picture ? " 
 
 "No, monsieur, 1 never knew; I remember the inci- 
 dent perfectly well, for there was some talk among the 
 artists of its having been attributed to Kaphael ; but, as 
 it was given to me to sell as a Mantegna, I had no right 
 to catalogue it under any other name. At the sale there 
 was some dispute about its being an original Mantegna, 
 and the price of the picture was consequently ruined. 
 When it was put up, there was scarcely a bid on it, 
 until a man, who, I think, Avas a Jew, came forward, and 
 said it was a tine copy, and as such he woidd give five 
 hundred and fifty francs for it ; no more was offered, and 
 I accepted his price, as I was instructed to sell the col- 
 lection without reserve to the highest bidder." 
 " And did the buyer give no name ? " 
 " Not that I recollect. He paid for it as soon as 
 the sale was over, and took it away with him, I remein- 
 
 ^f^ssr 
 
"~> 
 
 SIAST. 
 
 I'OLONJi. 
 
 125 
 
 eplieil the dealer, 
 
 ,t period and give 
 he i)rices paid ? " 
 an inner ottiee, he 
 ed over the pages 
 he pointed out, 
 
 le sales, with the 
 1 paid." 
 
 the column, until 
 d of a youny 7)ian, 
 live hundred and 
 of the purchaser. 
 t, pointing to the 
 know Avho bought 
 
 imeniber the inci- 
 e talk among the 
 ) llaphael ; but, as 
 ua, I had no right 
 At the sale there 
 riginal Mantegna, 
 iisequently ruined. 
 i-cely a bid on it, 
 came forward, and 
 le woidd give five 
 re was offered, and 
 ed to sell the col- 
 bidder." 
 
 for it as soon as 
 th him. I remem- 
 
 ber the incident, as I said before, perfectly, because 1 
 thought a remarkably line picture had been sacrificed. 
 Had 1 been inclined to take advantage of the owner's 
 ignorance, 1 should have given a dozen times tliat price 
 for it myself." 
 
 " I don't see that you were in any way to blame, ]M. 
 Goudon. The picture was an original. 1 had seen it 
 and pronounced upon it ; therefore there should have 
 been no discussion about it. If tlie picture ever conies 
 under your notice again, let me know directly : I am 
 interested in it." 
 
 "Certainly I will, and such a thing is possible. I 
 have sold the same pictures over and over again." 
 
 As there was nothing more to be said, we wished the 
 dealer good-morning, and went away ; I with a heavy 
 heart, and M. Michelet burning with indignation. 
 
 When we were well out of hearing, the little man 
 could contain himself no longer. " It is the most 
 shameful proceeding, the greatest outrage upon art, that 
 I ever heard of," he exclaimed ; " a picture that cost a 
 small fortune, given away, and, worse still, my reputation 
 injured by the stupidity of these asses. But we will not 
 be discouraged ; as I said before, the world is not large 
 enough to hide such a picture for long. It will turn up 
 somewiiere by and by, and, my dear boy, you wii' have 
 some one to assist you in your search ; for I swear that 
 I will do all I can to help you find it ; and when you 
 once more have it in your possession, the world shall 
 know its history, and it will make an interesting chap- 
 ter in the chronicles of art." 
 
 After that, for weeks M. Michelet and 1 searched 
 throughout Paris for the precious picture. Every col- 
 lection, public or private, tluit we could gain access 
 
 M. 
 
 .-«SSf«8^ 
 
 i^titk^^t^m iji».t 
 
I2f) 
 
 THK STOKY OF AN liNTHUSIAST. 
 
 to, was visited. The dealers overhauled their stock 
 thoroughly, allowing M. .^liehelet to investigate every 
 obscure nook and worm-eaten, dusty canvas. Every 
 Jew's shop; every bric-a-brac establislnaent ; every attic 
 and cellar where old traps were stored, met with close 
 attention. But in vain ; of the hundreds of panels and 
 canvases that we examined, there were none that bore 
 the stamp of the divine master's genius. 
 
 •' It must have been taken away from Paris," I said, 
 when we finally abandoned our search. 
 
 " I fear so," replied M. Michelet ; " but have patience, 
 and we will find it yet. I have an impression that you 
 will come across it when you least expect it." 
 
 IV. 
 
 The unfortunate loss of my picture, which M. Michelet 
 considered the greatest disaster that could have befallen 
 me, excited all his interest and sympathy ; and from the 
 day of our first meeting he became a faithful and 
 sincere friend. I very soon made him acquainted with 
 my father's wislie3 regarding my future, as well as with 
 my own predilection for art, and consulted him concern- 
 ing a teacher and the most advantageous way of pursu- 
 ing my studies. 
 
 At that time it was difficult to decide ou a master. 
 There were several schools, all possessing many advan- 
 tages, but no two agreeing in the technicalities of art ; 
 while between them there existed the bitterest rivalry, 
 as well as the strongest partisanship. 
 
 The most popular schools were those of Vernet, Gros, 
 and Guerin, either of which I was desirous of entering; 
 but M. Michelet would say quietly : " Do not hurry to 
 
■^ 
 
 J8IAST. 
 
 Ailed theii' stock 
 investigate every 
 y canvas. Every 
 nient ; every attic 
 d, met with close 
 eds of panels and 
 re none that bore 
 s. 
 iMU Paris," I said, 
 
 but have patience, 
 ipression that you 
 lect it." 
 
 which M. Michelet 
 ould have befallen 
 ithy ; and from the 
 lie a faithful and 
 m acquainted with 
 ire, as well as with 
 lulted him concern- 
 eous way of pursu- 
 
 lecide on a master, 
 i'ssing many advan- 
 3chnicalities of art ; 
 he bitterest rivalry, 
 
 3se of Vernet, Gros, 
 isirous of entering ; 
 ; " Do not hurry to 
 
 POLONY. 
 
 127 
 
 decide ; look around you carefully, study well the works 
 of the different artists, and when yoa Hud one tliat 
 speaks t" your soul, take him for yo\»r master." 
 
 At last came the day for the opening of the Salon, 
 where I could have an opportunity of studying the dif- 
 ferent famous painters of the time, llow beautiful and 
 impressive it seemed to me, this temi)le of Art, whore 
 each of her votaries offered his best; where the admir- 
 ing crowd came and went, with smiles and words of 
 homage for those who, after years of toil, had reached 
 wliat appeared to me to be the summit of success. 
 
 Among the nuiny remarkable pictures, one attracted 
 universal attention. It was the " Death-bed of Leonardo 
 da Vinci," the first important work of Ingres, then al- 
 most unknown to fame. 
 
 " There," said M. Michelet, " is the finest picture in 
 the exhibition. It bears the divine stamp, the unmis- 
 takable imprint of genius. At last the world recognizes 
 it, and awards the artist tardy but genuine admiration. 
 Mo7i enfant, he is the master for you, and you will be 
 fortunate to find so truthful a guide among so many that 
 are false." 
 
 M. Michelet's words delighted me ; while looking at 
 the picture I felt its power, and already I had decided 
 that I had found the master I could follow with love 
 and reverence. So I said eagerly : " Is it possible for me 
 to gain admittance to M. Ingres' school. I know but 
 little ; I am so ignorant I should be far behind his other 
 pupils. I fear he will not wish to be troubled with a 
 scholar little advanced beyond tlie simple rudiments of 
 art." 
 
 " I will undertake to arrange all tliat with him. He is 
 my friend, and will do what I wish ; besides, he owes me 
 
128 
 
 TlilC tjTOKY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 something for my favorable opinion of his picture," 
 replied M. Miehelet, with an amusing grimace, "and he 
 will be anxious to do me a favor. But don't think too 
 meanly of your own ability; you have talent, and, witli 
 that, knowledge comes easily. I venture to say tliat you 
 will soon overtake his most i)romising pupil. Ah, here 
 he comes now ; he is M. I'aul Fabrien, and he will one 
 day astonish the world, or I know nothing of art." 
 
 I turned, and saw a tall, slender young man, with 
 rather ashy, nervous manner, approaching us. M. Miche- 
 let welcomed him heartily, and then presented him 
 to me, remarking, at the same time, that I was about to 
 become a fellow-student in M. Ingres' school. 
 
 I looked at this youth with no little curiosity ; he was 
 a genius, he was favored of the gods, and would one day 
 astonish the world, and yet there was nothing uncom- 
 mon about him to denote this wonderful gift. His face 
 was pure and kind, and his words simple and modest; 
 but when he raised his iine eyes to the glowing canvas 
 above liim, I caught a glimpse of his soul in an adorable 
 expression of pride and gratification at his master's 
 success. 
 
 " And so you are here, M. Paul, to rejoice with all the 
 world over our dear Ingres' good-fortune," cried JI. Miche- 
 let, gayly. " You know I always said it would come, 
 even tliough it came late, and I have not a reinitation 
 for mistakes. He is the first painter of our time, and, 
 M. Paul, I think, when lie leaves us, his mantle will fall 
 upon you, and that you will one day paint a great picture. 
 I may not be here to give my judgu.ent, for I am getting 
 old ; but there are always some souls to whom the truth 
 appeals, and they enlighten and influence the rest of 
 mankind. Follow your good master, and study ua- 
 
 -mi^m^ 
 
rUUSIAST. 
 
 on of his picture," 
 ig grimace, "and he 
 IJut (lou't think too 
 xve talent, and, witli 
 itnre to say tliat you 
 ing pupil. Ah, here 
 ien, and he will one 
 othing of art." 
 !r young man, with 
 lohing us. M. Miche- 
 then presented him 
 
 that I was about to 
 ■s' school. 
 
 tie curiosity ; he was 
 s, and would one day 
 was nothing unconi- 
 L'rful gift. His face 
 
 simple and modest; 
 
 the glowing canvas 
 s soul in an adorable 
 ;ion at his master's 
 
 o rejoice with all the 
 une," cried JI. Miche- 
 said it would come, 
 ive not a reputation 
 ter of our time, and, 
 3, his mantle will fall 
 paint a (/rent picture, 
 i.ent, for I am getting 
 Is to whom the truth 
 nfluence the rest of 
 ister, and study ua- 
 
 POLONiE. 
 
 129 
 
 ture faithfully ; that is all you have to do in order to 
 produce something that France will be proud of." 
 
 A deep flush passed over the delicate face of the 
 young i)ainter, and his eyes grew misty as he grasped 
 iM. Michelet's hand and stammered out some broken 
 word of thanks ; then, to hide his emotion, he bowed 
 hurriedly and darted away among the crowd. 
 
 '• The heart of a woman and the courage of a lion," 
 said M. Michelet, following him with his eyes until he 
 was lost in the crowd. 
 
 Before another week passed I was established in M. 
 Ingres' school. 
 
 When I iirst saw the great artist surrounded by his 
 scholars, profound discouragement seized me, and I felt 
 timid and incapable ; but his benignant face, his gentle 
 manners, and, more than all, the perfect confidence and 
 affection existing between him and his pupils, reas- 
 sured me. 
 
 There were at that time in M. Ingres' studio more 
 than a dozen young men, all of them under twenty-five, of 
 singularly winning manners, fine faces, and well devel- 
 oped figures, while most of them gave promise of no 
 mean talents. 
 
 The study was from the nnde, and the model was the 
 famous Polonae. I shall never forget my first impres- 
 sion of that Apollo of the North. At a glance I felt 
 that his face of godlike beauty was but a mask that con- 
 cealed a mystery, that a tragedy of passion, a scathing sor- 
 row, had blighted and seared all but the outward man. 
 His figure was noble and plastic, his features of the 
 
130 
 
 TMK STOIIY OK AN KNTIIUHIAST. 
 
 purest classic (IcsiKii ; his tine eyes, of no deeiilcil color, 
 held in their depths smouldering tire and lurid shadows, 
 which haunted one with their strange intensity. The 
 haughty curve of his lips, the proud poise of his liead, 
 the light glossy masses of hair clustering around a fore- 
 head as pure and candid as a child's, the finely devel- 
 oped chest and limbs, the slender, nervous hands and 
 shapely feet, were all modelled as perfectly as a statue of 
 Phidias. 
 
 I was enraptured with him. No ardent lover ever ad- 
 mired the idol of his heart more genuinely than did I 
 the famous model. He was the reality of the Greek 
 ideal, and often, instead of working, I stood silently 
 gazing at him, my brushes idle in my inert fingers ; but 
 M. Ingres seemed satisfied with my progress — he knew 
 I was studying my model, learning him, as it were. 
 The beautiful proportions, the noble lines, the plastic 
 muscles, all were being transferred to my mind. I was 
 beginning to see and understand the beauty of nature. 
 
 One day I looked away from Polonae and saw M. 
 Ingres watching me with a smile of satisfaction. 
 
 " You are right," he said ; " study well what you see 
 before you. Your model has all the excellence of the 
 antique. The old painters did not try to improve upon 
 their models. I mean by that that they followed 
 nature as they saw it. If you copy truthfully what is 
 there, you will go on as they did, and, like them, you 
 will reach the beautiful ; but if you try to correct nature, 
 you will produce only what is false, ambiguous, and ridic- 
 ulous. Your efforts will always be worthy when they 
 are truthful. All the errors you make are not because 
 you have not enough talent, imagination, and ability, but 
 because you do not understand what the Divine Master 
 
rsiAST. 
 
 lo (leeiilcil color, 
 id lurid shadows, 
 I intensity. The 
 )oise of his head, 
 ng around a fore- 
 the finely devel- 
 rvous hands and 
 !tly as a statue of 
 
 3nt lover ever ad- 
 linely than did I 
 ity of the Greek 
 
 I stood silently 
 nert fingers ; but 
 jgress — he knew 
 him, as it were, 
 lines, the plastic 
 my mind. I was 
 auty of nature, 
 jnae and saw M. 
 isf action, 
 ell what you see 
 excellence of the 
 
 to improve upon 
 it they followed 
 ruthfully what is 
 d, like them, you 
 
 to correct nature, 
 jiguous, and ridic- 
 orthy when they 
 ) are not because 
 a, and ability, but 
 16 Divine Master 
 
 POLON^I':. 
 
 131 
 
 h;is given you to study. Our high-priest of art knew 
 wi'U that secret, and went to the fountain-head of life and 
 beauty for his inspiration. Kaphael and the living model 
 arc synonymous. Nature was his teacher; and he was 
 modest and submissive before her, although he was Raph- 
 ael. Then, be humble before nature. Art nev?t^ reaches 
 sohigli a degree of perfection as when it so closely resem- 
 bU's her as to be mistaken for her; and the more you con- 
 ceal the art, the more worthy are you to be ranked 
 among the best." 
 
 Every word that fell from the lips of our revered 
 master was treasured as a jewel of wisdom in the devoted 
 hearts of his pupils. We gathered around him like 
 children listening to a beloved father, while he encour- 
 aged, counselled, and advised, rejoiced at our success or 
 almost Avept with us over our many failures. 
 
 Gentle, benignant soul ! he himself had struggled 
 through- dark days and many discouragements; therefore 
 he knew liow to sympathize with every phase of an 
 artist's career. 
 
 In all the three years that I passed in M. Ingres' 
 studio, I cannot recall a single misunderstanding be- 
 tween us. There seemed to be no envy nor malice, but 
 a hearty, honest comradeship, a thorough interest, a 
 mutual phiasure in success and a corresponding grief at 
 a failure, and no petty feelings of jealousy detracted 
 aught from those superior in genius, while they in turn 
 encouraged and assisted those less gifted. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Among all of my fellow-students, Paul Fabrien held 
 the first place in my friendship. The extreme gentle- 
 
132 
 
 TIIK STOUY OK AN KNTIU'SIAST. 
 
 noBs iind sincerity of his character, and, abo'o all, his 
 remarkable genius, niatlo him an especial favorite of both 
 master and pupilfi. Without fortune or friends lie had 
 come alone to Paris, to make his own way in his pro- 
 fession. 
 
 When I first knew him, he lodged in a miserable 
 little attic in the Rue Mazarine, where he was obliged to 
 resort to the most pitiful economy in or<ler to exist. 
 And that winter even the wealthy suffered from the 
 severity of the weather. For weeks the cold was so in- 
 tense that our studio was never sufficiently heated, even 
 with a large fire. Then how our poor Paul must have 
 suffered, when, as I afterward learned, he never had a 
 scrap of fuel in his dreary lodging; often, I know, he 
 must have been cold and hungry, yet he never com- 
 plained, and his courage and patience never wavered 
 under the severe discipline of poverty. 
 
 One evening, wishing to borrow a work on composi- 
 tion, which I knew he had, I climbed to his attic. The 
 weather was intensely cold, and I had left a bright fire 
 in my own comfortable apartment, but I found my poor 
 friend's hearth unlighted, and he covered up in his bed 
 in order to keep warm, working, by the feeble light of a 
 small lamp, on his cartoon for his prize picture. 
 
 For a moment he appeared embarrassed at my discover- 
 ing his poverty ; then, smiling, he said, with his usual 
 serenity : "You see I am trying to do something, but one 
 cannot work well when one is cold. The imagination is 
 sluggish like the blood. Art flourishes best on high 
 things, on warmth, light, and joy. It will not perish of 
 heat, but cold kills it. Ah, well! one can reach an 
 honorable position only through pain, self-denial, and 
 tears. He who has not suffered does not believe." 
 
 I 
 
"1 
 
 IIITSIAST. 
 
 and, abo'o all, his 
 cial favorite of both 
 I or friends he hiul 
 •n way in his pro- 
 fed in a miserable 
 re he was obliged to 
 
 in order to exist. 
 ' suffered from the 
 
 the cold was so in- 
 ciently heated, even 
 )or Paul must have 
 led, he never had a 
 ; often, I know, he 
 , yet he never com- 
 ?nce never wavered 
 
 I work on composi- 
 i to his attic. The 
 id left a bright fire 
 lut I found my poor 
 vered up in his bed 
 the feeble light of a 
 fize picture, 
 assed at my discover- 
 said, with his usual 
 lo something, but one 
 The imagination is 
 fishes best on high 
 It will not perish of 
 ! one can reach an 
 pain, self-denial, and 
 »s not believe." 
 
 roroNiH. 
 
 1J?3 
 
 IliH gentle resignation to so cruel a desiiuy moved nit! 
 deeply. Wa.s it right that I, wlio had so iiiueli of waniiMi 
 anil light, should leave my I'lieud to suffer from eold and 
 darkness ? I knew ho was too proud to accept charity ; 
 so, appearing to be interesteil in the remarkable sketches 
 scattered about the room, I tried to think of some plan 
 whereby I could assist him without wounding his 
 pride. 
 
 "What do you think of this study? " ho asked, hold- 
 ing up a group of figures in chalk. 
 
 It was (deverly managed, and I told him so. 
 " 1 suppose it has some good points, but T am working 
 in the dark. I need models constantly." 
 
 " So do I," I replied, a happy thought striking me, 
 "and I must ask a favor of you, my dear Taul. You 
 know I am behind all the others of our class, and I want 
 you to help mc study evenings. Uy room is large, and 
 I will engage Polonic, and while I am working from him 
 you can make your studies as you please ; only do me the 
 favor to criticise me occasionally. I must have this 
 extra practice, or I shall not be able to compete for the 
 prize next year." 
 
 My proposal delighted him. He thanked me warmly, 
 clasping both my hands in his. I knew it was his 
 dearest wish to study from I'olonai out of class hours, 
 and I also knew that the five francs charged for each 
 hour the famous model posed was beyond his scanty 
 income. 
 
 From that time my room became an evening studio. 
 
 And more than one of our class would drop in for an 
 
 hour or two — to chat, smoke, criticise, or work, as they 
 
 preferred. 
 
 After our studies were over, I always improvised a 
 
1:J4 
 
 TIIK 8TOUV or AN KNTIIL'HIAST. 
 
 r 
 
 ,^ 
 
 littlo HiippiT of gooil will!!, hiciiil, clmi'Hc, luul Hausnyf, 
 whicli wo j'lijoyoil tjrcatly, simh()11"(1, as it was, witli 
 bright fitorii's, huiikh, ami much lif,'lit-l»'arti>(l lau^'hU'r. 
 
 I'uldiia' would strtftcli liis liuilis to n-lax liis HtilTcncd 
 inuHclcs as he canu' to join us. Scati'il at tlu! tablo with 
 \is, ho was no longer our uuulcl, but a roniarkably iiitelli- 
 gout and amusing companion. Thoro was a mystory 
 about him, which every student in M. Ingres' school had 
 tried to fathom. One of our class, Caniille do lireuourt. 
 a rich young viscount, who went into the best society 
 in Taris, declared that he had seen I'olome a 
 favored guest in some of the Hrst sa/oiis, and had recog- 
 nized him, although he maintained a severe and haughty 
 incognito under a I'olish title. 
 
 One evening, after he left us, we were discussing him, 
 as we often did, for nothing makes a person so interest- 
 ing as a little mystery about him. 
 
 "I believe he is a I'olish noble in disguise," said 
 Camille. "What manners! What an intellect! His 
 conversation is charming. At times he is courtly, ele- 
 gant. Ah ! he is no common nnin, with his cultivation 
 and refinement. TU swear that he is a scholar, and 
 knows more than any of us." 
 
 "Perhaps he is one of the students of Wilna who 
 escaped bnnishment or imprisonment," said I'aul, "and 
 is in concealment until more fortunate days dawn on his 
 unhappy country." 
 
 "That is not unlikely," exclaimed Camille, "for it 
 was at Trince Czartoryski's that I first recognized him. 
 I did not mean to betray him. I gave him a covert smile 
 of intelligence, which he met with a stony stare. I 
 could swear it was he ; there is no other face in the world 
 like his, and his whole appearance is uncommon. I be- 
 
JHI.V.ST. 
 
 I'oI.oS.K. 
 
 Wi 
 
 as it was, with 
 'iU'ti'd lau^htor. 
 I'lax his Htifft'iu'd 
 
 at tho tai)h' with 
 •I'luuikably iiitoUi- 
 
 was a niysti'ry 
 liif^res' scliool had 
 uille do liivcnurt. 
 
 1 the best society 
 
 seen l'oh)iuc a 
 
 IS, and had voc'oj,'- 
 
 uvere and haughty 
 
 ro discussing; him, 
 )ei'sou 80 interest- 
 in disguise," said 
 m intellect! His 
 he is courtly, ele- 
 th his cultivation 
 is a scholar, and 
 
 its of Wilna who 
 ," said I'aul, "and 
 i days dawn on his 
 
 d Caniille, " for it 
 st recognized him. 
 ; liim a covert smile 
 
 a stony stare. I 
 er face in the world 
 
 uncommon. I be- 
 
 li«vt! Paul is riglit in iiis conjcrlnn-. It' you iriiKiiilH'r, 
 I'riufi' Adam (leorge took a dw[) intfrt'st in tlio 
 \uitoitunatt) students, aiul tried to save tliem from 
 Siberia." 
 
 " lUit why does he follow tlie profession of a model?" 
 I asked. " Witli his acconiplishnientH, and such a friend 
 as Prince Ailam (ieort,'c, he could surely find some occu- 
 jjatinn utovt worthy of liini." 
 
 " [ fancy he can earn more in that way without be- 
 traying his identity. Ho is< seldom seen save by the 
 HtudeMts, and t(. the most of them he is only a model, 
 but to me he is a mystery. However, I shall notdi.sturb 
 him by trying to find out his secret," added Camille, as 
 he left us. 
 
 After that conversation, I studied I'olona; more closely. 
 1 tried to penetrate his veil of reserve. I strove to show 
 him that I was his friend. Something in his passive 
 face touched my heart. He had suffered. He was my 
 brotlier. I felt drawn to him by no common bond of 
 sympathy. Hour after hour, while ho sat outwardly 
 motioidess as a statue, I knew by the white, compressed 
 lips and the sombre light in his eyes that he was living 
 over again some terrible tragedy that had marred his 
 whole life. 
 
 Once when we were alone, to invite his confidence I 
 told him something of my own history, and ventured to 
 ask him some simple questions respecting his childhood. 
 When I mentioned his mother, a spasm of pain contracted 
 his features and his face turned livid. 
 
 " Oh, you hurt me ! " he groaned, pressing his hand to 
 liis heart. " At that adored name all my being shudders 
 in agony. You are my friend. I know it. My better 
 nature tells me that your interest is no idle curiosity. 1 
 
13() 
 
 THR STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 will tell you. I am Volonce the model only while I 
 pose When that is over 1 am an unfortunate, unhappy 
 being, an exile with a price upon my head. 1 am steeped 
 in misery, sodden with the blood of my country. My 
 hands have been wet with the life-drops of those I would 
 have died a thousand deaths to save. Oh, my friend! 
 what a mask I wear. I am a Polish noble. My father 
 traced his descent from the Jagellons ; his ancestors were 
 heirs of the kingdom. The blood of the Sobieski flowed 
 in my mother's veins. We were a lofty race and we 
 loved Poland. Our country was more than father, 
 mother, wife, or children. In 1795, every male member 
 of our family, save my father, who was too young tor 
 the sacrifice, laid down his life freely for Poland. In 
 1806, when the crucified country rose against the Ger- 
 mans, my father wns a leader in the revolt. My mother 
 followed him with me, a babe in her arms, and I was 
 sprinkled with his blood when he fell bravely fighting 
 to the last. Those warm drops from his true heart con- 
 secrated me to the work. Like all of my race, I was 
 marked for the sacrifice ; I was doomed to give all for 
 my country. I was taught from my cradle that neither 
 • lands nor wealth nor home was mine, that all belonged 
 to Poland. My mother -I can see her now, her mem- 
 ory is ever with me. I revered and adored her. I never 
 disobeyed her. When she said, ' My son, you belong to 
 your country. Be ready when you are called,' I simply 
 replied, ' I am ready, my mother.' It was part of my 
 nature to obey her. Her pale, solemn face, her hollow 
 eyes dry of tears, her stern, impressive voice, filled me 
 with awe. One day she came to me, and, laying her thin 
 hand on my head, she said calmly and irmly, 'My son, 
 you are called. Czartoryski calls you. Leave your 
 
«Tf^ 
 
 ■i—^ H 't' i i L Wfi i _ nM*i H! li - 
 
 ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 the model only while I 
 ail unfortunate, unhappy 
 n my head. I am steeped 
 ood of my country. My 
 ife-drops of those I would 
 to save. Oh, my friend ! 
 Polish noble. My father 
 ellons ; his ancestors were 
 3od of the Sobieski flowed 
 vere a lofty race and we 
 was more than father, 
 1795, every male member 
 r, who was too young for 
 ife freely for Poland. In 
 itry rose against the Ger- 
 in the revolt. My mother 
 e in her arms, and I was 
 in he fell bravely fighting 
 js from his true heart con- 
 ,ike all of my race, I was 
 as doomed to give all for 
 om my cradle that neither 
 as mine, that all belonged 
 !an see her now, her mem- 
 ed and adored her. I never 
 aid, ' My son, you belong to 
 !n you are called,' T simply 
 other.' It was part of my 
 le, solemn face, her hollow 
 , impressive voice, filled me 
 3 to me, and, laying her thin 
 calmly and irmly, ' My son, 
 ki calls you. Leave your 
 
 roi-ONii-:. 
 
 i:'.7 
 
 tutor and your books. Poland needs you.' She pressed 
 a kiss on my hair, and murmured, 'Give your he if it is 
 necessary. Your mother bids you die for 1 oland. I 
 had one sister, a flower of rare beauty, and her compan- 
 ion was a maid of her own age, about fifteen years, bhe 
 was the child of our nurse, a Lithuanian, with all the 
 charm of her race. I loved this wonderful child of the 
 people; secretly I worshipped her. I saw her always 
 lith my sister, and non.. know that I loved her to adora- 
 tion. On that terrible Kith of August, fighting madly 
 bv the side of Prince Czartoryski, I saw a luissian 
 sddier tear my shrieking sister from the arms of my 
 another. In a moment I was upon him. My sword sev- 
 erod the arm that held her. Released fronj his vile 
 elasp,she fainted on my breast, only lifting her swee 
 eyes to whisper, 'Kill me, my brother. Without an 
 instant's hesitation, I pierce.l her to the heart and laid 
 lie" dead but pure in my mother's arms. My hands 
 were wet Vith her blood. Later in the day, I saw niy 
 foster-sister, the girl I loved, trampled under the feet o 
 a horse spurred through a crowd of terrified worn 
 and children by the Russian officer who -;^« -^ .^^"^ 
 at this," and he raised a mass of thick l;ght ban that 
 covered an ugly scar on his forehead. " I got this i.nrk 
 from the hoof of the horse while rescuing her, and this 
 wound on my shoulder from the sabre of the oftieer who 
 trampled her down. A few months after, I -- ^^^ 
 .irl a Polish maiden, the haughty, triumphant misties 
 of the Russnmwho had ridden over her and ravaged 
 her country. Then the pains of hell took hold of m 
 r.ut enough of lier. God's vengeance will follow hi 
 My mother -my sainted mother, the queen of e 
 proud race -was charged with concealing Prince Cz.u- 
 
138 TIIK STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 tovvski after all ^vas lost and he had disappeared. She 
 was drlgqod into the publie s.pKiro, insulted, tortured 
 and finally whipped by a Russian slave, but she remamed 
 s 1 nt, preferrin disgrace and death rather than betray 
 our leader. This brutal humiliation lulled her -she 
 died of shame while I, the last of n.y raee, .vas fleeing 
 from our country with the pri.ice who.u I had sworn to 
 serve. We escaped together. He neede.l me, and I re. 
 ,„,i„ed by his side until we reached Paris. Here 1 
 heard of my mother's death, from one of t -■ -thfu 
 ,vho followed us. Since then lite has been a blank. At 
 times, I am unconscious of my surroundings. \ on won- 
 der how I can remain motionless for lumrs. It is 
 because my soul is not here. It is because I am Innng 
 over the U-agedies of iny life. I give you my wretched 
 Kodv -it is like a lump of stone; it remains where you 
 place' it. But I keep my soul; -it is leagues from 
 here; it is in Poland; it is in our old home. Again 1 
 am under our sunny castle wall, with my kitor, my 
 books my dogs. My motner, pale, silent, patient, sits 
 eir wiiif her' book of devotions. Beneath the lindens 
 T see my tall, fair sister, and that faithless girl, that 
 demon with the smile of an angel. The golden head of 
 the Lithuanian is pressed close to my sister ; she raises 
 the soft, dark discs of her eyes to the stately gnd 
 bending toward her. AVhat a divine glance ! Who could 
 dream of the vile nature hidden under that adorable 
 young face. Ah, if she had died as my sister died ! - 1 
 iould kiss my hands in gratitude if they had slam he 
 before she was false. Oh, .those sweet, pure days! I 
 \vas like a happy child frolicking on the brink of ruin : 
 my destiny was upon me, and yet I was happy I never 
 dieamed that the old tradition of giving all for loland 
 
5IAST. 
 
 sappeared She 
 suited, tortured, 
 mt slu; remained 
 her than betray 
 ulled lier — she 
 race, was fleeing 
 I had sworn to 
 ed nie, and I re- 
 Paris. Here I 
 ; of the faithful 
 een a blank. At 
 lings. You won- 
 ^r hours. It is 
 ause I am living 
 you my wretched 
 ?niains where you 
 is leagues from 
 . home. Again I 
 h my tutor, my 
 lent, patient, sits 
 iieath the lindens 
 iiithless girl, that 
 le golden head of 
 sister ; she raises 
 the stately girl 
 ance! Who could 
 ider that adorable 
 ly sister died ! — I 
 ;hey had slain her 
 •et, pure days! 1 
 the brink of ruin : 
 Eis happy. I never 
 ng all for Poland 
 
 POliONi*! 
 
 i;i9 
 
 meant so much. I thought it meant only wealth and 
 life — not honor and love as well." 
 
 Palo and exhausted with emotion, he paused and 
 wiped the drops of anguish from his eyes. Before such 
 a sorrow I was dumb. How could I. comfort him with 
 conventional words of kindness and sympathy ? I was 
 humbled and abashed. INly troubles, great as I had 
 thou<'ht them, seeme.l .so little and so consolable com- 
 pared to his. I could only ch.sp his hand silently, but 
 !ny eyes told him what I felt. From that moment he 
 knew he had a friend who woidd never fail him. 
 
 An hour later, when some of the students dropped in 
 to share my supper, they found Polona- sitting with me 
 as calm and courteous as usual. He had wrapped him- 
 self again in his impenetrable reserve, and none but 
 myself ever knew his history. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I HAD been in Paris ove •■ ■ * before I received a 
 letter from Lord Hardmc . ^ .dosed in his cold for- 
 mal epistle was a dainty little note from Dorothea. 
 Sweet soul, unconsciously, in her little school-girl phrases 
 she told more of her anxiety about me, and her interest 
 Ml all that concerned me, than an older and wiser writer 
 would have done. I slept with that first letter under my 
 pillow. I carried it always near my heart, and often and 
 often, when alone, 1 pressed it reverently to my hps. Bxit 
 all the world is acquainted with such episodes of youth- 
 ful passion, and T will not linger over my boyish demon- 
 strations. I only speak of my pleasure in the letter to 
 show that I always, loved Dorethea, that from the very 
 first she was half of my life. I "over did anything 
 
 .. ^saaaJ^iaiiSiiP 
 
r 
 
 140 THE STOUV OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Without thinking whether she would approve or blame. 
 Inever looked Into the future with the boundless con- 
 fidrce of youth that I did not see her by my s^de, 
 sharintr every ioy and sorrow. 
 
 W Hardmoor allowed nxe to write to her m a fra- 
 texta wny, and I did not overstep the bounds he pre- 
 scbd Hi l^ough often and often my pen would huge 
 over t e paper- in tren.bling indecision whether or not 
 to pour out ill my soul, all n.y love to the sweet gu- .^ 
 filled all my thoughts. But I forbore, thinking of her 
 youth and L confidence reposed in me, and resolved to 
 bide my time until the happy day of our meeting. 
 
 Neither will I linger over the three years spen n M. 
 Ixlis' studio. Although they were full of interest to me 
 t erwerrmarked only by such iucidents as are common 
 tieMe of an art student in Paris. They were busy 
 davs in the society of our beloved master, ennched by 
 theiy of the most beautiful in art and nature. We 
 daimed to be disciples of the beautiful. We were young, 
 enTusiastic, and deeply in earnest, often wild and irre- 
 T) essTbleinour youthful follies, but, I think, never igno- 
 re otelass was made up, it is true, of diverse ele- 
 ments, but there was a certain harmony among us, nevei- 
 Ses Paul Fabrien was the purest, gentlest soul of 
 S and the one most liberally ^^j^^^^^^^ 
 He was poor and patient, passing las days ot toil in 
 ^HiiTl ving and liigh thinking," while he oncourag d 
 t idle and dissatisfied to greater efforts and generously 
 recognized the indications of superiority in others. 
 
 Camille de r,r6court, our rich idler, was handsome high- 
 bonia^^^d generous, overflowing with love for thebeauti- 
 Swo-iapping yet never expressing unless by some 
 happy accident or inspiration the best in ait. Wo all 
 
^agy-j'- 
 
 t^iMwm 
 
 SI AST. 
 
 ppvove or blame. 
 le boundless con- 
 her by my side, 
 
 to her in a fra- 
 le bounds he pre- 
 
 pen would linger 
 11 whether or not 
 ;he sweet girl who 
 , thinking of her 
 B, and resolved to 
 ur meeting. 
 
 years spent in M. 
 11 of interest to me 
 nts as are common 
 They were busy 
 Ulster, enriched by 
 ■tand nature. We 
 [. We were young, 
 tten wild and irre- 
 [ think, never igno- 
 rue, of diverse ele- 
 ly among us, never- 
 ^st, gentlest soul of 
 dowed with genius. 
 is days of toil " in 
 •hile he encouraged 
 forts and generously 
 )rity in others, 
 was handsome, high- 
 h love for the heauti- 
 ;ing unless by some 
 best in art. Wo all 
 
 poiiON.*:. 
 
 141 
 
 love him, in spite of his waywardness, for his sunny, 
 hopeful view of life and. its efforts. 
 
 <' It is not his best," lie would say, cheerfully, while 
 he looked at some poor daub, "but it is not all bad. 
 There is nothing in art hopelessly bad. There are 
 always the signs of effort, the struggling after a higher 
 ideal. Moti Dieu ! we all, the best— 1 say the best — 
 fall far short of our standard. Don't pick the poor devil 
 all to shreds. I'raise the good, and close your eyes to 
 the bad ; he may astonish the world yet." 
 
 Camille was our master's favorite ; we all knew it and 
 yet we were not jealous, and the meanest soul among us 
 would try to hide his escapades and adventures from 
 M. Ingres, who was severely careful of tlie morals of his 
 
 pupils. . . i. 1 
 
 While Paul and I were devoting our evenings to study, 
 Camille was rushing from one scene of gayety to another, 
 with the most reckless companions, alike indifferent to 
 M Ingres' gentle remonstrances, or our entreaties that he 
 should remain with us and share our studies as well as 
 our simple pleasures. 
 
 It was some time toward the end of my second year 
 with M. Ingres that the following incident occurred. 
 
 One evening, while Paul and I were silently working 
 in my room, over the studies for our exhibition pictures, 
 Polonae entered suddenly ; he was breathless and pale, and 
 appeared to be much excited. Evidently disappointed 
 that he did not find me alone, he threw himself into a 
 chair and sat twisting his moustache and sighing un- 
 easily. I tried to engage him in conversation, to inter- 
 est him in our studies ; but he was preoccupied and 
 restless. At last I asked him if he would pose for an 
 hour, and he replied, "No; that he was nervous and ill; 
 
 ^liaamg^^Mit^^^fevMOJgSJW?- 
 
1 12 Till-: STOUY OF AN KNTllUSI AST. 
 
 in fact, was i.iu.l, wor.io,! - that something hud hap- 
 pencnl to disturb him, that he h;Kl had a surpvise. 
 
 I'aul seeing that he was Ivovering on the edge of some 
 eoniidence that he wished to impart to me alone, gath- 
 ered up his studies and quietly withdrew. 
 
 .> Now, Avhat is it ? " 1 asked. " You are in trouble ; 
 let me help you if I can." 
 
 "Yes I am in trouble. I am in need, immediate 
 need of 'two thousand francs. Can you loan it to me to- 
 night ? " His face flushed painfully, and his voice was 
 shaken with anxiety. 
 
 Fortunately I had more than that amount in my desk, 
 which I had drawn that day, and as I handed him the 
 notes I said, " 1 hope it is not any serious trouble, more 
 by way of relieving his embarrassment than from curios- 
 ity about his affairs. 
 
 "My friend, I am indebted to you for life ; ut I 
 cannot explain. 1 am so astonished, so disturbed and 
 without further words he rushed "..ay as hurriedly as 
 
 he had entered. , 
 
 I did not see him again for several weeks, although he 
 was engaged to pose every day for tlie class, and we 
 needed him sorely. AVe were working for the spring 
 exhibition, and he figured in several important composi- 
 tions. One day, when we about despaired of seeing him 
 again, he entered quietly and took his place as though 
 he had not been absent. When questioned, he declined 
 to make any explanation, and was evidently determined 
 . to maintain his usual reticence about his own affairs. 
 
 That night he laid an envelope on my desk ; after his 
 departure I opened it and found two thousand francs 
 the amount of the loan. From that time he came and 
 went as usual, and the only change I noticed ui hun 
 
ISIAHT. 
 
 letliing liud liap- 
 a surpi'ise." 
 the eilge of some 
 [) me alone, gatli- 
 
 !\V. 
 
 Li are in trouble; 
 
 need, initnediate 
 I loan it to nie to- 
 md his voice was 
 
 nount in my desk, 
 I handed him the 
 oiis trouble," more 
 t than from curios- 
 
 u for life; but I 
 so disturbed," and 
 vy as hurriedly as 
 
 weeks, although he 
 the class, and we 
 ,ng for the spring 
 important composi- 
 aired of seeing him 
 is place as though 
 tioned, he declined 
 idently determined 
 his own affairs, 
 my desk ; after his 
 iro thousand francs, 
 ; time he came and 
 T noticed in him 
 
 rOLON.K. 
 
 143 
 
 was that he never remained after our cveiiiii;^' sittings to 
 take part in any of our little convivialities as he had 
 always done, but at the same time I thought Ins fat-e 
 wore a calmer and happier expression, and that his 
 reveries were oftener pleasant than otherwise. 
 
 What good-fortune had happened to him? Acciden- 
 tally I discovered the solution of t\m: enigma. I had gone 
 with my sketch-book to the Jioia to make some studies 
 of foliage, and, while seeking a secluded spot among the 
 thickest verdure, I came upon two people sitting under a 
 spreading oak, in quite a pastoral fashion. The woman, 
 who was wonderfully beautiful, sat with her hat in her 
 lap, idly leaning against the trunk of the tree. Her hair, 
 like burnished gold, with here and there a gleam of cop- 
 per, showed with wonderful lustre against the gray bark 
 of the tree. Her eyes were cast down, but I could see 
 by the shadows under the long lashes that they were 
 dark and soft, and her white brow had the purity and 
 candor of an infant, while her mouth was exquisite, sen- 
 sitive, passionate, smiling from time to time, with just a 
 touch of sad indulgence on her companion, who reclinea 
 at her feet with an open book in his hand. His back 
 was toward me, but there could only be one such head 
 and shoulders in Paris, one such perfectly symmetrical 
 figure, one man capable of reclining at the feet of a 
 woman with such indolent grace, and that was Polonse. 
 As softly as possible I slipped away in another direc- 
 tion that T might not disturb them. Polonfe was in love, 
 and that was the secret of his new-found happiness. 
 But who was the woman? She was not a lady in ap- 
 pearance, although she was dressed with exquisite taste 
 and simplicity. Neither was she a grisette ; her toilet, 
 her pose, her quiet dignity disproved it. She^ was a 
 
 I 
 
144 
 
 THE 8TOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 woman lovely enough to attract the attention ot the 
 Avorhl, to queen it in society, and there she was m a 
 muslin gown, a straw hat in her lap, sitting like a shep- 
 herdess on that sechuleil v.-r.lant hank, with an ohscure 
 young man, an artist's model, reclining at her feet, read- 
 ing aloud a I'olish tale of heroism and strife. 
 
 There was a mystery, but I would not seek to pene- 
 trate it; his secret was safe as far as 1 was concerned, 
 and 1 was glad to know that at last a gleam of sunshme 
 penetrated the dark clouds that surrounded my unhappy 
 
 friend. « ■ t 
 
 For some time after my discovery in the Bois, i no- 
 ticed that our model was very bright and cheerful, that 
 his face wore an expression of calm happiness, and that 
 liis manners were less grave and taciturn. In fact, all 
 the pupils, as well as our master, observed it and spoke 
 of it, and, curiously enough, at the same time I detected 
 a closer intimacy, a more confidential friendship, between 
 Camille and I'olome than had ever existed before 
 Often they conversed apart in low tones, and now and 
 then a word fell on my ear which led me to think that 
 they frequently met outside of the studio, and were both 
 interested in some woman whom they admired greatly. 
 When M. Ingres lectured his favorite, as he was often 
 obliged to in these days, the young man would cc^lor 
 painfully under the well merited rebuke, but would otter 
 no excuse for his inattention and idleness. 
 
 " Your soul is not in your work," our master would say, 
 sadly "Your place is too often vacant. You are not 
 fulfilling the promise that you gave at first. Mon en- 
 fant, you are retrograding ; you no longer love your art ; 
 -and art is an exacting mistre.s; she will have no half 
 worship. You must deny yourself the pleasures of life 
 
 $^MMV«f" •' 
 
USIAST. 
 
 attention of the 
 ere she was in a 
 ittiuK like a shep- 
 ;, with an obscure 
 T at her feet, read- 
 l strife. 
 
 not seek to pene- 
 
 1 was concerned, 
 
 gleam of sunshine 
 
 iniled my unhappy 
 
 in the Hois, I no- 
 and cheerful, that 
 lappiness, and that 
 iturn. In fact, all 
 erved it and spoke 
 nie time I detected 
 friendship, between 
 er existed before, 
 tones, and now atul 
 \ me to think that 
 vidio, and were both 
 ley admired greatly, 
 i-ite, as he was often 
 "• man would color 
 uke, but would offer 
 euess. 
 
 ur master would say, 
 iicaut. You are not 
 e at first. Mo7i en- 
 [onger love your art ; 
 ihe will have no half 
 the pleasxires of life 
 
 I'OLON.K. 
 
 145 
 
 in order to attiiin to the purest and highest pleasure, the 
 pleasure of success. You must toil constautly ; idleui-ss 
 brin"s no results but sorrow and remorse. Look, for ex- 
 amile, at Raphael. Almost divine in his genius, and yet 
 he did not scorn to labor ; tlie most severe toil and self- 
 denial in his youth made him inuuortal before he reached 
 luiiturity. Make a religion of your art, Look neither 
 to the right nor to tlie left, much less beneath you. 'lo 
 create the beautiful, you must have beauty in your soul. 
 The mission of art is to elevate, and how can it be done 
 if the artist have not a lofty purpose in his work, his 
 pyes on the heavens, his head among the stars. Oh, 
 vton enfant, mon enfant," he would rep«'it' sadly, tear- 
 fully, "you are grovelling in the mire of earth, you are 
 quenching the living flame, you are trifling with your 
 own soul ; your art is not the first in your life. 1 would 
 say to you, as the Divine Master of old said to the young 
 man. ' Leave all and follow aie.' " 
 
 VIIL 
 
 In looking back over my life at that period, I now see 
 that I was different from most of the young men around 
 me. At twenty-two, I still retained all the confidence, 
 the candor, the honesty of my boyhood ; I was not 
 ashamed to be earnest, enthusiastic, demonstrative, 
 ingenuous; life had not destroyed my illusions, and I 
 did not hesitate to confess that I still believed in them. 
 When I expressed my opinion of humanity, and dis- 
 cussed the problem of existence, I was always listened 
 to with curious attention, as though I had spoken in a 
 strange language, or uttered something new and peculiar. 
 Therefore, it was not surprising that the sobriquet of 
 
ut; 
 
 Till", STOUV OK AN KNTIinSIAST. 
 
 " Enthusiast" was oftener used by the students, u. .\^v;ik- 
 iug of me, than n.y own name ; besides, it was the hishiou 
 at that time in the studio to name the pupils from 
 some peculiarity, either of character or person. I'aul, 
 because of his pure and gentle face, was called "the 
 Madonna," and CamiUe, owing to his wealth, was dubbed 
 " Croesus," and our favorite model was never known by 
 any other title than " Tolome." 
 
 We four, although so different in character and cir- 
 cumstances, had, from our first acquaintance in M. Ingres' 
 school, been on more intimate terms than any others of 
 the class; but neither Paul, with his tine cpuilities, nor 
 CamiUe, with his sunny, generous nature, had exercised 
 such an influence and fascination as had Poloiue. 1 may 
 say without exaggeration that he was the chief inspira- 
 tion of that period; he was the living embodiment of 
 beauty; the Greek ideal incarnate; through the pertec 
 tion of Nature, I saw truth in Art. He taught me the 
 grace and freedom of lines, the plastic loveliness of form, 
 the charm of color, the mystery of light and shade ; in 
 fact, all that is exquisite in Nature and Art. 
 
 I thought of him constantly ; I studied him in imagi- 
 nation ; he dominated my present, as the head in the 
 black berretta had dominated my childhood, as Dorethea 
 had dominated my early youth. I needed him ever 
 before me, as a scholar needs his books of reference ; he 
 was my living book, from which I read all the truths 
 that I tried to transfer to my canvas. The very aban- 
 donment of self, the forgetfulness of being, the immobil- 
 ity and unconsciousness, unmarred by bodily restlessness, 
 clothed him with a mystical pow,er ; at times, he seemed 
 so absent, so remote from himself (if one may use the 
 expression), that it seemed as though his soul was no 
 
UAST. 
 
 uleiits, ill .ijii'iik- 
 , was tUc I'iishion 
 le pupils from 
 : pt'isou. Tiiul, 
 rt'iis culled "the 
 ulth, was ihibbed 
 never known by 
 
 lavactor and cir- 
 ,nce in M. Ingres' 
 an any others of 
 ,ne qualities, nor 
 re, had exercised 
 
 Polonte. 1 nuiy 
 the chief inspira- 
 y embodiment of 
 •ough the perfec- 
 [e taught nie the 
 oveliness of form, 
 lit and shade ; in 
 I Art. 
 led him in imagi- 
 
 the head in the 
 hood, as Dorethea 
 needed him ever 
 s of reference ; he 
 ad all the truths 
 i. The very aban- 
 eing, the imraobil- 
 )odily restlessness, 
 t times, he seemed 
 [ one may use the 
 h his soul was no 
 
 I'ttliON.E. 
 
 147 
 
 longer an inhabitant of his body ; and often, while I was 
 studying him physically, my mind was engaged in vague 
 speculations of a sitiiitual character, so weird and un- 
 natural tluvt they could only have occurred to an ovev- 
 wronglit imagination. 
 
 It seemed always to bo my disposition to look below 
 the surface, to lind some peculiarity, some myntery, 
 some charm, undiscovered by others. What was percep- 
 tible to the casual observer did not interest me. I was 
 always seeking some obscm-o meaning, some hidden 
 truth, which was never (juite clear to those around me ; 
 therefore, one of Polonie's chief attractions was the 
 obscurity that surroimded him, the hints and glimpses 
 of another existence, his apparent poverty and yet his 
 indilTerenco about money ; and now, more bewildering 
 than all the rest, his mysterious love affair, his familiar- 
 ity with fashionable life, and his sudden intimacy with 
 Camille. What did it all mean ? Could it be Polonae's 
 influence that had wrought the change in our master's 
 favorite, our bright, erratic genius ? Had he cast some 
 fatal spell over him, that clouded his clear mind, de- 
 stroyed his ambition, and left him indolent, weak, and 
 reckless ? 
 
 During the winter preceding the Salon of '35, Camille 
 surprised us again by declaring that he did not intend to 
 compete for the prize of Rome ; neither did he think of 
 painting a picture for the spring exhibition. In fact, 
 that he had C[uite given up the idea of making a profes- 
 sion of art. 
 
 "I have discovered," he said, half seriously, half 
 mockingly, " tliat I have none of the genuine fire, the 
 divine inspiration, that our master is always talking of. 
 I am tired of the drudgery; I lack application and 
 
 "TKKSBS^ 
 
148 
 
 Till'; STOUV <tl'' AN KNTIIUSIAHT. 
 
 tMithusiasm. No, no, it's no use. 1 tun too luiihitious to 
 be siitistietl witli mi'diocrity, und that is the lu'Ht 1 couhl 
 ever hope I'or. Now, you, my friend," lie eontiiiued, 
 hiyint; his hand alTeetionately on Taiil's shouhU'r, whih> 
 he studied liis prize pieture, "you liave the veritrdde 
 stamp; there is nothing spurious about your talent; my 
 dear Ma(h)nna, I wouhl not try to eomp»'te with you. 
 No, no, indeed; I'll leave the humds of '35 to be 
 gathered by you and the Knthusiaat." 
 
 « But think of our master's disappointment," I said ; 
 *' he expected so much of you." 
 
 "Ah. well, he must console hiniself with Taul ; he 
 has already transferred his affections to him. I am the 
 sheei) that has gone astray, and I am not worth looking 
 
 after." 
 
 In spite of his assumed gayety and indifference, one 
 could see that he was ill at case, aiul profoundly dissatis- 
 fied with himself. 
 
 " I'oor Camilhs" said Paul, sadly, after he had gone. 
 "What a bright genius to be clouded and ruined by 
 some untoward influence. Think of him as he was a 
 few months ago — his ambition, his energy, his candor. 
 And now all this mystery and decei)tion. It is painful 
 to think of. Can Polonie be at the bottom of it, I 
 
 wonder ? " 
 
 "I would give mucli to know how and where they 
 pass their time together," I replied. "They both seem 
 to alternate between a state of feverish happiness and 
 restless dejection." 
 
 In this way we speculated and discussed the situation, 
 but could arrive at no explanation of the enigma. t 
 
 It was early spring. Already there were vernal suggest- 
 ions in the swaying branches, the moist, dark earth, and 
 
mmm n m OiW ^"B'-" i* »^m 
 
 USIAST. 
 
 i\ too lunbitiouH to 
 is tlie best I could 
 d," \u' foiititnu'd, 
 1'h ahouldiT, while 
 iiive tho v('iitrd)lt) 
 t your tiili'iit ; my 
 ompete with you. 
 ch of '35 to be 
 
 ointment," I said 5 
 
 elf with Paul ; he 
 to him. I aui the 
 not worth looking 
 
 d indifference, one 
 irofoundly dissatis- 
 
 ifter he had gone, 
 led and ruined by 
 him as he was a 
 jucrgy, his candor. 
 ;ion. It is painfid 
 iie bottom of it, I 
 
 )w and where they 
 
 "They both seem 
 
 rish happiness and 
 
 iussed the situation, 
 the enigma. 1 
 were vernal suggest- 
 list, dark earth, and 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 roLONiH. 
 
 U!t 
 
 thf languid south-wind. In the sunny nooks of the 
 giinU'UM "in crocus and tulips weie imshing thi-iryllow 
 spears tlirou-l. thi'ir brown sln-aths, an 1 the. hcdgi-s w.to 
 fringed witli hints of color and lilV. 1 love the early 
 spring ; it is like tlie first awakening of a soul to a now ex. 
 pericnCo, full of promise and expectancy. Full of prom- 
 ise ! how nuieh that means to one who is svary Irom 
 some severe elTort, an<l i.s just feeling the first pangs of 
 dissatisfaction and discouragement. 
 
 I'aul and 1 were walking through ofte of the avenues 
 of the lioh. Wo were both tired, and a little uncertain 
 and dejected about our pictures, which were ready for 
 the Sulon, although our master was vry linpeful ; now 
 that tlu'y were finished, we began to have all sorts of 
 doubts and anxieties about them. 
 
 "lam sure mine will be hung in a bad light," saul 
 
 i'aul. , ., 
 
 "1 am afraid mim; will not be even accepted, 1 
 
 " I have never thought of that ! I am sure they will 
 be hung; but /(r>?/> is what troubles mc." 
 
 " Yours will have a place of honor, but mine — if it is 
 accepted, why, I shall be satisfied even if it is ' skyed,' 
 I think so little of it now." 
 
 " Yovi arc too modest," and Paul smiled encouragingly 
 " It is better than you think. One must not undervalue 
 his own efforts, and I think it wiser not to be anxious. 
 You have done your best, and God knows how / have 
 worked. I have put years of my life into mine. It 
 means so much for me if I fail ; but for you, who have 
 wealth, all is yours — success with you is only a ques- 
 
 tion of time." 
 
 While he spoke, I thouglit of Dorcthca. The tender 
 
150 
 
 THK STOKY OF AN KNTMU.SIAST. 
 
 breath of spring had fanned my love to a flame, and my 
 longing to see her was intense. I must return to 
 England with something accomplished. I must succeed 
 for her, and for the moment I doubted if Paul's incen- 
 tive were greater than mine. 
 
 " I am glad our master is satisfied with us," continued 
 Paul- "he has had a great disappointment in Camille. 
 Poor Camille! to throw away such a career, and for 
 what ? Mon Dlen ! what has taken possession of him ? " 
 
 Being in a tender mood myself, I spoke almost invol- 
 untarily : " Camille is in love. Have you not guessed 
 
 it?" 
 
 "And is that a reason for a man to renounce so 
 much?" asked Paul, incredulously; "it seems to me 
 that it should be a spur to ambition." 
 
 " I think with some natures it is otherwise," I said. 
 " The passion absorbs them ; they think only of the 
 object of their adoration. Every interest is forgotten. 
 The past, the future are disregarded ; the present en- 
 folds them like a dense cloud, and they do not wish to 
 see beyond it." 
 
 « Do you think Camille has found a woman of such 
 superiority that she can dominate a character as strong 
 as his ? " asked Paul, surprise and doubt in his tone. 
 
 '• It is not necessary that she should be intellectually 
 superior. She need only be beautiful ; his love of the 
 beautiful makes liim keenly alive to the physical charms 
 of a woman. 1 can understand how entirely he would 
 worship such a woman." 
 
 « Such a woman, yes ; but they are rare. The pliysi- 
 cal beauty that would satisfy a nature as exacting as 
 CamiUe's would be difficult to find. I have never seen 
 it, have you ? " 
 
I j# w.i%yjf awijii^NVii*^^ '11 
 
 1 
 
 N KNTMU.SIAST. 
 
 ly love to a flame, and my 
 Mise. I must return to 
 uplislH'd. T must succeed 
 [ doubted if Paul's incen- 
 
 Ltistied with us," contintied 
 isappointment in Camille. 
 :iy sucli a career, and for 
 taken possession of him ? " 
 self, I spoke almost invol- 
 e. Have you not guessed 
 
 or a man to renounce so 
 ulously ; " it seems to me 
 ibition." 
 
 es it is otherwise," I said. 
 1 ; they think only of the 
 ivcry interest is forgotten, 
 sregarded ; the present en- 
 d, and they do not wish to 
 
 as found a woman of such 
 inate a character as strong 
 36 and doubt in his tone. 
 ihe should be intellectually 
 ; beautiful ; his love of the 
 alive to the physical charms 
 tand how entirely he would 
 
 they are rare. The physi- 
 3fy a nature as exacting as 
 to find. I have never seen 
 
 POLONiE. 
 
 161 
 
 "Yes," I replied, as we turned into the grand av- 
 enue ; " I saw a woman of just such beauty once," for 
 while Taul spoke the enchanting face I had seen bend- 
 ing over ToloniB under the spreading oak came vividly 
 before me, " and it was not far from here. It was a 
 face to work mischief for the strongest man living." 
 At that instant, with the words on my lips, I looked up, 
 and there it was before me — the actual, living-face; 
 like a vision of beauty it glided by, and in a moment 
 
 was gone. 
 
 The westering sun threw long, slanting shadows across 
 the crowded thoroughfare. Carriage after carriage 
 whirled past, the confusion of light and color seemed 
 for a moment to dazzle me; but I saw distinctly one 
 group, that imprinted itself on my sight with photo- 
 graphic fidelity. A pair of high-stepping horses, shin- 
 ing like burnished bronze, their silver-mounted harness 
 glinting in the low sunlight. The driver stately and 
 high-seated, the footman with folded arms, like a statue, 
 looking straight before him. An open landau, rich with 
 ruby satin and dark green enamel ; a woman wrapped 
 in blue velvet and soft white fur, graceful plumes 
 drooping over her sunny hair and softly shading a brow 
 of angelic loveliness. A young, handsome man sitting 
 beside her, talking gayly, and bending adoring glances 
 on the exquisite face lifted to his. 
 
 An exclamation from Paul brought me to myself. 
 " Camille ! del ! what an adorable woman ! No wonder 
 that he has lost himself. My friend, I understand it all 
 
 now." 
 
 Carriage after carriage rolled by, filled with youth, 
 beauty, and fashion ; but I only saw that one. I only 
 saw that face, and Camille's fine eyes looking into it. 
 
 •1 
 
 
 '-Wi 
 
mmvfw»* 
 
 152 
 
 THE STORY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 It was the same face, the same woman, that I had seen 
 sitting like a shepherdess among verdure and silence, 
 with Polonse reading at her feet. 
 
 IX. 
 
 My picture which was well placed and attracted 
 some attention in the Salon was not the work I consid- 
 ered my best. Like most young painters, I had selected 
 an ambitious subj(>ct, " Helios and Clymene," and I had 
 confined myself to the purely classical in representing 
 it. Polonte Avas my model for the sun-god, and, as he 
 was the principal figure in the composition, I had made 
 a most careful study of form and color. It was a con- 
 scientious and faithful effort, yet I felt that it lacked 
 something, and that feeling was shared by our master 
 and Paul. It was too academical, too studied, and I saw, 
 much to my chagrin, that, in following my model too 
 closely, I had missed soul and sentiment. Therefore, 1 
 cannot say that I Avas greatly disappointed Avhen I found 
 it hung indifferently Avell among some hundred of like 
 subjects Avhich attracted very little notice, but a smaller 
 picture, Avhich I had painted the previous year, at a time 
 of enthusiasm over a new model, and with a sort of 
 divine fury, found an honorable place, and Avas much 
 talked of — quite enough, M. Michelet said, to turn my 
 head, and spoil my future career. 
 
 It was a simple subject. A young girl, gathering 
 roses, had pierced her Avhite, slender finger Avith a thorn ; 
 the roses had fallen at her feet, while she looked at the 
 Avounded finger Avith sorrowful surprise. It represented 
 nature tenderly, harmoniously. It was truthful but not 
 austere, delicate in color and graceful in pose, a pretty 
 
CHUSIAST. 
 
 an, that I had seen 
 rerdure and silence, 
 
 M i a i'^,i i j-'il-i»i" ' P4» i '> ' |,yi'n'r <t ^\ >iiii "i >i y 
 
 aced and attracted 
 t the work I consid- 
 inters, 1 had selected 
 Jlyuieue," and I had 
 sical in representing 
 
 sun-god, and, as he 
 losition, I had made 
 !olor. It was a con- 
 [ felt that it lacked 
 bared by our master 
 30 studied, and I saw, 
 iwing my model too 
 iiment. Therefore, I 
 pointed when I found 
 ;ome hundred of like 
 notice, but a smaller 
 evious year, at a time 
 
 and with a sort of 
 dace, and was much 
 elet said, to turn my 
 
 oung girl, gathering 
 r finger with a thorn ; 
 lile she looked at the 
 )rise. It represented 
 was truthful but not 
 'ful in pose, a pretty 
 
 rOLON^. 
 
 153 
 
 sontinunt, that every one undcrntood and appreciated; 
 yet it could never appeal to the soul as Paul's grand 
 n'li.nou3 composition did- Christ in the garden, asking 
 sadlv, reproachfully, "Could ye not watch one hour? 
 It Avas almost impossible to get near his picture ; all 
 day long a crowd surrounded it, and the verdict was 
 always favorable. 
 
 It seemed at that time as if Paul was under the pro- 
 tection of some good genius, so many fortunate things 
 happened to him. Scarcely daring to hope for it, he 
 one day received the welcome news that he had won the 
 prize of Eome. We all rejoiced with him, for we knew 
 how much it was to him. Always delicate m health, 
 his strength was greatly reduced by constant labor and 
 self-denial. He needed the rest and freedom from care 
 which he would find in the Academy. Then, there was 
 another great reason for him to be happy at the prospect 
 before him. Our school would soon be broken up. Our 
 dear master was about to leave Varis, to succeed Horace 
 Vernet in the directorship of the French Academy in 
 Eome, and Paul would be still under the instruction of 
 M. Ingres, whom he admired more than any other living 
 
 painter. , , t i 
 
 For myself, my soul was in England, and I was long- 
 in" for a sight of Dorethea. I was none the less enthu- 
 siastic about my future career, but I felt that I could 
 not go on successfully until my heart was at rest. 
 
 My plans were all made. I intended to go to London, 
 where Lord Hardmoor then was with his family, see 
 Dorethea, and, if possible, gain her parents' consent to 
 our engagement, and then follow M. Ingres and Paul 
 to Eome, where I could enjoy the benefit of lay master s 
 advice, as well as my friend's society. / 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 ^? jg m& ' S (f- i K'. ay»>Hyj^j ? s '' ■ -- 
 
IM 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 As soon as the Salon closed, I packed and despatched 
 my pictures to London, where they were exhibited, and 
 there they attracted more attention than they did in 
 
 During the three years that I had been with M. Ingres, 
 I had made several efforts to get a glimpse of the apart- 
 ment where I had spent the happiest years of my child- 
 hood, where I had last seen my father in life, and where, 
 alas ! 1 had too sorrowfully seen him in death. 
 
 I have, and always did have, a peculiar feeling about 
 places and things. It seems to me that inanimate ob- 
 jects have a sort of consciousness, and become interested 
 in us and attached to us. Do not the walls of a favorite 
 room, thp furniture, the pictures and books, give us a 
 mute welcome when we enter after an absence, and do 
 we not at once feel that we are at home and among 
 
 friends ? 
 
 I remembered some fine fresco-painting on the study 
 walls, and I knew those cherub faces were still there, 
 smiling, fresh, and beautiful. They were one of the 
 pleasant memories of my childhood, and I felt a strong 
 desire to see them once more. An old lady, an invalid 
 of peculiar habits, occupied the rooms, and seldom went 
 out; consequently, I had not been able to gain admit- 
 tance. ..11. 
 
 Fadette had promised, every time I visited her, to 
 arrange it for me as soon as madam was better. Now, 
 as I was about to leave Paris, I decided to make another 
 attempt, wishing as well to say good-by to the old 
 woman, who seemed the only living link between the 
 past and the present. 
 
 I found Fadette sitting in her little room near the 
 jm-te, behind her screen of scarlet geraniums, industn- 
 
USIA8T. 
 
 ed and dospatclu'd 
 ere exhibited, and 
 than tliey did in 
 
 3en with M. Ingres, 
 nipse of the apart- 
 years of my child- 
 ■ in life, and where, 
 in death. 
 
 aliar feeling about 
 that inanimate ob- 
 1 become interested 
 walls of a favorite 
 d books, give us a 
 m absence, and do 
 ; home and among 
 
 iting on the study 
 es were still there, 
 y were one of the 
 and I felt a strong 
 )ld lady, an invalid 
 IS, and seldom went 
 able to gain admit- 
 
 e I visited her, to 
 . was better. Now, 
 led to make another 
 good-by to the old 
 g link between the 
 
 little room near the 
 geraniums, industri- 
 
 roLONTK. 
 
 155 
 
 ously darning table-linen. She and her surroundings 
 had changed so little in all these years that it seemed as 
 if the pile of snowy linen, the flowers, the paroquet, and 
 even the basket of vegetables on the table, were the 
 very same that I had noticed when a little lad. 
 
 As I looked around, I thouglit it strange that she had 
 cluuiged so little while I had changed so much. Life 
 seemed to have stood still with her, while I had been 
 whirled through the years like a leaf driven before 
 the wind. Thinking of this, as I took the chair she 
 offered me, I was surprised to hear her echo my very 
 thoughts, only reversed. 
 
 " Why, monsieur, how little you change. You keep 
 the same young, handsome face. It is only I who grow 
 old and stupid. And how swiftly time passes ! It seems 
 only yesterday that monsieur your father stood just 
 there in the door, smiling so kindly, and asking about 
 my flowers. And madam your mother — oh, what a 
 face ! It was like junshine. She always brought Babo 
 something when she passed in and out. Of course, not 
 this one ; but he is so like the other, and has the same 
 name, that I sometimes forget my first Babo died nine 
 years ago. And, now I think of it, monsieur, you have 
 not been near me for six months. And since then so 
 many changes! Old madam dead and buried and the 
 apartment empty for two weeks, and I expecting you 
 every day to go over the rooms with me." 
 
 " Oh, but I did not know it, or I should have been 
 here," I replied ; " I have been busy preparing for the 
 exhibition. Had I known, nothing would have kept me 
 away. In fact, I came to-day with a hope of getting a 
 glimpse of the dear old place." 
 " Well, monsieur, I think I can take the liberty to-day. 
 
 - { ! ; g fts^w,feft■wfet.u^mi^aTOWffe" 
 
MiP 
 
 
 liii 
 
 mo TIIK STOItV OF AN KNTIIUSIAST. 
 
 1 have a very (liffovont tenant now, a young niMlani, wh.i 
 is all beauty ami kindness. She is out a yreat deal ; at 
 this time she drives in the Boh, an.l does not return 
 nntil dinner. I am sure her maid, who is very accommo- 
 dating, will oblige me, and allow us to enter; at least, 
 
 we can try." , i. n 
 
 The maid, I thought, admitted us a little reluctantly ; 
 however, after having Fadette's explanation, she was 
 more gracious, and at my request took me into the study 
 which was madam's boudoir. There was nothing famil- 
 iar about the room but the walls with the lovely arabesque 
 border and smiling cherub faces which I remembered 
 so well. In an instant, at the sight of them, all my 
 past surroundings came vividly before me, and I seemed 
 to see my father sitting near the table, in his carved high- 
 backed chair, turning the leaves of a book with slender, 
 white fingers, and looking up from time to time to 
 smile at me, where I sat opposite, silently conning my 
 lessons; and my eyes turned involuntarily toward the 
 wall where the head in the black berretta always hung, 
 but, instead of the pensive face of my beloved picture, 
 I saw, smiling triumphantly from a gilded panel, the 
 handsome features of Camille. 
 
 Unconsciously 1 uttered an exclamation of surprise, 
 ' which my companions noticed ; for Fadette said, with a 
 iilance at the maid, " You have seen monsieur ? 
 
 "I have seen a face like his,'| I ans^^ered, evasively. 
 "Is he the husband of madam ? " , „ • , .u 
 
 « No, he is not her husband ; he is a friend, said the 
 
 maid, coldly. ,. „ 
 
 As rapidly as possible, I noticed my surroundings. 
 The rooms were furnished richly and with much taste, 
 and one could tell that they were occupied by a young 
 
 
I'HUSIAST. 
 
 POLONY. 
 
 ir>7 
 
 I young iniiilaiu, wIkj 
 aut a great deal ; at 
 iiud does not return 
 ^ho is very acconimo- 
 is to enter ; at least, 
 
 i a little reluctantly ; 
 3Xi)lanation, she was 
 ok me into the study 
 i-e was nothing faniil- 
 \ the lovely arabesque 
 ,vhich I remembered 
 ight of them, all my 
 ore me, and I seemed 
 )le, in his carved high- 
 a book with slender, 
 m\ time to time to 
 "., silently conning my 
 Dluntarily toward the 
 berretta always hung, 
 E my beloved picture, 
 
 II a gilded panel, the 
 
 clamation of surprise, 
 or li'adette said, with a 
 en monsieur ? " 
 I ans\iered, evasively. 
 
 8 is a friend," said the 
 
 iced my surroundings, 
 r and with much taste, 
 > occupied by a young 
 
 and fashionable woman. Flowers, rilibons, gloves, fans, 
 bonOon boxes, jewelry, and all sorts of pretty tritles, 
 were scattered carelessly about. In the salon the piano 
 stood open, and the nnisic-rack was piled with fashion- 
 able operas and ballads, while the walls were hung with 
 Boine of Camille's best pictures. On an easel near a 
 window stood a nearly com[)k'ted portrait. The palette 
 lay on a small table, with the colors still wet, as thohgh 
 it had been used that day. I glanced at the picture ; it 
 was an exquisite likeness of the woman I had seen in the 
 
 Jiois. 
 
 "It is madam," said Fadette; "monsieur can see for 
 
 liimself how beautiful she is." 
 
 Not daring to remain longer, I slipped a ten-franc 
 piece into the hand of the maid, who closed the door 
 hurriedly upon us. 
 
 It would be impossible to describe my emotions as I 
 descended the stairs with Fadette. My first feeling was 
 one of indignation. It seemed as though I had wit- 
 nessed the desecration of my home, the pure temple of 
 happy domestic love. My angel mother, my good fath- 
 er, seemed to look reproachfully at me in the midst of 
 these indications of an irregular connection. I regretted 
 that I had succeeded in gaining admission only to learn 
 this hateful secret, only to discover the dishonor of my 
 friend. - 
 
 " Tell me about this woman," I said sternly to Fadette, 
 when we reached her little room. 
 
 "I know nothing about her, monsieur. She came 
 here a few months ago with the agent to look at the 
 apartment. A blond handsome man accompanied her ; I 
 thought they were just married, he seemed so anxious 
 to please her. Then the furniture came, and they were 
 
 ■y mm 
 
 - "ii«i»a 8 a»r ' 
 
168 
 
 THK 8TU11Y OK AN KNTJIUHIAHT. 
 
 BO happy sottling their mcnaiji: Miidaui id 80 gracious, 
 and not at all dilHcnlt. At first the l.U)nd spent most 
 of his time with her, and she saw no other company. 
 One day, the dark young count cilnie with him, and con- 
 tinued to come very often. For some time he and the; 
 blond were always here together, and there was a great 
 deal of company, and they were very gay. Then the 
 blond came but seldom, and it if now some days that I 
 have not seen him at all. I think they had some trouble, 
 for he rushed out, much excited, without noticing me j 
 he seemed confused and scared, like one half-crazy, and 
 he has not returned since. But the count comes always. 
 Madam has a carriage, and they go out together and 
 seem very happy. However, it is not my business to 
 tell the secrets of the house, and I should not talk if I 
 did not know that monsieur is very discreet, liut hush ! 
 — here they are returning from their drive earlier than 
 
 usual." . . 
 
 I withdrew out of sight, but remained in a position 
 where I could see the entrance, and my heart beat al- 
 most audibly when I saw Camille with the lovely en- 
 chantress leaning on his arm and smiling up at him, 
 while her red gold hair brushed his shoulder. The//-oM- 
 frou of her rich dress and her tinkling laughter died 
 away in the distance as they mounted the stairs, and 
 I stood stupidly looking after them, only conscious of 
 one thing, and that was that I had discovered the Deli- 
 lah who had shorn my friend of his strength. 
 
 But Polonse — unhappy Polonse ! What of him ? 
 
UHIAHT. 
 
 POLON-13. 
 
 ir.i) 
 
 am id HO gracious, 
 bloii'l spi'iit moHt 
 10 other company, 
 kith liim, ami cou- 
 in timo he ami the 
 . there was a great 
 ■y gay. Then the 
 T some (hiys that I 
 y had some trouble, 
 thout noticing me ; 
 one halt-crazy, and 
 ount comes always. 
 3 out together and 
 lot my business to 
 ould not talk if I 
 iscreet. lint hush ! 
 drive earlier than 
 
 iined in a position 
 . my heart beat al- 
 ivith the lovely en- 
 smiling up at him, 
 houlder. The frou- 
 ding laughter died 
 ited the stairs, and 
 1, only conscious of 
 liscovered the Deli- 
 jtrength. 
 What of him ? 
 
 X. 
 
 Tt was the eve of my departure for T.ondon, and I sat 
 alone in my room, feeling desolate and anxious, as I al- 
 ways do wlien about to make any change in the ordinary 
 routine of my life. 
 
 My effects were all packed ; tlie bare walls and empty 
 bookcases seemed to look at me with mute sorrow. I 
 liad been very happy in these rooms ; for three years 
 T had lived a congenial life, a life that suited my 
 l)eculiar temperament. Hooks, music, and pictures 
 had been my companions, when I had not enjoyed the 
 s()(5iety of my friends, who had not been many, but I 
 loved them, and our tastes were the same. How many 
 bright evenings with Camille and the others, how many 
 thoroughly satisfactory hours of labor with Paul alone 
 for my companion. I had lived my three years at the 
 very best. I had worked hard and accomplished a great 
 deal. I had carried out my plans and had made an hon- 
 orable start in my profession, and I felt that I had won 
 my father's approval ; he seemed very near me while I 
 sat there alone, and, in spite of my anxieties, a gentle 
 peace filled my heart. But would I ever be as happy 
 a!,'ain, as free from self-reproach and regret, as well con- 
 tented with myself. England loomed before me like a 
 dark cloud in my horizon. I thought of Lord Hardmoor, 
 cold, sarcastic, and worldly, sceptical of all the softer in- 
 fluences of life, a scoffer at sentiment and the religion of 
 beauty, and felt that there could be but little sympathy 
 between us. Ah, had it not been for Dorethea, for my 
 sweet love, never again would I have set foot on the 
 
 r^BCTiBESfflP^'" 
 
160 
 
 TUK HTOUY OK AN KNTUUSIART. 
 
 Bhorc of that pi'vtid,: Alhioi., where I hiul aulfovecl so 
 
 muoli. , . . 
 
 Thinking ovor all this, 1 ha.l smok.-.l out my last cigar, 
 and it was near midnight. 1 had waited, hoping that i.t 
 tlic hist some of my friends wouhl eonio to say good-l)y. 
 Paul hu.l gone to the country to visit his parents before 
 his departure for Koine. Camilh. I had not seen for 
 weeks -in fact, not since my elianee glimpse ..t hun lu 
 the Kue de Grenelle. He had cut himself adrift from his 
 former life and friends; even M. Ingres, who had been 
 devoted to him, rarely saw him, and never knew ot his 
 mode of life. Of I'olome, my unhappy triend, I could 
 k-irn nothing. T had tried to communicate with him 
 through every medium \ could tliink of; I had written to 
 him of my intended departure for England on the date 
 that I had fixed upon. I begged him to come to me or 
 tell me where I could find him ; I felt a great tenderness 
 and pity for him. I was sure he was sutTering from a 
 cruel wound, and, indignant and hopeless, he had hid.h-n 
 himself somewhere to eat out his heart alone in silence 
 
 and misery. 
 
 Sometimes I shuddered at the thought of a more hor- 
 rible fate — he had so often said that he had not a single 
 tie to bind him to life, and in that great Paris, with it.s 
 restless rush, one could be trodden down and passed 
 over, obliterated as though he had never been, and who 
 could know the end ? 
 
 Unhappy, and disappointed at my failure to hear from 
 him before I retired, 1 began reluctantly to prepare for 
 bed, when I heard a step outside, and a low, hesitating 
 knock at the outer door. In au instant I turned the key, 
 and the object of my solicitude stood before me. 
 
 If it had been possible for Polonse to look like any 
 
irsiAST. 
 
 1 hud auitVved so 
 
 il out my last ci^ixr, 
 D('(l, hoping that iit 
 iiu! to say good-hy. 
 his parents before 
 had not seen for 
 glimpse of him in 
 self adrift from his 
 ;r('s, who had been 
 never knew of his 
 )py friend, I coidd 
 nunieate with him 
 of; I had written to 
 iglaiul on the date 
 
 I to come to me or 
 t a great tenderness 
 IS suffering from a 
 eless, he had hidden 
 art alone in silence 
 
 Aght of a more hor- 
 ; he had not a single 
 ;reat Taris, with its 
 
 II down and passed 
 lever been, and who 
 
 failure to hear from 
 mtly to prepare for 
 nd a low, hesitating 
 ant I turned the key, 
 i before me. 
 ise to look like any 
 
 V(*\AiSAi. 
 
 t»l 
 
 other liuman being, I should not have known liim. so 
 terribly was he eliang.'d. Silently and nicfhanically, 
 like one moving in liia sleep, lie placed his hat and 
 gloves on the table, and with strange precision drew a 
 chair near the empty iireplaee and sat down. Tlie night 
 was warm, Imt he seemed to be shivering with a slight 
 
 ague. 
 
 "iAIy friend, my ilear friend," I almost sobbed, "you 
 have l)een ill, and did not let me know." 
 
 "No," he replied, with a wan smile, looking at me 
 from the glo(m»y caverns of his eyes, that had beeonm 
 jilmormally large and sunken, " no ; I have not been 
 ill. I have been in hdl, and these ehanges are the marks 
 ol' my torment." 
 
 VuY a moment I thought he was insane ; then a motherly 
 tenderness, an inlinitc pity, filled my soul, and, drawing 
 his head to my bosom, 1 held him in my strong ycmng 
 arms, fdose to my heart, and said, soothingly, " Tell me, 
 tell me all, and let m(( help you." 
 
 "There is no help," he said; "there is nothing to bo 
 done. I do not suffer now ; the lire of my torment is 
 bin-nt out, and I am like dead ashes." 
 
 Taking my hands in his cold clasp, he i)resscd them 
 with solemn fervor, and said, gratefully, "Ah, your 
 friendship is the only cooling drop that has fallen on my 
 l.arched heart. Thank you. God bless you." 
 
 Then disengaging himself gently from my arms, he 
 arose and began pacing the floor. I noticed how very 
 leeble he was, how thin his hands were, and the pitifully 
 attenuated lines of his limljs, that had served so often for 
 models of symmetrical beauty. 
 
 " I should not have come here to make you unhappy 
 on the eve of your departure," he said, at last, arousing 
 
 » ii!wglJw..i>miswaw. * » ;. ,*M*<»M ! i* < »«M»'*'feM^ ''"'■ ' - aw W i ' -' ' ' g ' .^i ^ ? 
 
.... ■ ,,»..,^.^-:f^ 
 
 102 
 
 THK HTOICV OK AN KNTIIUHIAST. 
 
 hiiiiHolf with an i'lTt)it. " I ili<l not nu'iin tliat any oiu' 
 Hliniild know of n>y niisl'ortunf, Imt I (H.uld not ruproHS 
 the h)n(j;ing to «(•»• you on(!'i mure." 
 
 lie trtJUihU'il and wavurod as if aliout to fall, (ii'ntly 
 foivinj,' him into a chair, 1 ponivd out houu' wine and 
 askod him to diiuk it. H- took it witlumt n-mark, 
 drank it at a drau^lit, and swimd somewhat revived. 
 
 ".Now tell me your trouble; 1 must know before I 
 sleep. Vou ean trust me ; 1 am your friend,' I urged. 
 
 " Yes, I can trust you ; you ure sincere. Hut of what 
 use to complain ! 1 tell you I do not sutler now. I am 
 not as weak as you think. The fact is, I have eaten 
 nothing for days; the wine, has revived me. Now I 
 have nerve and strength. If I lay my heart bare to 
 you, you will only despise me, but not as deeply as I 
 despise myself. Oh, there is nolhing in the world that 
 1 hate as I hate myself. I5ut why shouUl I T It was 
 destiny ; it was destiny. I had no will of my own. I 
 was helpless. 1 saw her again, I heard her voice, and 
 1 was lost. 1 thought 1 hated and dewpised her, but I 
 loved her— I lovt'd her always, and I love her now, and 
 shall love her while there is life enous'li in me to suffer. 
 W(! I'oles are doomed. It is our destiny to be constant, 
 and to lose, — always to lose, — and our losses are dearer 
 to us than gain to others. I thought 1 had nothing 
 more to lose. 1 had buried my love so long that I 
 thought it was dead, dead ; but, at the first sight of her 
 face, it started up and stood before me like a strong 
 man armed. It took possession of me, and I was over- 
 powered—bound hand and foot, and delivered up to 
 hell. It is all very simple— an every-day story. Her 
 llussiaiv lov(>r deserted her six years ago, and she was 
 but eighteen. She drifted to J'aris with other wrecks. 
 
JSIAHT. 
 
 ■iui tliat uuy OIK' 
 ■oiiltl not repri'ss 
 
 L to tall. (Icntly 
 ; Hoini' wiiu' and 
 
 without rt'iuark, 
 .'what rcvivi'tl. 
 it know before I 
 ru'iiil,' I urged. 
 >re. lUit of what 
 siitTer now. 1 am 
 , i.s, I have eaten 
 ved mo. Now I 
 my heart bare to 
 lot as deeply aa I 
 
 iu the world that 
 diould 1 T It was 
 /ill of my own. I 
 ird her voice, and 
 ilewpised her, but I 
 
 love her now, and 
 igli in me to snffer. 
 .iuy tt) be constant, 
 ir losses are dearer 
 ,'lit 1 had nothing 
 )V0 so long that I 
 le first sight of her 
 
 me like a strong 
 me, and I was ovcr- 
 id delivered np to 
 ■ry-day story. Her 
 rs ago, and she was 
 , with other wrecks, 
 
 I'or.OM.K. 
 
 les 
 
 iiiid siiiee then has lived a j.reearious existenne, not , 
 wholly l>ad. In her there is just enough of the divine 
 to make the demon attractive. She is a mixtuit" of saint 
 and tleiid — the fiu'c of an angel, the heart of a devil. 
 More than a year ago, was it not V — about the time I 
 iisked you for a loan of two tlKmsaiid francs — I had on- 
 ciiHion toidiange my ai)artment, and one day, while look- 
 ing for another ecpially suitable, I entered a small hotel 
 ill the Avemu) Matigiion, where rooms were iidvertised to 
 he let. The apartment was on the fourth floor, small, 
 imd simply furnished. The cunr!n-(/i; as garrulous as 
 they usually are, told me that a very beautiful yoiuiglady 
 had occupied the rooms, who was in great trouble, could 
 not i)ay her rent when she went, and had left her effects 
 until she could settle with the landlord. There were 8omo 
 boxes waiting to bo mov«'d, and on their covers 1 noticed 
 several Russian labels. .Inst at that moment, the door 
 near which we were was softly opened, and nhe stood be- 
 fore me. The recognition was mutual — instantaneous. I 
 held out my hand, and slui clasped it warmly, eagerly. 
 The conrierge discreetly withdrew, and we were alone. 
 It is not necessary to relate in detail all that followed. 
 It is enough to say that I was in a fool's paradise. I 
 liaid her debts, which were numerous, and established 
 her in an apartment. She must be well lodged, well 
 clothed, and well cared for. She was ambitious, and mean 
 surroundings did not suit her beauty. I spent all I liad 
 to gratify her extravagant demands. I had but one thing 
 that belonged to my mother. It was an antique cross, 
 set with gems of great value. It had been in our family 
 for centuries, and prized as an amulet — a charm against 
 evil. It bad been wet with my father's blood, it lay on 
 his breast in death ; my mother took it from over her 
 
 M»w>H i <i r .lsJ-.»w<u.* ' i^v ' JiWJ.w 
 
164 
 
 THE STOKY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 broken heart when I left her, and hnng it about my neck 
 with her blessing and prayers. I always wore it — no 
 words can tell what it was to me. It had been bathed 
 in my father's blood, my mother's tears, and made 
 sacred by that last benediction. My friend, I sold it for 
 her, to pander to her luxury — that pure, sacred thing, 
 the last treasure I had on earth. She seemed grateful, 
 happy, contented, and, more than all, she seemed to 
 love me tenderly. One day, our friend Camille met us 
 together. I presented him to her, and when we were 
 alone she asked a great many questions about him, and 
 finally made me promise to bring him to visit her. He 
 was my friend. I loved and trusted liim; so I complied 
 with her wishes, and he became a constant visitor. Poor 
 Camille ! I do not blame Camille — remember, I do not 
 blame him. He struggled against it. He did not wish 
 to injure me, but he too was powerless. It was his des- 
 
 tiny, as 
 
 it was mine. I could not believe it at first. I 
 
 was blind and stupid, and it was not until she asked me, 
 in the plainest language, how we were to live — how was 
 I to support her in the luxury necessary to her happi- 
 ness. Had I a settled income ? No. Well, Camille had, 
 and Camille loved her. As for her, she must think of 
 herself. Love, devotion, passion — that was all very well 
 with money, but without it was nothing. My God ! how 
 the demon took possession of her ! Her angel face was 
 transformed. She was Medusa, Avhom to look at waS to 
 die. She killed my soul with a glance. She sent me to 
 the Lind)us of the damned with a smile. It is over. I 
 accept my fate. Again, again I have lost. And Ca- 
 mille — ah, did I hate him as I might, I could wish him 
 no greater punishment than to tasfce of the oup tliat T 
 have drained," 
 
I ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 nd hung it about my neck 
 s. I always wove it — no 
 I me. It hail been bathed 
 lother's tears, and nuide 
 . My friend, I sold it for 
 — that pure, sacred thing, 
 rth. She seemed grateful, 
 than all, she seemed to 
 our friend Camille met us 
 ;o her, and when we were 
 Y questions about him, and 
 iring him to visit her. He 
 ;rusted him; so I complied 
 le a constant visitor. Poor 
 nille — remember, I do not 
 ;ainst it. He did not wish 
 powerless. It was -his des- 
 d not believe it at first. I 
 vas not until she asked me, 
 we were to live — how was 
 ury necessary to her happi- 
 ? No. Well, Camille had, 
 for her, she must think of 
 ion — that was all very well 
 as nothing. My God ! how 
 f her ! Her angel face was 
 usa, whom to look at waS to 
 h a glance. She sent me to 
 vith a smile. It is over. I 
 ;ain I have lost. And Ca- 
 s I might, I could wish hini 
 1 to taste of the cup that T 
 
 roiiONy!-:. 
 
 Ida 
 
 What could I say to him ? The few words tliat one 
 might use were no more ailequate to the situation than 
 a drop of dew to quench the iires of Vesuvius. I do not 
 think that he even heard what I tried to say. He was 
 so completely enfolded in his own misery as to be deal' 
 to the voice of frieiulship. 
 
 For some time he looked at me contemplatively; then 
 he said gently, and iu his old tone : " My friend, you 
 have soared straight upward into the pure ether, into 
 the blue of heaven. You are calm and undisturbed by 
 the passions and follies of this seething pit of misery. 
 You are above us all, 
 
 " ' L'aigle va Umjours seul.' 
 
 and we poor earth worms crawl and writhe in the dust. 
 Adieu ! I nmst go. Adieu ! " 
 
 " Wiiere are you going ? " I asked, surprised at his 
 calmness and the sudden change in his manner. 
 
 "To Poland." 
 
 " To Poland," I echoed. " When ? " 
 
 " To-morrow, at break of day, I leave Paris forever. I 
 am going to Poland, to my mother's grave. Adieu! 
 Adieu ! " and, wringing my hand passionately, he went 
 out and closed the door while I was still urging him to 
 remain. 
 
 To Poland, to his mother's grave. His last earthly 
 refuge. 
 
 Polonae, Adieu. 
 
 "S??®'*^' 
 
>.* - * ' . r * ^tV BWi ij-" .p iVjJ'*i i>i '. i« ii» I 
 
 .■^?i 
 
 PART IV. 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 l aWWWtMlt Lii 'WWWWlW 
 
s \ 
 
•rmMyt 
 
 PAET IV. 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 Rome, March 20, laSG. 
 This evening, while looking from my window in the 
 Piazza della Trinata dei Monti, I am as fully impressed 
 ao I ought to be that, at last, I am in Kome — T.me the 
 Mecca of the pilgrim of art, the realization of all his 
 ideals, the sum total of his aspirations. In every 
 other place he may look upon himself as a stranger and 
 a wayfarer. Here, O Eternal Mother, he is welcomed 
 to thy sumptuous bosom, and feasted on thy undying 
 beauty. 
 
 I might fill pages with descriptive rhapsodies, but of 
 wliat use ! I could say nothing new. Its glories and 
 delights have been sung and written of by every nation 
 and in every tongue under the sun. I will only say that 
 at first I did not fully comprehend nor appreciate the 
 grandeur and harmony of the vast city, the majestic 
 breadth and depth of color and shade, the materialized 
 poetry and melody that surrounded me. I was bewil- 
 dered and surprised. It was all too sublime for me to 
 grasp at first, but, after some weeks of rest and study, I 
 am growing accustomed to the magnificent proportions 
 of this wonderful architecture. Every day it is becom- 
 ing less mysterious, and more within my human grasp, 
 stretching out before me like a sombre panorama where 
 
 - . iii a' jia >ii S»> ' <w a w<»Ji*< ' w» * '«'»'W ' Ji» !i » ft' '"*ft '' -J ' ''^'"i* ' ■ s^"'" 
 
170 
 
 TIIK 8T0KY OF AN KNTMUSIAST. 
 
 hi 
 
 84 
 
 
 I 
 
 one by one I search out tlie wonders of antiquity and 
 the beauties of art. 
 
 Now the red sun is sinking behind the pines of Monte 
 Mario. Tliey stand like solemn sentinels at the gate of 
 night. The vast unutterable spreads above, the vast un- 
 utterable spreads below. The nmrniur of ages, the rest- 
 less whir of centuries, the roaring of that " loom of 
 Time" plied by countless multitudes, echoes and re- 
 echoes from afar, with a sound like the marshalling of 
 the eternal hosts. The dome of St. Peter's rises in 
 purple grandeur, solitary against the saffron sky, and in 
 remote splendor a glowing star hangs above the stern 
 blackcross — an emblem of peace after pain. This twi- 
 light hour of exquisite happiness consecrate.^ me to my 
 worship. Rome! city of eternal beauty, thou hast 
 entered into my soul, into the very inner temple of my 
 love, and henceforth thou art ray home of homes. 
 
 I am settled here in my comfortable apartment, only a 
 stone's-throw from the Villa Medici, the home of my dear 
 master, and madani, whom I love like a mother, and Paul, 
 my good an<l earnest Paul. A nobler era begins. I feel 
 a powerful impetus, a new dedication to art. My brain 
 and heart are full of pictures. Life is spread out be- 
 fore me in ravishing colors. I am happy, too happy. 
 Can one be too happy ? Oh youth, and love, and hope. 
 % • • • ' 
 
 Ever since Dorethea said she loved me, I have walked 
 on air. I am lifted into a higher, purer ether, the eternal 
 blue of heaven. That sweet soul, that fair-haired child, 
 has knighted me with her love ; henceforth I must be 
 sans peur et sans reproche. I am a better, stronger man. 
 
JS1A8T. 
 of antiquity and 
 
 le pines of Monte 
 lels at the gate of 
 bove, the vast un- 
 
 • of ages, the rest- 
 of that " loom of 
 !S, echoes and re- 
 le marshalling of 
 ;. Peter's rises in 
 affron sky, and in 
 3 above the stern 
 r pain. This twi- 
 ecrate? me to my 
 leauty, thou hast 
 ler temple of my 
 3 of homes. 
 
 1 apartment, only a 
 le home of my dear 
 , mother, and Paul, 
 era begins. I feel 
 to art. My brain 
 is spread out be- 
 happy, too happy, 
 id love, and hope. 
 
 * * 
 
 me, I have walked 
 ir ether, the eternal 
 t fair-haired child, 
 Lceforth I must be 
 itter, stronger man. 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 171 
 
 thinking of her, and I feel the power within me to 
 accomplish wonders for her. 
 
 My visit to England was delightful in spite of my fore- 
 bodings. Lord Ilardnioor treated me with great kindness 
 and consideration. This time I came as a successful 
 man, one whom the world, the world of London, spoke 
 well of. My pictures were kindly received, and many 
 good things said of them. But there were no words of 
 praise so. dear to my soul, so entirely satisfactory 
 to my ambition, as Dorethea's unstinted admiration. 
 In her sweet eyes they were works of genius, possessed 
 of every excellence, and she never wearied of studying 
 them in every light and from every position. 
 
 It was Dorethea's iirst season, and she enjoyed to the 
 utmost every triumph, every attention, every compli- 
 ment, and they were numerous, for she is really beautiful, 
 and how happy and sunny her nature is. We were very 
 gay, and I will acknowledge that I enjoyed it all greatly. 
 It was my first experience of fashionable life, and before 
 I was well aware of it I found myself drawn into the 
 very vortex, and whirled around with the rest of human- 
 ity, as wild and reckless as any of them. There were a 
 succession of balls, dinners, lunches, garden parties, 
 exhibitions, and all the thousand and one things which 
 go to make up a London season, all of which we at- 
 tended, much to Lady Hardmoor's discomfort, who was 
 not in her usual health, and who often suffered from 
 v/eariness. Still, she was very patient and sweet, and 
 her affection and consideration for me almost equalled 
 her pride and love for Dorethea. 
 
 I wonder if all young lovers invest the object of their 
 adoration with every perfection, or whether my dear girl 
 is really so superior to others. To me she seems with- 
 
 J 
 
172 
 
 THE 8T0UV OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 out a flaw, a gem ! No, I won't say that — it ia too 
 trite ; she is simply a treasure, and my own. Beside her 
 beauty and accomplishments, she has such a high, clear 
 soul, so strong and truthful. No foolish coquetry, no 
 little deceptions. How sweetly straightforward and 
 8- .cere was her answer when I, feeling my unworthiness, 
 humbly asked for her love. 1 can see her beautiful clear 
 eyes as she looked into my very soul, and said so gravely 
 and simply, " INIy dear Felix, I have loved you ever since 
 that night I tirst saw you, a pale, sorrowful boy, so 
 desolate and heart-broken." 
 
 How grateful I am for her love, how contentedly and 
 securely happy. And Lord Hardmoor behaved so well — 
 so much better than I expected. It is true, he made 
 some conditions before he would consent to our engage- 
 ment. But I cannot complain of them. She is his only 
 child, his treasure, and he is not a man to put a low esti- 
 mate on anything belonging to him. At first, I rather 
 hesitated about promising that I would live in England, 
 on my estate, and give up art as a profession. But what 
 does it matter ? With Dorethen^ '^ne place is as good as 
 another, and every place a paradise ; and as to making 
 art a profession, that is only a hollow phrase. I shall 
 paint wherever I am, and, with Dorethea for a compan- 
 ion and inspiration, I shall do better work, work more 
 worthy the favor of those who can understand it. And 
 if my pictures bring me money, why should I not take 
 it, as I should for any other honest labor. I shall not 
 try to make my talent a means for enriching myself, 
 nor shall I seek for wealth through it ; therefore, I shall 
 work more freely and more sincerely. As to waiting 
 three years, that indeed seems hard; but we are both 
 young, and I need three years of serious study here in 
 
rslAST. 
 
 that — it is too 
 own. Beside her 
 uch a high, clear 
 ilish coquetry, no 
 ightforward and 
 my unworthineas, 
 lier beautiful clear 
 ,n(l said so gravely 
 red you ever since 
 sorrowful boy, so 
 
 V contentedly and 
 aehaved so well — 
 is true, he made 
 nt to our engage- 
 . She is his only 
 , to put a low esti- 
 At first, I rather 
 i live in England, 
 ession. But what 
 place is as good as 
 md as to making 
 T phrase. I shall 
 lea for a com pan- 
 work, work more 
 derstand it. And 
 should I not take 
 abor. I shall not 
 enriching myself, 
 ; therefore, I shall 
 y. As to waiting 
 ; but we are both 
 ous study here in 
 
 .4auta«**p 
 
 I iii j iw u i' 
 
 LA 8ANTA. 
 
 17.3 
 
 Rome, and then 1 have a mission to perform. I must 
 continue my search for iny lost picture. 
 
 I spoke of it to Lord Hardmoor, and he smiled incred- 
 ulously, and said, in his light, scoffing tone : " Wliat, 
 still possessed with that idea ! 1 tlinught you had be- 
 come more sensible, and had outgrown such childish 
 nonsense." 
 I assured him that I had not. 
 
 "Very well; you most travel. It is the fashion to 
 UKike the tour of the world, and at the same time you 
 can look out for the picture. Hut what kuighU'ivaiitry ! 
 and all for a piece of eai'vas! Suppose you find it and 
 can't buy it. What will you do in that case ? " 
 
 "If I find it, I will buy it — if it takes all I have in 
 the world," I replied, firmly. 
 
 He looked at me for a moment with a grieved, puzzled 
 expression, and then said, bitterly, " I hope to heavens 
 you will never find it. And I'm promising my child to 
 you. In spite of all you've done, you're still the same 
 crazy enthusiast that you were at sixteen. How can I 
 trust you with her happiness if you take such a matter 
 as that seriously ? How do I know what folly you may 
 be guilty of after she is your wife." 
 
 "I will never make Dorethea unhappy," I replied. 
 " And I will obey you in everything else, but I must 
 find that picture if possible, and Uorethea approves of 
 my intention." 
 
 " Well, remember, if you do anything absurd, I shall 
 not feel bound to keep my promise. You are nothing 
 but a pair of silly, romantic children," he added, as he 
 left the room, flushed and angry. 
 
 In spite of his annoyance, I know he does not take 
 jne seriously, and for that I am not to blame. 1 do not 
 
174 
 
 TIIK STOltY OK AN KNTHU8IAHT. 
 
 wish to deceive him, Imt I am ns iimch in earnest as I 
 was on the first day tliat I bt-j^'an my searcli willi M. 
 Michelct, I do not tliink tlu! [)ictiiro is eittier in Eng- 
 land or in France, and vl is not pruljable tluit it is in 
 Italy; therefore, I am under the impression that it is in 
 Germany, and thither I shall «" "1"'" ' ''''^'''' <'unii)leted 
 my stmlies here. At times I IVel coulident that I shall 
 find it. And with that onee in my possession, and Dor- 
 •ethea my wife, life will liave no more of happiness to 
 give me. 
 
 II. 
 
 How lovely these early spring mornings are. The 
 crisp, transparent atmosphere seems to lift one above 
 earth and its confnsion and discords. How bright and 
 home-like my rooms are. How sunny and warm my 
 little loggia, with its stunted orange-trees in big green 
 tubs, and the border of shallow boxes filled with flaunt- 
 ing geraniums. I look up; in the unspeakable blue 
 above me I see flocks of swallows darting here and 
 there, and a long, liquid note comes down to me that 
 sounds like a lark "singing at heaven's high gate," and I 
 find myself repeating part of Shakespeare's matchless 
 sonnet, — 
 
 "Full many a glorious morning have I seen." 
 
 I glance below. — An old bent man, his head white with 
 the blossoms of age, is hobbling about, removing some 
 mats from a frame that protects a clump of exquisite 
 camellias covered with buds and blossoms. The old 
 man's lean, nervous hands hover about the stately, snowy 
 buds as he turns them to the warmth of the sun, and 
 
 i.-SiKr: 
 
J8IA8T. 
 
 1 in earnest as I 
 ! search willi M. 
 is citiier in Enj;- 
 iblo that it is in 
 ssion that it is in 
 I have ('uiui)lett'(l 
 ideiit that I shall 
 sst'ssiuii, anil l)»i- 
 B of happiut'ss to 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 176 
 
 orniugs are. The 
 
 to lift one above 
 
 How bright and 
 
 ny and warm my 
 
 -trees in big green 
 
 filled with flaunt- 
 
 unspeakable blue 
 
 darting here and 
 
 i down to me that 
 
 s liigh gate," and I 
 
 ispeare's matchless 
 
 live I seen." 
 
 is head white with 
 ut, removing some 
 clump of exquisite 
 lossoms. The old 
 t the stately, snowy 
 [ith of the sun, and 
 
 ..very touch is a caress. His eyes, all of youth that is 
 Icl't him, sparkle with delight as he stands and ga/es at 
 them ; their beauty has enl.'r.'d into his old, frozen ln'art. 
 Tenderly, carefully, he eats one matchless blossom, 
 surro.mded with its glossy leaves, and, stooping, he 
 ■ratluMS his hands full of sweet Tarma violets, and goes 
 "nvay laden with these fragrant treasun'S. Doubtless, 
 they are a love-token for some fair girl, whose warm, red 
 lips will bf pressed to them in rapture. 
 
 (.pposite to me is a bit of .piaint old wall. Time 
 has painted the stucco with patches of beautiful color; 
 pale lavender, pink, soft blue, and the tenderest ot 
 greens. Against it, outlined sharply, is a slender ole- 
 ander, with Haming red flowers ; and from the edge of 
 the brown tiles just above hangs a cluster of tlun vines 
 and long, swaying tendrils, starred her.- and there with 
 blue blossoms. AVherever I look, I see i- ictures which I 
 am impatient to transfer to canvas. 
 
 t • 
 
 A soft, musical voice ut my elbow timidly informs me 
 that my breakfast is served. It is Tita, the pretty child, 
 of my imdrona di Casa, She too is a picture, with her 
 glossy braids pinned up in knots behind each ear ; her 
 low Greek brow and great mild eyes ; her pearly teeth 
 and rich flashing smile. And my breakfast-table would 
 tempt the most fastidious gourmand: — An antique bowl 
 piled with fruit; a dish of pale green lettmn. — CVp/>«f- 
 rlui, the child calls it; a small basket of crisp rolls; a 
 few pink slices of ham; and a golden pat of butter, 
 make as pretty a study of color as one would care to 
 
 see. 
 
 Through the open door 1 can look into iny studio — a 
 WL'U lighted, picturesque room. My sketches are ar- 
 
Ju 
 
 m 
 
 TIIK HTOIIY OK AN KNTIIUKIA8T. 
 
 \ 
 
 niiigotl oil thfi Willis ami ousels ; my tlriiporics, brin-ii- 
 brac, ami few good casts aro plaocd to the best ndvuii- 
 tii}^!' i my ruj,'s m;iki' hrii, I. sjtDts ot' ('((liir on tlii' stoiio 
 Hoor. I'ots of liloomiii;,' HowtTs uiid a glowing,' -vass 
 tmldim givi> just tlu> touch of warmth and uhetM-l'ut.ieBH 
 itJipeds. Truly, I am well planed, as my dear master 
 BiiVi', every time he visits mo. 
 
 . ■ • • • 
 
 My exp.'ki"<ioe of yesterday was .; harming episode 
 ill my life. I went to the Villa Medici to eoiisiilt I'aul 
 about a little matter, and was tuld that he was making 
 a study in the garden. Feeling sure that my visit would 
 not be considered an intrusion, 1 followed lln i)ath 
 indicated, and came upon a group whose grace aii' ). auty 
 took full possession of me. J'aul was seated at liis eas(d, 
 ami lightly le;-!.', ig again-st ) ^^ arm of a carvtid stone 
 bench stood a ., ounggirl of tl"- most remarkable face 
 and figure I have ever seen. I tliiu! what imjiresses me 
 most is the saintly purity of her face. Her brow is 
 sereiio and innocent, and the pale brown hair falls over 
 it in soft, rippling waves; lier eyes are of the same 
 tender brown, with large pupils and a faint line of light 
 beneath, whicdi suggests n tear. The virginal outline 
 of the faintly colored cheek, tlie delicately pointed chin, 
 the softly curving and rather thin lips with a faint 
 smile of divine sweetness and reserve, give her a per- 
 fectly- angelic expression, and her costume, which U of 
 classic simplicity, suits her admirably. A fine violet 
 cashmere robe falls in full, graceful folds from the 
 square-cut neck to the feet, with wide over-sleeves, that 
 hang open from the shoulders, showing tight-fitting 
 white sleeves outlined with gold embroidery. Over her 
 head, pointed slightly at the forehead, j'alls a soft white 
 
MUHIAKT. 
 
 }• (Iriiporii's, bri(!-ii- 
 to tho lu'.st iidviin- 
 cnliir on Utr stoiio 
 (I a glowing' '"iiss 
 th and chuL'i'l'ul.itJSS 
 as my dear master 
 
 ; harming opisodo 
 liri to consult I'aul 
 ;hat lie was making 
 tliat my visit would 
 followed {)ic path 
 Dse grace aii'' wauty 
 ^ seated at his easel, 
 I of a carviid stone 
 )st remarkable face 
 what iiniiresses me 
 face. Her brow is 
 rown hair falls over 
 '3 are of the same 
 a faint line of light 
 .'he virginal outline 
 cately pointed chin, 
 I li[)s with a faint 
 ■rve, give her a per- 
 ostume, which is of 
 d)ly. A fine violet 
 ful folds from the 
 le over-sleeves, that 
 bowing tight-fitting 
 broider}-. Over htn- 
 id, i'alls a soft white 
 
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 IMAGE EVALUATION 
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 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
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 (716) 872-4503 
 
CIHM/ICMH 
 
 Microfiche 
 
 Series. 
 
 CIHM/ICIVIH 
 Collection de 
 microfiches. 
 
 Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut canadieii de microreproductions historiques 
 
iiA^ 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 177 
 
 veil, that reaches behind to tlie liem of her long robe, 
 and it is also bordered with a delicate tracery of gold. 
 
 At the farther end of the seat against which the girl 
 leaned sat a handsome woman, dressed in simple black, 
 with an open book in her lap, over which slie was 
 
 bending. ^ , 
 
 From my point of observation I conld see Tanl's in- 
 spired face and earnest eyes as he raised them from 
 time to -time toward his lovely model, while she stood 
 before him, her white hands folded, her modest eyes cast 
 down, and her soft lips curving in that saintly smile. 
 Not wishing to disturb the charming group, I stepped 
 discreetly behind some shrubbery, and, after a few more 
 stolen glances, I slipped away, and left my friend, with 
 heaven in his eyes, worshipping the most angelic crea- 
 ture I have ever seen. 
 
 All impatience to learn who this beautiful girl was, 
 I fortunately met Madam Ingres, taking a turn through 
 a shady part of the garden. Smiling at my eager air, she 
 held out her hand, and, anticipating my question, she 
 
 said : — 
 
 " Ah, I know by your face that you have seen her, and 
 are about to deluge me with questions. Refrain, and I 
 will tell you all about her. Among the artists she is 
 called La Santa, because she poses only for sacred sub- 
 jects—Madonnas, saints, angels, such forms and faces 
 as require the purest type, the most spiritually ravishing 
 expression, the most heavenly countenance, which she 
 possesses to perfection ; but her earthly name is Angelique 
 Raymond. Her father was a French artist, who lived 
 here the most of his life, — an early friend of M. Ingres, 
 and one of the most spiritual men who ever bore the 
 burden of an earthly existence, one of the most patient 
 
 1 
 
178 
 
 THK 8TOUY OF AN KNTIIUSIAST. 
 
 and luiinUlo amongst the great aimy of martyrs. When 
 no longor young, he experivMicod his Hrst passion, and 
 married. You have seen Madam Raymond, the lady sit- 
 ting near Angelio"e ; so I need not tell you th;it she 
 was heautiful. An., she was as good as she was beauti- 
 ful—talented, highly accomplished, but poor, a gover- 
 ness in an English family of rank. A few years ago 
 our poor friend died, and left his widow and child with 
 no other fortune than a number of unfinished pictures, 
 which the dear woman believes to be works of genius, 
 and I am sure she values them more than she would 
 their weight in gold. With the strictest economy, and 
 by teaching music and English, she has managed to live 
 and educate Angelique, who is a paragon of perfection 
 as well as a marvel of beauty. I love both mother and 
 daughter dearly, and they are with me a great deal," 
 
 "Then, she is not a professional model?" I asked, 
 much interested. 
 
 "No and yes, if you can understand that. I do not 
 mean that Angelique does not take money for posing ; 
 she makes a business of it, to add to their scanty income 
 and to lighten the labor of her mother, whose health is 
 breaking up sadly. But she does not pose for every and 
 any artist, neither would she consent to sit for a painter 
 of doubtful reputation, no matter what price he offered. 
 . Nor for any subject except sacred, or pictures of the 
 church, as we style them. It came about in this way. 
 Two years ago, an eminent French painter, a friend of 
 M. v'ernet, was in despair for a model for a Madonna, 
 • in a nearly completed Holy Family. Among the black- 
 browed Roman models, there was not one who had a 
 face of the spiritual type which he required. One even- 
 ing at a Salon of the Academy, he was presented to 
 
ST. 
 
 tyrs. When 
 passion, aivl 
 the lady sit- 
 you th;it she 
 e was beauti- 
 oor, a gover- 
 3W years ago 
 id child with 
 ihed pictures, 
 ks of genius, 
 an she would 
 economy, and 
 maged to live 
 of perfection 
 ;h mother and 
 reat deal," 
 }1?» I asked, 
 
 lat. I do not 
 iy for posing ; 
 scanty income 
 hose health is 
 I for every and 
 it for a painter 
 •ice he offered, 
 pictures of the 
 it in this way. 
 ter, a friend of 
 or a Madonna, 
 long the black- 
 me who had a 
 red. One even- 
 xs presented to 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 179 
 
 Madam Raymond and Angoliquc, and instantly he knew 
 that he had found the face he had lu-fu seeking. Ho 
 dared not approach the, mother on the subject, but it 
 was arranged through M. Vcrnet; and since then she 
 has ])Osed for all the religious pictures that have been 
 painted in Home. She looks at it in a very spiritual 
 way ; she is pious beyond any one I ever knew, and she 
 considers it a sacred duty. Naturally of a religious and 
 contemplative nature, the terrible sorrow of her father's 
 death intensiticd and elevated her character, until she is 
 now the most ideal of idealists. For her the material 
 world is but a brief abiding-place, and the unseen is the 
 real. She lives in mystical dreams of a transcendental 
 existence, another life, as it were, separate and apart 
 from thi.s, and she is angelic in her innocence, sweet 
 child ; .she says so simply and candidly that if God has 
 given her a face of a suitable type for the Madonna, 
 and if such pictures elevate and purify mankind, it is 
 right that she should assist in exalting the mind and 
 leading the thoughts to heavenly things." 
 
 " What a remarkable character ! how interesting she 
 must be ! will you present me, the first opportunity ? " 
 1 asked, earnestly. 
 
 " Certainly ; you must know her. You could not live in 
 Mome, and be a habitue of the Academy, without know- 
 ing La Santa. But T will take you into my confidence, 
 M. Felix, and don't betray my plans. I have quite set 
 my heart on marrying her to our dear Paul. She will 
 r;uit him exactly ; for he is a saint himself." 
 
 " What a menage ! a pair of saints," I said, laughing 
 at her naive arrangement. 
 
 " But he is a wonderful genius, and will soon be rich 
 and famous. Now, don't thwart me nor disarrange my 
 
180 
 
 THE 8TOKY OV AN KNTHUSIAHT. 
 
 plans by falling in lov(! with her yourstilf. Sho is inutlf 
 for Paul, and you must not interfere with tlie designs of 
 Providence." 
 
 I assured her that I would not be so presumptuous. 
 " Paul is my friend, and I wish to see him happy ; and, 
 judging from his face to-day, I think he intends to help 
 you in your conspiracy." 
 
 "Thank Heaven if my scheme is progressing. It was 
 I who suggested the Holy Family, in order to bring 
 them together. But I must leave you now ; I have an 
 engagement with my husband. Hemember my evenings, 
 Sunday and Thursday ; be sure to come. Au revoir, my 
 dear Felix, au revolt:" And, with a kind nod and smile, 
 my gentle friend left me to dream away the remainder 
 of the afternoon leaning over the old wall, and watching 
 the gay throng passing and repassing below in the Villa 
 liorghese. 
 
 III. 
 
 Last evening I had the pleasure of seeing La Santa 
 again. It was at Madam's reception, and I was among 
 the first there. We were all listening in deep attention 
 to M. Ambroise Thomas, one of the i)ensionnaires, who 
 was at the piano playing a Sonata, when 1 raised my 
 eyes, aud she was standing quite near me. She was 
 dressed in simple white, as pure and classic in outline 
 as the robe she wore the first time I saw her. Without 
 a veil, the abundance of waving hair and the graceful 
 outline of neck and shoulders are more noticeable ; and 
 the whole girlish, gracious figure is the most perfect 
 picture of purity and innocence imaginable. 
 
 In an instant, Paul was at her side, his serene face 
 all aglow with expectation and pleasure. I had never 
 
\HT. 
 
 T-A SANTA. 
 
 181 
 
 Shu Ih iiiutUf 
 tlie designs of 
 
 presumptuous, 
 a happy ; iiiul, 
 nteuds to help 
 
 !ssing. It was 
 )rder to bring 
 3\v ; I have an 
 r my evenings, 
 
 Au revoir, my 
 nod and smile, 
 
 the remainder 
 , and watching 
 3W iu the Villa 
 
 jeing La Santa 
 d I was among 
 
 deep attention 
 sionnaires, who 
 en 1 raised my 
 
 me. She was 
 issic in outline 
 
 her. Without 
 id the graceful 
 noticeable; and 
 e most perfect 
 lie. 
 
 his serene face 
 J. I had never 
 
 si't'ii him so alort, so interested, so liandsomc. lie was 
 charming, and 1 watched them closely, (nuious to see if 
 there were any indications of interest on her p.art; but 
 she received his greeting without the least flush on her 
 delicate check. Calmly, coolly, her divine eyes were 
 raised to his, the lips curved gently in a faint smile of 
 welcome, but there was no restrained cmotioji, no dumb 
 rapture, such as we feel at meeting with one we love, 
 one who has already kindled the immortal fire, that 
 avowal has not yet fanned to a flame. 
 
 In Paul's flushed, eager face I read his secret. In 
 hers I saw the clear mirror of a soul over which a 
 breath of passion had never swept. 
 
 While I was making these mental comments, I was 
 talking with a bright, handsome English girl, Laura 
 lirent, the daughter of an artist who lived mostly in 
 Rome. I had made their acquaintance in London, 
 during the season, and already felt a warm friendship 
 for the kind, friendly cirl, who was perfectly natural 
 and matter-of-fact, but not half as interesting to me as 
 the angelic creature I had been studying. 
 
 As soon as a young Italian painter carried Miss Brent 
 off to look at the pictures, I went to Madam Ingres, and 
 reminded her of her promise. 
 
 She looked at me with a quizzical smile, evidently 
 amused at my persistence. " Very well ; I will keep my 
 promise, on one condition," she said, taking my arm, 
 " which is that you will agree not to interfere with our 
 dear Paul. You see, he is already by her side, and as 
 happy as one can be on earth. We must give them a 
 chance to interest each other, to become mutually ac- 
 quainted. When she knows more of his beautiful 
 character, all will go as I wish." 
 
 iKi!!»giffi-^a3 S »migi^-aii';im'tgajfe^^^ 
 
182 
 
 THE 8T0l!Y OK AN KNTHUSFAST. 
 
 " 1 don't think I nin qnite agree with yovi/' 1 ivtiuu.d, 
 (loubtlully. "We are more likely to be attraeted b^' 
 contrasts. I think they are too much alike to becnme 
 lovers. When she loves, she will love a more worldly 
 
 man than I'aul. " 
 
 "Impossible, "said Madam Ingres, decidedly ; "Ang(!- 
 lique could never be drawn to a nature less pure than her 
 own. You do not know the child ! She is truly saintly ; 
 she is eprise with religion, truth, and holiness. In fact, 
 she is already ripe for heaven." 
 
 "Ah, I wish, then, she were less angelic, for we can ill 
 afford to lose her. Heaven is full of angels, and we 
 have but this one. " 
 
 « Don't jest, my dear boy," returned IMadam, a little 
 sadly. " I think she is given to us to make us in love 
 with the beauty of goodness and purity ; in fact, to lead 
 our souls upward. I can never look at her ethereal 
 form and celestial face without wondering if there is not 
 a direct communication between her and the angels. 
 Oh, she is elevating, and you will agree with me when 
 you know her. " 
 
 When we reached her side. Madam laid her hand 
 caressingly on the girl's shoulder, and said, « Ang«51ique, 
 here is another of my children who wishes to know 
 
 you." 
 
 "Ah, dear Madam, how many you have, and how much 
 you love them all ! " She made a gracious little saluta- 
 tion to me, and, after a few pleasant words, took my arm 
 for a promenade through the salon. 
 
 Exteriorly, she was so faultless that I almost dreaded 
 to talk with her for fear she might disappoint me. I was 
 afraid I might find her conventional and insipid ; but, on 
 the contrary, she had a bright, responsive mind, full of 
 
LA SANTA. 
 
 18:5 
 
 ' 1 ri'tiiriii'd, 
 ittnu'ti'il !)'• 
 L' to bccnme 
 lOve wfii'liUy 
 
 (lly ; "Ang(v 
 lure than lun* 
 mly saintly ; 
 ■ss. In fact, 
 
 or we can ill 
 fels, and we 
 
 (lam, a little 
 e us in love 
 I fact, to lead 
 lier ethereal 
 f there is not 
 the angels, 
 ith me when 
 
 id her hand 
 
 " Ang«51ique, 
 
 hes to know 
 
 nd how much 
 little saluta- 
 took my arm 
 
 most dreaded 
 it me. I was 
 ipid ; but, on 
 mind, full of 
 
 natural intelligence, and a remarkably just and beautiful 
 api)reciation of music, art, and literature; while her 
 voice was so sympathetic that the simplest thing she 
 said seemed to have more than its meaning, whicli gave 
 a certain gravity to her artless repose and dignity. 
 
 It is astonishing how many subjects can be touclied 
 upon in a few moments by minds that arc congenial. 
 She hiul tliat charming faculty of making one feel as 
 though she was acquainted with his particular likes and 
 dislikes, of showing a pretty interest in everything, and 
 listening with attention to even trivial remarks. We 
 were sauntering about discussing the pictures, and vari- 
 ous other subjects that interested us, when the full tones 
 of a superb contralto voice attracted my attention. 
 
 " What a rich voice ! let us get a little nearer," I said, 
 leading her to a chair. 
 
 "That is mama singing. Has she not a fine voice?" 
 She spoke with such pride and love that I was charmed 
 with her. 
 
 " It is magnificent," I replied, warmly ; " and she has 
 the rare quality of pleasing the heart as well as the ear. " 
 
 "Dear mama! I wonder that she can sing with such 
 feeling and expression. I shoidd think as much trouble 
 as she has had would destroy one's sensibility and make 
 one hard and cold ; but her heart is as young and tender 
 as it ever was. " 
 
 Looking into her holy eyes, I could not make idle com- 
 pliments or indulge in fashionable small talk. She com- 
 pelled sincerity, and I know she understood what I felt 
 when I said, — 
 
 " How can she be otherwise than happy with such a 
 daughter. You must be a continual joy, a continual 
 inspiration to her. " 
 
 $. ' jssmmsi 
 
184 THK HTOIIY OK AN KyTIHTSIAST. 
 
 .<! try to nmko Imt life brighter, un.l to lighten \m- 
 burdens as nuu.l. as possible; but," she "'"^^^''^ ^'fj-^' 
 «I think she suffers to have me pose lor the aitists 
 Although it nuikes n.e happy to do it, perhaps 1 uui not 
 Hght t^give her pain, in order to gain the pleasure of 
 
 ^''" You are simply heroic. You do not like it for itself ; 
 
 YOU like it because you are doing it iov her." 
 
 " And because I think it is my duty to do all I can to 
 elevate art, and I should like n»y duty or else I am not 
 Bincere. If we make martyrs of ourselves, it is for 
 some reward, either earthly or heavenly. No I am not 
 Lroic ; but 1 should like to be, I should like to do some- 
 thing quite unselfish, quite devotional, and for no re- 
 
 '''''" It seems to me that you are forgetting self, and act- 
 ing most disinterestedly every day you live." 
 
 " Ah, I do so little ! «ut the power is given to few to 
 do really noble .leeds, just as it is given to few to be 
 really great. In looking back through the centuries up 
 to our own time, how comparatively few are the names 
 that are immortal, and all the countless multitudes who 
 have toiled and struggled and won their fleeting triumpl.s 
 are forgotten, gone -swept ^'^y/^^^^, ^%\;" ", 
 wind. Is it not sad to think of ? And they all had the 
 Tame lofty desires, but they lacked the power or the 
 
 "'^vdhe'went on in a soft monotone the noble voice 
 
 of her mother rose and fell, filling the lofty rooms w i h 
 
 ' waves of melody, and I heard both distinctly One 
 
 spoke to my soul, the other to my senses. I could have 
 
 ^'^There tnUy^seems some mystical charm in this young 
 
 HI 
 
 e 
 ii 
 
 t' 
 s 
 
 li 
 
 ii 
 t 
 II 
 c 
 ] 
 II 
 
 ijuiimi 
 
 agJiffiriirlrMilnTfit- 
 
RT. 
 
 itiimcil siully, 
 )!• the artists. 
 Imps 1 urn not 
 le pleasure of 
 
 e it for itself ; 
 
 lo all I can to 
 else I am not 
 Ives, it is for 
 No, I am not 
 ike to do some- 
 mcl for no re- 
 
 T self, and act- 
 ve. 
 
 given to few to 
 u to few to be 
 he centuries up 
 are the names 
 multitudes who 
 eeting triumphs 
 I leaves in the 
 they all had the 
 3 power or the 
 
 I the noble voiee 
 ofty rooms with 
 distinctly. One 
 I could have 
 
 cm in this young 
 
 LA HANTA. 
 
 186 
 
 girl. Her eyes compel mi' to listen, and her voice 
 Hfarohcs deeper into my soul tlian any oilier voice I have 
 ever heard. 1 am drawn toward her, and it is a purely 
 intellectual attraction. I feel as though I had been in 
 the presence of a Vestal. It is as Madam Ingres says; 
 she is elevating. 
 
 Taul stood at a distance during our conversation, with 
 his eyes tixed greedily upon us. Now thtn-e was a pause 
 in the music, and he joined us. IMadam Kaynunid left 
 the })iano amid great api)lause, and we formed a group 
 near the master and Mr. Krcmt, who were vivaciously dis- 
 cussing the respective merits of the two great composers, 
 ]>eethoven and .Mozart. There was a great deal of ani- 
 mated argument, in which Angeli(pie joined with an 
 intelligence rare in one so young. 
 
 In the midst of a brilliant remark from M. Ingres, at 
 which we were all laughing, I saw the girl's eyes dilate 
 strangely, and her face turn as white as the camellia in 
 her belt. Hhe was looking straight before her, and I 
 turned to see what had moved her so unacconntably. 
 There appeared to be only a throng of people passing 
 and repassing, but her eyes were fixed on a group around 
 Madam Ingres, who sat on a sofa a few paces off, and 
 who was ab(mt rising to receive a new-comer, whose back 
 was toward me. At that moment he looked in our direc- 
 tion and I saw — Camille. But in that swift glance 
 T saw that it was not the old Camille, the gay, merry 
 Camille of a year ago. He was changed, greatly 
 (^hanged. He looked years older, and the glad light had 
 gone out of his eyes and smile;. I needed but one glance 
 to know that he had been in torment. 
 
 In an instant he was with ns, and I thought our mas- 
 ter would have taken him in his arms in the presence of 
 
 I I 
 
 I I 
 
1H»5 
 
 TIIK HT<UIY •»!• AN KNTIIUHIAHT. 
 
 
 tho wliolo comiuiuy, so Impiiy was he to soo the protligal 
 rotunitHi, 
 
 " Why, Camillt' ! Why. my (h-ar hoy ! H(.\v deliKht- 
 ful ! How iim-xpectiul ! What a suri.iiau ! " was heaiil 
 
 on all sitlos. 
 
 Alter the confusion incident to such a jdcasant niei't- 
 in},' had Honu-what suhsid.'d, M. InK'n-s invsi'iitcd CaniiUc 
 to Madam Raymond and her dauj^hter, and the eonver- 
 sation heeame general. C'aniilh- told ns that he had 
 arrived a lew hours hefore, and that he eould not 
 restrain his inipaticneo to see us, and so had eome 
 directly, and recounted some amusing incidents of his 
 journey, answered innnmerahle (piestions about Taris, 
 and then was carried off hy M. In;,'res and I'aul to see a 
 wonderful picture hy one of the jjnisioiiiKitirs, that was 
 to he packed early in tho morning to he sent to Paris lor 
 the 8i)ring exhibition. 
 
 1 was left with Madam Kaymond ami her daughter, 
 and the conversation naturally turned on Camille as the 
 latest object of interest. 
 
 "M. Ingres is very iond of him, is he not?" asked 
 
 Madam Raymond. " I have li.'ard him speak so often of 
 
 his tine talent and charming character." 
 
 " We all love him. He has a beautiful nature. Mad- 
 
 emolseUi', 1 fancy you arc a student of physiognomy," 
 
 I said, turning to Angeli(pic, who sat with her eyes cast 
 
 down, in a deep rcvery. " What do yoii think of him V " 
 "I have seen M. de lUecourt before," she replied, 
 
 quietly. "Or, rather, I have seen his portrait among ]M. 
 
 Ingres' pictures, and I have studied it a great deal. 
 
 Some faces attract me intellectually; others rei)(d me. 
 
 Some faces after one glance are stamped indelibly on 
 
 my min.l; others I forget at i)nue. You remember, 
 
 m 
 
 M 
 
 t€ 
 
 as 
 
 ni 
 Iv 
 
 ai 
 o; 
 ei 
 w 
 
 ^ teaa a u^jtf ai 
 
 _.!,.,! Ililllill JtMM 
 
LA HA NT A. 
 
 187 
 
 ho prodigal 
 
 i)\v (U'liKl't-- 
 wiiB iieiuil 
 
 ;\saiit moct- 
 tfd ("aiiiilli' 
 
 tllC CIlUVl'l- 
 
 liiit ho had 
 cinild 111 it 
 • liiid (•(iiiii' 
 U'Uls of his 
 ibout I'liris. 
 'aul to si'o a 
 •('.«*, that was 
 to I'aris lor 
 
 iv daughter, 
 luille as the 
 
 lot?" askod 
 k 80 often of 
 
 \ture. Mdd- 
 lysiogiiouiy," 
 her eyes cast 
 ik of him ? " 
 
 she replied, 
 nit aiuoug ^l. 
 L great deah 
 M'S rt'|)('l me. 
 
 indelibly on 
 u remember, 
 
 mama," turniii;^ to her mother, " I told you about tho 
 skeUdi, and the |ie(Miliar inthieiiee it liad upon me. I 
 felt when I tir.sL saw it tliat I iiad seen it before, some- 
 where in anotlior life, in other conditions, as though it 
 had been part of an existence the reiMdleetion of whiidi 
 wavered faintly through my mind, and 1 could not seize 
 nor fix it ! " 
 
 "Ah, my Angeliquo, you aro a little dreamer. Mon- 
 sifiui; you must not think that she is always imiiression- 
 ablo and mystical. She has strange fancies, but withal 
 she is very practical at times." 
 
 "1 am sure, whatever mood vtddt'moindle is in, she is 
 always charming and interestitig," I replied, lightly, 
 although 1 was much impressed with what sho said. 
 " (Jannot you account for your strange attraction toward 
 the portrait?" I continued, looking at her attentively. 
 " Had you not heard the original much talked of by the 
 master and madam ? " 
 
 " Oh, no ; I never knew the sketch was a portrait of 
 M. de Brecourt. I recognized tho likeness Avhen he en- 
 tered, and I feel as though I had known him always, and 
 as though, if I never met him again, that in some man- 
 ner our destinies, either here or hereafter, were indisso- 
 lubly connected." 
 
 " ]My Angelique, my child ! what am you saying ! [ 
 am afraid M. Markland will think you very indiscreet 
 or very visionary," interrupted Madam Raymond, un- 
 easily. " Come ! the people are leaving. It is late, and 
 we must go. Let us say good-night to madam." 
 
 " Don't be annoyed, mama," said Ang«;lique, with a 
 little calm smile and an upward glance of her heavenly 
 eyes. "I am sure monslexir understands me, and v.ill 
 not misconstrue what I say." Then, with a friendly 
 
 li 8 
 

 188 
 
 THE 8TOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 good-night and an eloquent glance, slie went away with 
 her mother, and left mo standing like (Edipus Insfore the 
 Sphinx, trying to read the strange enigma of her ch.u- 
 acter. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Last night I had a long talk with Camille, sitting on 
 my little loggia in the n ooulight. He dined with me, 
 and after our wine and almonds we went outside to take 
 our coffee, to smoke, and to enjoy the enchanting view, 
 Monte Mario and the sentinel pines, the outline of St. 
 Angelo, Trastevere, the purple dome, the black cross, 
 the vast city, the gr-xnd masses of palaces and churches, 
 the slender spires, the graceful cupolas and marble 
 towers silvered with the soft white light, the piazza 
 beneath a moving, murmuring throng, the splashing of 
 the fountains mi'Jgled with the plaintive notes of a night- 
 ingale, "singing as if in pain," in the dewy shadows of 
 the Medici gardens and on the moonlit slopes of the 
 
 Pincio. 
 
 It was a place and an hour to invite confidence, and I 
 knew that Camille was silently suffering his first great 
 sorrow. Not that it was apparent to the casual observer. 
 On the contrary, he is gayer than ever, with a sort of 
 restless, reckless mirth ; enthusiastic over this wonder- 
 ful city; delighted with all he sees and experiences; 
 planning and executing a dozen different excursions ; 
 impatient to begin work, and yet wishing to see and 
 accomplish everything at once ; as excited and active as 
 a student out on his first holiday. 
 
 Had I not accidentally become acquainted with 
 Cawille's secret, / still shoulil suspect that something 
 
 I 
 
 .»»eH*.iwaf »''M |i! !« «« Ai i t (i>ii »tt.W > »i i "'' y 
 
lAST. 
 
 'cnt away with 
 lijiiis bisfore the 
 na of lier chtU- 
 
 nille, sitting on 
 (lined with me, 
 outside to take 
 ichanting view, 
 e outline of St. 
 he black cross, 
 s and churches, 
 .as and marble 
 ght, the piazza 
 he splashing of 
 notes of a night- 
 ewy shadows of 
 it slopes of the 
 
 onfidence, and I 
 ; his first great 
 ! casual observer. 
 , with a sort of 
 'er this wonder- 
 ud experiences ; 
 •ent excursions ; 
 ling to see and 
 ed and active as 
 
 Lcquaintcd with 
 tliat something 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 189 
 
 was wrong. T have suffered enough myself to recognize 
 the signs of a heart ill at ease, and I liave also learned 
 that those wlio go tlirough life Avitli sorrowful faces are 
 not the most unhappy. Those who suffer most are those 
 wlio conceal it. Is there anything more heart-breaking 
 than a soul in distress silently enduring its pain, in the 
 midst of pleasure ? Tlie fluslied cheeks, tlie smiling 
 lips, the sparkling eyes, the light jest, are all such ex- 
 cellent masks that his friends exclaim, "How happy he 
 is I " lUit (}()(1, who alone sounds the depths, knows that 
 he is in torment. 
 
 Whether I have an exceptional intuition of human 
 sorrow, or whether I have a softer heart than usually 
 beats under a waistcoat, I know not ; but I never come 
 in contact Avitli suffering in any form that I do not dis- 
 cern it, and all my heart, all my being, cries out, in com- 
 passion, " I know you ; you are my brother ; you are my 
 flesh and blood. Oome to me, and let us weep together." 
 
 Although I have never hinted at a suspicion to Ca- 
 mille, or given the least sign that I know aught of his 
 affairs, he must have felt by some mental pi'ocess that I 
 suspected his true condition, for after we sipped our 
 coffee, and admired the city from our elevated position, 
 conversation languished and died into silence, broken 
 now and then by an unconscious sigh from Camille, as 
 he puffed at his cigar, his clear-cut features making a 
 severely gloomy silhouette against the moonlit wall. 
 
 At length, turning to me, he said abruptly and bitterly, 
 " My friend, have you perceived that I am acting apart? 
 Have you guessed how miserable I am under this brave 
 show of happiness, this shaia enthusiasm ? " 
 
 " You unhappy — you, Ca'iille ? " 1 replied, evasively ; 
 then thinking sincerity the setter part, I added, " Yes, 
 
 nc 'jgWMriHiiMiMMM^aM; ' -,. ' 
 
190 
 
 THE STOUY OF AN KNTIIU8IAST. 
 
 to tell you the truth, I knew that something was wrong 
 
 with you." 
 
 "And you wondered what had happened to me. iou 
 never suspected my secret; you never knew why I 
 neglected my studies, my master, my friends — why I 
 changed my habits, my desii-es, the very thoughts of my 
 heart — why I disregarded my 'interests, my career, my 
 honor, my pride, my ambition, all, all, until I see noth- 
 ing but ruin around me. Search where I will nito my 
 soul, my talents, hopes, aspirations, I see only a fright- 
 ful abyss, from which I shrink with horror." 
 
 He went on vehemently, never waiting for an answer. 
 "I was so happy, and that makes my misery more ap- 
 palling. I was in the midst of bright morning, when 
 suddenly it became night, a black night, peopled with 
 demons and hideous chimeras. Was I a fool that I was 
 deceived so easily! Alas, no — I was young, I had the 
 passive credulity of youth that goes hand in hand with 
 blind passion straight toward the abyss. I could weep 
 for myself when I think how sudden, how unutterably 
 cruel, my disillusion was. I loved life, I loved my fellow- 
 men, I had a good heart, I was generous and impulsive ; 
 my aspirations were noble, my dreams sublime, and my 
 happiness seemed without a limit, boundless, eternal. 
 You may think it absurd that one disappointment should 
 change the whole philosophical and moral condition 
 of a man ; that a few months happiness with a woman 
 destitute of every grace of the soul should destroy all 
 relish for what is good and noble, should take the very 
 flavor out of life, should reduce a happy, generous, sin- 
 cere nature to a cold, bitter cynic, change an honest 
 man into a villain, into an utterly despicable creature.' 
 « Hush, hush, my friend," I interrupted. " You must 
 
T. 
 was wrong 
 
 me. Y{>a 
 iiew why I 
 ids — why I 
 iU>j;lits of my 
 ,' ciireer, my 
 
 I see uoth- 
 vill into my 
 ily a fright- 
 
 r an answer. 
 ?ry more ap- 
 jrning, when 
 peopled with 
 A that I was 
 ig, I had the 
 in hand with 
 
 1 eoukl weep 
 V nnutterably 
 ed my fellow- 
 d impulsive ; 
 lime, and my 
 Hess, eternal, 
 itment should 
 ral condition 
 ,vith a woman 
 Id destroy all 
 take the very 
 generous, sin- 
 ge an honest 
 ble creature." 
 
 "You must 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 191 
 
 not condemn yourself so severely. You certainly exag- 
 gerate your condition. It is impossible." 
 
 "Yes, you may well think it impossible; it is difti- 
 cult to believe. At times I doubt if I am myself, or 
 whether by some spell of the Circe I have been changed 
 into a fiend. AVhon I regret my past, it is not so much 
 my lost illusions, the trust and confidence of my youth, 
 my disenchantment. It is the wrong I have done to 
 others. Let me tell you all ; you can judge me after- 
 ward, and 1 implore you not to despise me utterly. I 
 need your trust and friendship, for I am like one shii> 
 wrecked and wellnigh exhausted through battling with 
 the storms and tempests in my own soul. The woman 
 I loved so madly was a friend of Tolonai ; he had known 
 her since her childhood. In fact, she was his foster- 
 sister, and he led me into the snare. I did not think that 
 he deceived me wilfully ; I w^ould rather think that 
 he did not know her true character. They seemed to 
 be devoted friends ; a sort of fraternal relation existed 
 between them. At first I thought it might be a warmer 
 feeling, but nothing in her conduct confirmed my suspi- 
 cion. I need not tell you that I loved her from the 
 first hour I spent in her presence, nor need I tell you of 
 lier beauty. It is the fatal inheritance of those whose 
 hands are chains and whose feet lead down to hell. I 
 had never loved before ; I had been like a gay butterfly 
 flitting from flower to flower, spreading my careless 
 wings in the sunshine, rejoicing in the beauty and grace 
 of every created thing. But she, with her unholy spell, 
 took my very soul captive, and T counted myself the 
 most fortunate of mortals to be the favored slave of her 
 caprices. I rushed into the maddest extravagance to 
 surround her with luxury. I spent my own liberal 
 
192 
 
 THE STORY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 allowance ; I borrowed secretly from my mother, my 
 brothers, and even my sister, who was about to marry a 
 worthy young man, whom she had loved from childhcud. 
 Then I preyed upon my friends until they turnet^ their 
 backs upon me or looked at me askance. When every 
 other resource failed, I went 4;o the money-lenders and 
 borrowed all I possibly could on the expectation of my 
 inheritance. I had read and heard of the sudden en- 
 gulfing of fortunes in such unholy maelstroms, but I 
 had always supposed the truth was exaggerated. IMy 
 friend, there is no exaggeration possible. It is a vortex 
 that swallowsall, all — wealth, fame, honor, and even 
 the immortal soul. When I had no more to give, — I 
 hate to confess such a burning shame to you, — in 
 order to bind her to me forever, I offered her my hand 
 in marriage, and my name, — my noble name, kept pure 
 and unsidlied by generations of honorable men and saint- 
 ly women. It was the last thing I had to offer her, and 
 she refused it with scorn, laughed like a demon at my 
 indignation, and asked me if I had a fortune to offer her 
 as well as a title, and when, craven that I was, I con- 
 fessed that at last I had reached the end of my resources, 
 she coolly told me that I could follow the way Polonse 
 had taken, into the Mant for aught she knew, as he had 
 given no sign of life for months. Then for the first 
 time I learned how I had betrayed my friend, for he was 
 • my friend, poor Tolonae, and he had a noble heart. Now 
 I know how he loved her, and how he too sacrificed all 
 for her, and that, maddened by her infidelity and my de- 
 ' ception, he rushed away from us to plunge himself into 
 ' oblivion. Unhappy man, doubly unhappy, to believe the 
 friend he loved and trusted had wilfully usurped hia 
 place and betrayed his confidence. Oh, I feel as if 
 
 ,) j, » #jWll l W»WJB **»'^ 
 
1 
 
 ■5T. 
 
 mother, my 
 t to marry a 
 )m childhood, 
 turnet! their 
 When every 
 y-lenders and 
 tation of my 
 e sudden en- 
 3troms, but I 
 gerated. ^ly 
 It is a vortex 
 or, and even 
 I to give, — I 
 to you, — in 
 her my liand 
 me, kept pure 
 nen and saint- 
 offer her, and 
 demon at my 
 i\e to offer her 
 I Avas, I con- 
 my resources, 
 e way Tolonse 
 icw, as he had 
 1 for the lirst 
 ?nd, for he was 
 le heart. Now 
 ) sucriticed all 
 ity and my de- 
 ;e himself into 
 , to believe the 
 ly usurped hia 
 h, I feel as if 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 103 
 
 I had murdered him, as if the brand of Cain was 
 upon me." 
 
 " Let me give you some consolation," I said, as my 
 poor friend paused to wipe away the tears of anguish 
 that filled his eyes at the thought of Polonae's wretched 
 fate. " You have not that calamity to accuse yourself 
 of. I saw our friend on the eve of his departure from 
 Taris. He told me he was going to I'oland, and should 
 never return to France." 
 
 " Thank God for the comfort you have given me. I 
 was haunted with the thought that perhaps I had been 
 the unwilling cause of my friend's death. I judged of 
 him by my own stormy, insane passion. Death seemed 
 the only refuge left me, when I rushed from her pres- 
 ence, maddened, bewildered, I knew not whither. I 
 thought of the different means of ending my misery, 
 but shrank from them all. I felt that it would be the 
 crowning ignominy of a weak, ignoble life. I tried to 
 be stoical, to find some strength in philosophy, some 
 comfort in religion, but, alas ! I could not reason, and the 
 heavens seemed made of brass. My prayers and cries 
 fell back on me without being heard. After wandering 
 about in an aimless way for several days, exhausted by 
 fasting and fever, I went to my apartment, which had seen 
 little of me for months, and threw myself on my bed 
 with the hope that I should never rise again. I believed 
 that I was seriously ill, and I imagined that it was easy 
 to die ; but death does not come at the bidding, especially 
 when one is only twenty-five. I slept for several hours, 
 and awoke physically refreshed, my mind clear and my 
 stomach craving food. I arose, dressed myself carefully, 
 and went with a smiling face to the Cafo Cujas, where I 
 partook of a hearty breakfast, and chatted gayly with 
 
104 
 
 THK STOUY OK AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 the habituh of the place, who all declared that I had 
 neglected them shamefully of late, and congratulated me 
 on°my return to my old haunts looking so well and 
 h'u.py And all the while the students and artists were 
 bantering and jesting, distinctly above their words I 
 seemed to hear another voiite, stern and imi.lacf^ble, re- 
 peating over and over, 'Eat and drink and be merry, for 
 to-morrow thou shalt die.' That little faree ended, I 
 returned to my room, bolted my door, and sat down to 
 write a farewell letter to my father, in which 1 con- 
 fessed everything, and implored his forgiveness and 
 lenient judgment of my folly. Afterward, I wrote 
 another letter to my mother. The thought of the sorrow 
 I was about to cause her melted my heart ; and I vept 
 freely, the first tears I had shed since childhood. Ihat 
 burst of passionate weeping calmed me somewhat, but 
 still I was resolved to end all then and there. I folded 
 ray letters, addressed them, and made some little memo- 
 randa of several different things, put my desk in order, 
 closed it and lo(tked it, and laid the key with the letters 
 There was nothing more to do, but I still hesitated I 
 was so young, the world was so beautiful, the hereafter 
 so dark and uncertain. The red evening sun shone ui 
 my window and lay like a golden bar across the wall ot 
 my room. T could not die with that bar of sunlight 
 wavering before me. It crept up and up as the sun sank 
 lower and lower, and I fell to thinking, I would wait 
 until it reached the iJtmost limit and was no longer vis- 
 ible. That should be the sign. It drifted upward like 
 a mounting flame and suddeidy went out. Still I Ini- 
 gered at the mooring of Time, fearing to cut my frail 
 bark loose. The sun lay in glory over the great city. 
 From my window I could see the dark outline of the 
 
LA SANTA. 
 
 IDo 
 
 that I liiid 
 itiiliited me 
 o well and 
 a,vtists were 
 ir words I 
 [)laca,blc, re- 
 
 merry 
 
 for 
 
 ce ended, I 
 lat down to 
 hich 1 cou- 
 iveuess and 
 rd, I wrote 
 f tlie sorrow 
 and I ..'ept 
 hood. That 
 mewhiit, but 
 e. I folded 
 little memo- 
 isk. in order, 
 li the letters, 
 hesitated. I 
 he hereafter 
 iim shone in 
 s the wall of 
 of sunlight 
 the sun sank 
 [ would wait 
 10 longer vis- 
 upward like 
 Still I lin- 
 ) cut my frail 
 le great city. 
 )utline of the 
 
 trees in the Luxembourg garden, that garden where I 
 had passed so many bright hours, the si)C)t where 1 had 
 iirst seen her, her lovoly radiant face, her eyes so full of the 
 bewildering light tliat led my senses astray. Oh, and I 
 had come to this ! So near the gates of eternity and my 
 soul so far from God ! Even in this supreme hour lier 
 memory had comi^, bright but baleful, to lead my soul 
 astray, to lure me from my purpose, to weaken my haiul, 
 to unnerve me, to make a coward of me at the last. 
 With a despairing cry I threw myself on my knees and 
 implored the mercy and pardon of my Creator. At that 
 moment there was an imperative knock at my door. 
 Sliould I answer it ? Oh, fool and weak ! the thought 
 flitted through my mind that it might be a message 
 from her. Trembling with eagerness, I opened the door 
 and my mother, my adored mother, pale and anxious, 
 threw her loving arms around me. God liad sent her 
 to save me. With the tender intuition of a mother, 
 she felt that I was in trouble, and had hastened to 
 Paris, to bo near me. I drew lier into my room, and 
 on my knees before her I confessed all. " Poor child, 
 unhappy boy ! " was her only reproach. " You must re- 
 turn, with me, you must go to your father and seek 
 his forgiveness, and then you must make your future 
 blot out your past. I obeyed her as submissively as a 
 child. At first my father was obdurate, but, owing to 
 my mother's and sister's intercession, he finally softened, 
 and forgave me. In order that my debts might be paid, 
 my sweet, heroic sister insisted on resigning her dot and 
 postponing her marriage. After these harrowing details 
 were arranged, I resolved to return to my studies. 
 Paris is hateful to me. The certainty of your friendship 
 and my master's affection drew me after you. Can 
 
196 
 
 THK STORY OP AN KNTHUSIA8T. 
 
 you wonder tliiit 1 suffer ? Is it not a record fur iingels 
 to weep over ? How can I ever retrieve the past ? " 
 
 " Look ! " 1 said, pointing to my " star of strength " 
 hanging over the blacli cross. " That is an enibl-'Ui of 
 peace after i)ain. Look upward, and happiness will 
 come with Heaven's divine calm." 
 
 "I will try to hope," he said, briefly. And with a 
 sad good-night he went away, leaving me there alone in 
 the still, moonlit night to think over his story of 
 passion and despair. 
 
 tl 
 fi 
 I 
 
 ai 
 
 V. 
 
 "Light-footed iMay." To me this is the most beau- 
 tiful month of the wliole year, and it is also my fa- 
 vorite child of the spring. Here, in Rome, where nature 
 is so opulent in her beauty, every old wall and time- 
 stained ruin is bursting into verdure and bloom. The 
 gray olive has put off her nun-like robes, and donned a 
 livery of tender, modest green. The acacias hang out 
 their fluttering bridal-veils to tlieir wooers the sun and 
 soft south-wind, the orange and lemon scatter their fra- 
 grant waxen petals with a lavish prodigality, and the 
 bare boughs of the almond-tree are white and fringed 
 with delicate blossoms that seem to quiver with a 
 subtle happiness, as if the dead branches felt the mood 
 of May and burst into beauty before their time. The 
 very air is exuberant with life and joy ; countless winged 
 things sport and flutter in the light and warmth. Every 
 bush and shrub is vocal with the singing, twittering 
 birds. Mother Nature is exultant over her lovely flower- 
 crowned child, and we who are in the May of life find 
 it pleasant to rejoice with her. 
 
 ol 
 it 
 m 
 
 hi 
 fr 
 d( 
 
 Pi 
 d( 
 
 bi 
 
 ps 
 
 fij 
 di 
 
 St 
 
 br 
 
 W( 
 
 oil 
 
■Il l I i^" <l . l<l— tf t 
 
 lift 
 
 T. 
 
 1 for iingels 
 I past ? " 
 if strength" 
 embl"m of 
 ppiness will 
 
 \n(l with a 
 icre uloiiu in 
 is story of 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 107 
 
 3 most beau- 
 also my fa- 
 v^liere nature 
 I and time- 
 )loom. The 
 id donned a 
 IS hang out 
 ;he sun and 
 ;er their fra- 
 ity, and the 
 and fringed 
 ver with a 
 It the mood 
 
 time. The 
 tless winged 
 ttth. Every 
 :, twittering 
 )vely flower- 
 
 of life find 
 
 In the first flush of morning, I am out and away over 
 the Campagna, with the fresh wind blowing in my face; 
 frocdom, fragrance, beauty, all around me. Sometimes 
 I enoouutor I'aul, with his arms full of blossoming vines 
 and blue cam2)auala, and — 
 
 " I know the way he went 
 
 To bear his new love's posy, 
 For Ills feet have touched the meadows 
 And left the daisies rosy." 
 
 ire too is in the mood of May. Oh, youth and love ! 
 We who are dowered with both are feasting with the 
 gods, did we but know it. Yea, more ! we are drinking 
 of the waters of Paradise ; and it is the only draught of 
 it we shall ever have on earth. Feast, quaff, while we 
 may, for the evil days come, wlien the nectar turns to 
 gall on our lips, and the sparkling fountains are frozen. 
 
 * * • • • 
 
 I have seen but little of Camille since tlie night of 
 his confessions. I know that he has set up his easel in a 
 friend's studio, and is working bravely. Tlioy say he is 
 doing wonders, and M. Ingres is again rejoicing in the 
 promise of his future career. We are all working within- 
 doors as much as we can this charming spring weather; 
 but I think we all like best to make studies of the Cam- 
 pagna. Even those who are devoting their talents to 
 figure compositions like to introduce a background of 
 distant violet mountains, a tender opal sky, a long 
 stretch of olive-greeu plain, a group of trees shading a 
 broken arch or ruined shrine or garden wall hung with 
 yellow roses, a broken column with tufts of lovely 
 weeds and grasses, waifs of the air and generous sun, 
 outcast children of the flower kingdom, that have a grace 
 
I! 
 
 H 
 
 1!»M 
 
 TIIK HT(>1^Y OK AN KNTIIl'Sl AST. 
 
 iiiul beauty all their own ; 1 love tlu'sc liomcly bliiii-cyt-d 
 little beggars, that glance shyly at one from every nook 
 and cranny of these old walls, where they cling 
 and flutter, wooing the sun and the showers, niueh 
 better than the stately blossoms that stand in dignified 
 rows in the well kejjt parterre. 
 
 Tomorrow is the flower festival at Genzano, an.l 
 Camille came to talk to mc about it. Of course we muwl 
 go. It is unique, a very carnival of flowers. 
 
 We went together to invite the Villa Medici party to 
 join ns, and found Paul at his easel, and La Santa 
 posing near the same stone bench where I first saw her, 
 with the same lovely smile on her lips and the same 
 heavenly light in her eyes. 
 
 I think she is more lovely in that pre-Raphaelite cos- 
 tume than in any of the other simple, pretty gowns she 
 wears. It seems to suit her classic style, to add grace 
 and dignity to her form, and I am sure Camille was as 
 much impressed with her exquisite beauty as I was the 
 first time I saw her, for he turned to me with a new 
 light in his eyes, and said, in a low tone : — 
 
 " What a celestial face ! What a model for earthly 
 eyes to feast on ! Who can transfer that divine expres- 
 sion to canvas ! " 
 
 " No one but Taul," I replied, looking over my friend's 
 shoulder at his study. There I saw a graceful, spiritual 
 figure against an ethereal background of pale blue and 
 gray ; the outlines tender yet strong, the color glowing 
 with a soulful harmony and truth. 
 
 Camille drew near, and said, reverently, " My friend, 
 this picture will make you famous." 
 
 I'aul raised his happy eyes to us with a grateful smile. 
 
 "(J 
 
 thei 
 
 ins] 
 
 bef( 
 
 V 
 
 hen 
 
 lea\ 
 
 of 
 
 Can 
 
 saiii 
 
 fact 
 
 rail 
 
 ove; 
 (( 
 
 you 
 mo( 
 '*su 
 Oui 
 .Ma« 
 woi 
 you 
 sitt 
 
 •I 
 
 llo^ 
 
 de] 
 
 a 
 
 reli: 
 
 1 
 
 frai 
 
 ffen 
 
 saci 
 
 1 
 
 - t iWiWil *^"''^***"' ''"'***'*'^ ' ' ** '*'* '" ' 
 
T. 
 
 ily l)liit;-(!y»'(l 
 I nvi'ry 110' "k 
 tlify cliiij,' 
 iwevH, mui'li 
 . ill digiiitk'd 
 
 enziino, ami 
 irse we must 
 
 dici party to 
 id La .Santa 
 first saw lier, 
 nd the sam<' 
 
 iphaelite ros- 
 ty gowns she 
 to add graco 
 iniille was as 
 as I was the 
 ! with a new 
 
 ;1 for earthly 
 livine expres- 
 
 n- my friend's 
 3ful, spiritual 
 )ale blue and 
 jolor glowing 
 
 "My friend, 
 
 'rateful smile. 
 
 LA HANTA. 
 
 11)9 
 
 mumman'ofitfi^' 
 
 " (Jive all the praise to my model, not to me. Wliatitver 
 there is good in it is due to Mile. Angi'di'iue. She is my 
 inspiration. Who could [laint a had picture with her 
 before him ? " 
 
 While we were eriticising tiie study, the girl seated 
 iierself beside her mother, and was absently plucking the 
 leaves from a branch of roses that fell over the back 
 of the bench, whilt^ httr eyes were lixed earnestl} on 
 Oamille. She seemed to be following every word ho 
 said, and to be studying every expression of his brilliant 
 face. When he turned toward her, her eyes sought the 
 ruined blossoms in her hand, and a faint Hush passed 
 over her cheek. 
 
 " Let me thank you, mademoiselle, for the pleasure 
 you have given me. One does not meet with such a 
 model often, nor," with an admiring glance at Paul, 
 •• such a genius to understand and express what ho sees. 
 Our friend is more than fortunate." Then, turning to 
 .Madam llaymond, he said, with all the deference one 
 would use in asking a favor of a queen, " Madam, will 
 you kindly allow mademoiselle to give me a few 
 sittings ? " 
 
 Madam Kaymond looked at her daughter inquiringly. 
 •' I am afraid all her time is engaged for the present. 
 How is it, Angclique? have you leisure to pose for M. 
 de Krecourt ? " 
 
 " Yes, mama, if M. de Brecourt intends painting a 
 religious picture." 
 
 Then, turning to Camille, she said, with charming 
 frankness, " You may not know that I never sit for 
 (jcnre painters, and I don't think you would care for a 
 sacred subject." 
 
 "Oh, mademoiselle!" exclaimed Camille, laughing. 
 
 • fi'mm t m itaBiimmm 
 
200 
 
 Tin: HTOllV OF AN KNTIIimiAHT. 
 
 "you aro sovoro. Do I look so worldly and frivo- 
 lous V " 
 
 Tho girl raised licr serious eyes to Do Hri'coiirt's face, 
 und said, gravely, " It is not your IodUh. I like your faee; 
 yet, for some reason, I I'eel that you could not paint such 
 pictures as M. Fabrien does." 
 
 " You have judged rightly, niadenioiselle ; I couM not," 
 returiu'd Caniille, sadly. "One must have a very white 
 soul to leave such a pure impression on his canvas. I'he 
 subject I have selected is an episode in the life of St. 
 Elizabeth of Hungary." 
 
 " 1 sliall like that," she said, joyfully. " I love to read 
 of her. What a sublime history ! What devotion and 
 self-renunciation! Oh, monsieur, you have chosen a 
 beautiful character to portray." 
 
 Paul looked at her as ho put a few more touches hero 
 and there before removing his easel, and said, anxiously, 
 "I hope mademoiselle will remember that I am to have 
 several more sittings before this picture is finished, and 
 then I have another already in my mind." 
 
 " It is true, Angelique, you must not forget M. Fabrien's 
 previous engagement, and you have promised others. I 
 fear you will overtask yourself," suggested her mother. 
 
 "Never fear, mama. I shall not neglect any of my 
 friends. The days a . long, and I am never tired." 
 
 Madam Ilaymoud turned to Camillo, and said, apolo- 
 getically, " You will think my child enthusiastic on the 
 subject of art. In fact, she is as much interested in 
 every picture as though she were painting it herself, as 
 though the result was due to her genius." 
 
 " It is, dear madam, it is ! " said Paul, eagerly. " Made- 
 moiselle has a genius for posing. She inspires and enno- 
 bles every subject ; she is the spiritual essence." Then, 
 
AHT. 
 
 lly and frivo 
 
 hvcoiirt's fiicc, 
 liko your face; 
 nut juiiut uuch 
 
 } ; I couM not," 
 e a very wliiti) 
 3 canvas. I'he 
 the life o£ St. 
 
 " I lovo to read 
 t devotion and 
 iuxvo chosen a 
 
 e touches hero 
 said, anxiously, 
 t I am to have 
 is tinishcd,, and 
 
 ;et M. Fabrien's 
 ised others. I 
 id her mother, 
 ect any of my 
 ver tired." 
 xnd said, apolo- 
 usiastic on the 
 h interested in 
 g it herself, as 
 
 igerly. " Made- 
 ipires and enno- 
 isence." Then, 
 
 LA BANTA. 
 
 201 
 
 thinkinj,' that ho liad spoken warmly, \w. colored with 
 confusion and turned hastily to his work. 
 
 Madam Itaymond and Angi'liiiuo promised with evi- 
 dent jjleasuro to bo of our party to-morrow, and Taul's 
 conjpany is countt'd on as a matter of oourso. The day 
 promises to bo fine, and the cimntry is so beautiful. 
 Ah mo, if Dorethea wtro only hero to share this joyful 
 spring-time with me t 
 
 VI. 
 
 What a day to mark with a white Ptone I Tf I live to 
 bo old and miserable, the memory of it will always make 
 spritig and youth in my lieart. The weather has been 
 perfect, indescribably soft and clear, with the sweetest 
 south-wind blowing over miles and miles of blossoming 
 country. What fragrance and music ! What light and 
 color ! — " the lark's dear song above the blue " — the 
 swallows flitting through the transparent air — the lit- 
 tle white wings of lazy clouds casting a tender shade 
 over the scarlet poppies nodding among the tangled 
 grass, and beds of daisies, pink, like the flowers of para- 
 dise, and the blue campanula, that children call angels' 
 bells, swaying to and fro, and perhaps ringing soft 
 chimes for elves and fairies. 
 
 • • ■ • • 
 
 We went in two carriages, our own little party 
 quite separate from the gay and noisy throng — Madam 
 Ingres, Angelique, Paul, and I in one, Madam Kaymond, 
 Laura Brent, M. Ingres, and Camille in the other. Miss 
 Brent has passed most of her life in England with her 
 grandparents, and this is her first season in Borne. 
 
202 
 
 THK STORY OK AN KNTtfUSIAST. 
 
 Everytliiiig ^vilR new and beautiful to her, ami she uiailo 
 a pleasant addition to our excursion. 
 
 T'aul, sitting opposite to Angeli(]ue, with the light of 
 her eyes f > U upon him, was intoxicated with his happi- 
 ness, and, forgetting hid habitual gravity, he flashed and 
 sparkled in a way that astonished us while it elicited 
 peals of merriment from all. We were so light-hearted 
 that we wore not very particular as to the quality of the 
 wit, but, if I remember well, there were some exceedingly 
 bright things said by one and another. 
 
 The carriage in which Caraille sat was in advance of 
 ours, consequently he too was facing Angidique, and I 
 noticed that often while she was listening to Paul her 
 eyes looked beyond him to the handsome face of Ca- 
 mille, which was as changeable as an April sky, now 
 bright and sunny, and then overcast with gloomy 
 clouds, the memory of past sin and suffering. 
 
 When we reached the Olmata, at the entrance of Gen- 
 zano, we left the carriages and walked through the 
 beautiful avenue of elms to the Cesarini gardens, to 
 which M. Ingres always had admission, and from whose 
 heights one can see the picturesque town of Nemi, its 
 wooded hills reflected in " the oval mirror of its glassy 
 lake." 
 
 M. Ingres was enchanted with the view, and, produc- 
 ing his sketch-book, he found a favorable position, and 
 set himself to jotting down the salient points of the wide 
 landscape. Madam Ingres and Madam Raymond took 
 charge of the hampers and prepared to set out the 
 lunch. The two girls, with Paul and Camille, wandered 
 away through the shadowy perspective of one of the 
 long avenues, and I threw myself under a giant elm on 
 the brow of the hill to enjoy the beauty of the scene, 
 
>■ ■ I ... n ^ vjd ifa 
 
 SIAST. 
 
 'V, iiinl sill' niiulo 
 
 dtli the light of 
 with his happi- 
 V, he Haslicil and 
 Avhile it elicited 
 so light-hearted 
 he quality of the 
 some exceedingly 
 
 as in advance of 
 Angi'lique, and I 
 ling to Paul her 
 lome face of Ca- 
 1 April sky, now 
 st with gloomy 
 Bering. 
 
 entrance of Gen- 
 ied through the 
 irini gardens, to 
 , and from whose 
 own of Nemi, its 
 rror of its glassy 
 
 'iew, and, produc- 
 ible position, and 
 points of the wide 
 n Raymond took 
 i to set out the 
 l^amille, wandered 
 re of one of the 
 ;r a giant elm on 
 ity of the scene, 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 20a 
 
 and to dream of ])orethea, who was never absent from 
 my thoughts. 
 
 It must liave been some time that 1 lay there lost in 
 a delicious rcvery, and almost hidden among the rank 
 grass and tall ferns, when I became conscious that some 
 one was approaching. I looked up, and Camille and 
 Angelique were walking slowly in my direction, absorbed 
 in earnest conversation. 
 
 A few feet away from me they stood still on the edge 
 of a precipitous descent and looked with troubled eyes 
 into the still, black water of the lake below them. I 
 think Camille saw in it a likeness to his own soul, weird, 
 lonely, encircled with gloomy shades, the burnt-out crater 
 of an extinct volcano, its raging fires spent, its passion 
 exhausted, drowned and covered with the leaden waters 
 of oblivion. He looked, as he stood there, terribly dark 
 and forbidding, and his face was full of brooding misery ; 
 while Angelique, in her white gown, outlined against the 
 shadow, appeared a radiant imj)ersonation of innocent 
 happiness, the spirit of youth and spring. 
 
 Her eyes sought the downcast face of her companion 
 with pitying wonder, as though she had a glimpse of 
 the dark secret of his sorrow. Suddenly he looked up 
 and met her gaze, and something he saw there trans- 
 figured him instantly. It was like the brief sun- 
 light that pierces Nemi's sullen depths, irradiating 
 the gloom and reflecting for a moment the heavens 
 bending over it. 
 
 I seem destined to be an unwilling witness of Ca- 
 niille's sentimental episodes, and I must say that I re- 
 gretted this as much as I did the other. In spite of my 
 love for ray friend, I felt that any outburst of earthly 
 passion for the innocent child before him was almost 
 
 tttamti 
 
 •-» — "" 
 
204 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 
 repielK-nsible, for his glance betrayed the birth of a uew 
 emotion in his restless, unsatisfied soul. 
 
 For an instant each looked into the face of the other, 
 Ang('li<ine with anxiety and pity, Caniille with earnest 
 expectation, like one in danger who suddenly sees salva- 
 tion near. Their attitude toward each other was very 
 touching. It was the beginning of a struggle between 
 the power of darkness and the spirit of light; the first 
 glance of a pure spiritual nature into an abyss of sin 
 
 and night. . 
 
 But she did not shrink. A calm, heroic smile dawned 
 upon her face as she held out her hand, and said, grave- 
 ly, "I know you are unhappy, and I wish i could help 
 
 ^°""My angel, you can," cried Camille, passionately, 
 while he clasped her extended hand. " I need just such 
 a celestial being near me to drive away the demons of 
 darkness. Promise mr that you will love me and never 
 
 leave me." 
 
 "That is impossible. You must not mistake my in- 
 terest for love, the love you mean. I love you, but not 
 in an earthly sense. My love for you is purely spiritual. 
 My soul loves the better, nobler part of your nature. 
 You must not think me strange and mystical, but I have 
 an intuition, another sight, as it were, that looks beyond 
 and above what we see here. Hush," as Camille was 
 about to make a passionte rejoinder. "I see that you 
 are disappointed. You do not understand me — no one 
 does Well," with a soft smile, « I will not analyze 
 my feelings for you; I will leave you to discover what 
 they are by the light of our friendship." 
 
 « Ah ! " cried Camille, bitterly, « friendship is impossi- 
 ble between u8. You must love me with your whole being 
 
 1 
 c 
 1 
 
 s 
 
 e 
 e 
 d 
 
 V 
 
 P 
 
 Sl 
 
 h 
 y 
 
 V 
 
 a; 
 
 k 
 
 fi; 
 
 di 
 
 I 
 
 li( 
 
 w 
 
 dl 
 
 ni 
 Ik 
 til 
 th 
 se 
 fa 
 m 
 
lAST. 
 
 1 birth of a uew 
 
 ■e of the other, 
 He with earnest 
 enly sees salva- 
 othcr was very 
 ruggle between 
 : light ; the first 
 an abyss of sin 
 
 ic smile dawned 
 and said, grave- 
 sh 1 could help 
 
 le, passionately, 
 I need just such 
 Y the demons of 
 re me and never 
 
 mistake my in- 
 3ve you, but not 
 
 purely spiritual. 
 
 of your nature, 
 stical, but I have 
 hat looks beyond 
 ' as Camille was 
 
 " I see that you 
 ;and me — no one 
 (vill not analyze 
 to discover what 
 
 idship is impossi- 
 your whole being 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 205 
 
 in order to save me from myself. Nothing less than a 
 constant, self-saorifieing devotion can lielp me. You do 
 not know liow near eternal ruin I have been. Only a 
 saintly love like yours can redeem me." 
 
 "No earthly love can redeem you," .slie replied, sol- 
 emnly. "You must purify your own soul. You must 
 enter into tlie inner sanctuary of sorrow, and close the 
 door on the tumult of the world ; and there, face to face 
 with yourself, you must study your own nature. It is a 
 penance that yotir Creator requires of you. You must 
 scourge yourself spiritually, and live in tlio beauty of 
 holiness, before you can enjoy the divine favor, before 
 you can exi)i'riencti the l)lesse<lness of the higher life." 
 
 "Ciiild, juigol, saint! wlio taught you these things? 
 vViiat can you know of sorrow, remorse, and penance?" 
 asked Camille, vcliemently. 
 
 " Alas ! it is the inheritance of all Avho live. This 
 knowledge must come sooner or later. To .some it comes 
 early, as it did to me. I was only fifteen when papa 
 died. I loved him i)assionately, exclusively, jealously. 
 I was wretched because he was devoted to mama. If 
 lie sliowed any interest in any person or thing, I was 
 wild with rage. I even hated the pictures he worked on 
 so patiently. Ciiild thougli T was, I endured the most 
 dreadful storms of passion. I was torn to pieces by 
 my affection for him and my sinful dislike for wliatever 
 he loved. I was always at war with myself inwardly, ■ 
 though outwardly I was calm. They called me a ^ 
 thoughtful, studious child, but I was only wicked and 
 s.dfish. I only cared to earn the approval of my earthly 
 fatlier, to he first and most precious to him. In the 
 midst of this sinful idolatry, he was taken from me. 
 Suddeidy he was quite gone out of my life j nowhere in 
 
206 
 
 THli STOUY OF AN KNTHU8IAST. 
 
 the whole worhl was he to be found, and I was left be- 
 Innd, stunned and helpless. Very bitter was the cry of 
 my obdurate heart. There was no place in creation but 
 his grave ; and one day I was weeping there alon.-, hope- 
 le.ss, solitary, powerless in my unutterable anguish,— I 
 could not l.».k up; he was not there; I knew nothing of 
 the eternity beyond ; 1 could only weep and shiver and 
 cling to tluit lost love, with intensest longing to be at 
 rest" in its narrow bed, — when suddenly a soft light 
 seemed to surround me, the fetters of earth fell off, 
 and I appeared to be floating upward into infinite space, 
 borne gently on a sweet air, and faint far-otf music 
 lulling me. The earth was below me with all its 
 lamenting, and I seemed to be soaring among the stars, 
 enveloped in rosy light. I was no longer the mourning 
 impatient child of earth, but a new-born, enfranchised 
 spirit floating ever upward until I saw the transfigured 
 face of my father, bright, beautiful, and eternally young. 
 He took me in his arms, and 1 lay at peace upon his 
 breast, fanned by the sweet air, lulled by the rapturous 
 music. When my spirit returned to earth, it was 
 twilight. I had been for hours unconscious by that 
 quiet" grave. Mama came to search for me, and said 
 that I had been sleeping, and that it was all a beau- 
 tiful dream. But I know it was not a dream. It was 
 a vision of eternity, the home of the soul. I have 
 seen that blessed face as I shall see it again in the 
 beauty of immortality. Since then I have never been 
 nnhappy. This world is beautiful and ful^ of joy, 
 and I love life dearly, but I can see beyond it all, 
 beyond the joy and sorrow, the smiles and the tears, 
 where we shall find an existence of such happiness 
 as we never dreamed of here. My friends say I am relig- 
 
 y 
 
 h 
 
 h 
 w 
 tc 
 b( 
 
 sa 
 li| 
 
 si 
 
 H 
 
 If. 
 
3T. 
 
 was left bo- 
 xs the cry jf 
 
 ci't'iition but 
 ' alone, hope- 
 anguish, — I 
 w nothing of 
 (1 shiver anil 
 ging to be at 
 
 a soft light 
 avth fell off, 
 inlinite space, 
 
 far-otf music 
 
 with all its 
 long the stars, 
 the mourning 
 , enfranchised 
 le transfigured 
 ernally young, 
 eace upon his 
 
 the rapturous 
 earth, it was 
 icious by that 
 
 me, and said 
 as all a beau- 
 iream. It was 
 
 soul. I have 
 ; again in the 
 ive never been 
 i fur of joy, 
 
 beyond it all, 
 and the tears, 
 such happiness 
 
 say I am relig- 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 207 
 
 lous and spiritual, that I am a droan.er an<l an ideal- 
 ist, but they have never seen what I have seen or they 
 would understand me better. 1 know what my mission 
 on earth is. It is to comfort the sorrowful, and to try 
 and sliow them the spiritual exi.stenee whidi is the in- 
 lieritance of all who have lived and suffered." 
 
 " r.lessed consolation, if 1 could believe," returned Ca- 
 
 mille, sadly. " Only love me, I pray you, in any way you 
 
 , can. My heart, my soul, my whole suffering being needs 
 
 It. I give my salvation into your keeping, and oh, my 
 
 good angel, save me if you can." 
 
 For a mom(;nt she looked at him silently, contemi)la- 
 tively, and then said, with solemn fervor, "1 will en- 
 treat God lor you. In some way our destinies are 
 united. I have felt it from the first. There is some 
 mysterious bond between us. It may be that I am to 
 suffer for you, — that I am to save you at last." 
 
 "Sweet saint, I give myself into your keeping, and 
 froni this moment I will try to make myself worthy of 
 you " ; and, taking her slender hand in his, he laid it on 
 his heart, and then pressed it reverently to his lips. 
 
 When we gathered around the tempting lunch that the 
 ladies had spread out under the shade of a great oak 
 whose gnarled roots served for seats, I looked atCamille 
 to see if I could discover any signs of the conversation 
 between him and Angelique, but he wore his helmet of 
 pride with the vizor down, and around his lips was the 
 same light, mocking smile, although there was a softer 
 light in his eyes as they rested on the gentle face at his 
 side. 
 
 Paul, unhappy Paul ! the day had changed for him. 
 He was exerting himself to be agreeable to Miss Brent, 
 
208 THE STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 whom (lestiuy had placed lu'si.l." liim, wliilu all tlu; time 
 ho was ciivioiis ..f (Janiille, whohudai'pnveahimof z. 
 tetc-a-tfte (hiiing their promenade. 
 
 Alatlam Ingres was also somewhat vexed becaubc her 
 phuis had been frustrate.l in the same way, and seolded 
 us gently lor wandering beyond her vision ; said that it 
 was already long past noon, that there would be but 
 little turn', to si.end at (Jenzano, the flowers would not be 
 fresh, the ehnreh ceremonies would be over, the dancing^ 
 ended, lint, in spite of these excellent reasons for hur- 
 rying, we ate leisurely, chatted and laughed a great deal, 
 sipped our excellent wine, and were entirely contented 
 where we were. :M. Ingres sketched the whole group, 
 adde.l wings to Augelique's shoulders, and gave goat's 
 hoofs and horns to CamiUe, and a r<;ed to i aul, wlio 
 piped to the rosy Laura, sitting fiower-erowned beside 
 him. A truly Arcadian feat, and for one day at least we 
 were in Avcady. 
 
 Nearly every one who has been in Rome in May has 
 seen the Inliomfa at Genzano, and, as this little journal 
 is not intended to be descriptive, 1 will pass over it 
 
 briefly. , , , ^ . 
 
 Although the sun was slipping westward when we lett 
 the Villa (Vsarini, we still had time to enjoy the pretty 
 villa<re festival. The whole scene was bewitchingly 
 bri-ht and novel. The flowers covering the piazza, 
 strewn in a mosaic of every color and form, emitted a 
 sweet perfume under the cruel feet that trampled their 
 delicate beauty ruthlessly. The straight, dark-browed 
 peasant girls, in their bright bodices, corals, puis and 
 chains, with the white tova(,lie folded over their glossy 
 black braids, and the handsome, soft-eyed youths, in 
 
T. 
 
 all tin; fciiuu 
 ed him of r 
 
 becavibc lier 
 
 ami s(!oldeil 
 
 said that it 
 
 •ould be but 
 
 ivould not be 
 
 the dancing^ 
 
 sons for hur- 
 
 a great deal, 
 
 ly contented 
 
 whole group, 
 
 il gave goat's 
 
 ;o Paul, who 
 
 jwned beside 
 
 ly at least we 
 
 le in May has 
 little journal 
 pass over it 
 
 1 when we left 
 joy the pretty 
 bewitchingly 
 ; the piazza, 
 )rm, emitted a 
 trampled their 
 , dark-browed 
 rals, pins, and 
 er their glossy 
 ed youths, iu 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 209 
 
 velvet jackets and peaked liats, decorated with fluttering 
 ribbons and flowers, dancied the light salterello joyously 
 to the inspiriting sound of tambourines and mandolins. 
 Hundreds of visitors in rich dresses sauntered through the 
 shaded avenues, A gorgeous procession marched across 
 tlie mosaic of flowers, with music and flaunting banners-., 
 while the ringing of bolls find the sound of a band 
 playing a lively air mingled with the whir of a tambou- 
 rine and the tinkling of castanets, all gave movement 
 and brilliancy to the scene. 
 
 Angeli(]uo's lovely eyes beamed with pleasure. The 
 flowers, the music, the bright faces, the flashing smiles, 
 the simple, innocent mirth, the free, untutored grace of 
 these children of nature, suited her artistic t(;mpera- 
 ment, while the religious element in the display gave a 
 touch of idyllic retinement and purity to what otherwise 
 might have seemed rude and common. And the high- 
 spirited young English girl, who, in all her life, had 
 never witnessed such an exhibition of unrestricted 
 mirth, could scarcely be kept within the bounds of pro- 
 priety. Her gay spirits rose with the music and laughter 
 until she could restrain herself no longer. 
 
 "I think I could dance the salterello," she exclaimed, 
 looking around with a smile of mischief in lier bright 
 eyes. "Come, M. de Brccourt! will you try it with 
 me ? " 
 
 "Certainly, with pleasure," replied Camille, holding 
 out his hands. 
 
 Madam Raymond was dismayed. "Why, my dear, 
 what a sight you would be in your costume. You must 
 not think of it. Fancy M. de Brecourt leaping, circling, 
 and whirling in an English frock." 
 
 Paul was Avaudering about among the different groups, 
 
 ijiiiMiliu 
 
 ii »i i i rt'ft^ rtw^' ' * ■■ 
 
, II ■ P ij... 
 
 210 
 
 THE STOUY OF AN KNTIIUSIAST. 
 
 8kotch-l)0f.k in hand, dt'liglitoa with nil ho saw, and 
 ruhiotant to leave, when at last Madam In^'ivs, iK.uituiK 
 to the declining snn, told ns tliat we must start di- 
 rectly in order to be within the walls before dark. 
 
 Our drive back to Rome in the solemn twilight was 
 very quiet compared with our boisterous spirits in the 
 morning. By some accident in the hurry of starting, 
 CamiUe" had Paul's place in our carriage, where he 
 sat very grave and thoughtful. Angoliquc's spiritual 
 face seemed touched with a celestial light as she turned 
 it toward the heavens, where a slender silver crescent, 
 with its one attendant star, shone in remote splendor. 
 Madam Ingres talked but little, and I too withdrew 
 within myself to commune with my own thoughts. 
 From time to time a murmur of voices and a subdued 
 laugh from the other carriage reminded us that we were 
 not alone on that vast gray plain, so sombre and silent 
 now in contrast with the radiance and beauty of the 
 
 morning. 
 
 Again I thought: it is an emblem of life; dawn and 
 \\gU, youth and age. We set out in the red sunrise, 
 over rosy paths, and wander on and on until the flowers 
 are colorless and scentless, and darkness and oblivion 
 close around us, and all is tinished "as a tale that is 
 told." 
 
 VII. 
 
 I WEKT to see Camille to-day, and found him working 
 on his picture of Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, and I per- 
 ceived, by the sketch on his easel, that he had had 
 several sittings from La Santa. 
 
 "She is truly an inspiration," he said; «I seem to be 
 
 -«r-->*~r*-!e*ie--. 
 
LA SANTA. 
 
 211 
 
 saw, and 
 i, pointing 
 
 start (U- 
 irk. 
 
 .'ilight was 
 rits in the 
 if starting, 
 
 whort> In- 
 s spiritual 
 she turned 
 ?r crescent, 
 e splendor, 
 i withdrew 
 I thoughts. 
 [ a subdued 
 at we were 
 3 and silent 
 Luty of the 
 
 ; dawn and 
 •ed sunrise, 
 the flowers 
 iud oblivion 
 tale that is 
 
 u\\ -working 
 
 y, and I per- 
 
 he had had 
 
 [ seem to be 
 
 drawn out of myself into another atmospliere when I 
 look fit her face and listen to her voice, which is a.s 
 remarkable as her beauty. Altogether, she is wonderful, 
 with her dear, bright mind, her general knowledge of 
 the world and books; her clever criticisms of art and 
 music; her love of all that is best; her interest in 
 nature and humanity ; her exipiisite taste in dress; her 
 artless recognition of her own beauty, and, added to all 
 these purely earthly qualities, her piety, her celestial 
 visions, her ideal life, separate and apart from these, 
 make her one of the most interesting characters I 
 have known or even heard of. I like to study her, 
 but I don't think I understand her. She is an enigma 
 that I cannot read clearly. If there was the slightest 
 affectation or self-consciousness about the girl, I should 
 think she was a clever little actress, playing a part to 
 attract attention by her originality." 
 
 "She does not really appeal to your better nature, 
 then," I said, severely, "or you could never harbor 
 such a thought. I have known her as long as you have, 
 and have talked with her very freely, and I am will- 
 ing to confess that I have not sounded the depths of lier 
 nature. There is jnuch in such a soul that must always 
 remain concealed even from those who understand her 
 best. Her mother tells me that she does not feel always 
 sure that there is a close bond of sympathy between 
 them. She knows that her daughter loves her devotedly, 
 but she also knows that she lives a spiritual life en- 
 tirely apart from hers." 
 
 " Madam Raymond is a woman of uncommon intelli- 
 gence and refinement, and a brilliant talker. While 
 mademoiselle is posing, the mother interests us both 
 with her pleasant conversation. One is fortunate to be 
 
 . 
 
 y: r* g»^ ''\>! ^ftp, ^W j W,: ' 
 
01») 
 
 •a la^ 
 
 Till-; STORY OK AN KNTIIl'SIAST. 
 
 al)lo to <'ii,it>y such !iii iiitcUccaiuil feast and to study such 
 u niodfl at tin- same time." 
 
 " ^'cs." I n'lilicd, "it is a lilu'ral cduoation in art. 
 Ono must im prove under such iuHiUMice. Siiu is so 
 earnest ami patient; and there is somethiuf,' so toiieh- 
 in^'ly iilial in her exalted itlea of her duty to her 
 mother." 
 
 "I'dor child!" returned Camille, sadly. "1 must 
 confes.s to you tliat it piiins me to think of hor follow- 
 ing such a life. When the first delicate beauty of youth 
 is past, she will lose her great attraction as a model for 
 the subjects she prefers — the spiritual, celestial typo. 
 I wonder if she will go from this to secular art. I don't 
 like to think of it." 
 
 "Pray, don't," I replied, "Mile. Angolique will not 
 always pose for artists. She will marry some good num 
 and merge her saintship into a hal)i)y wife and mother." 
 
 "Marry! Whom will she nmrry?" asked Camille, 
 incredulously. 
 
 " Paul, for example. I am sure he loves her sincerely. 
 What could be more suitable ? he is devote^: to religion 
 as well as to art. Imagine Avhat Jradonn;,?, lie would 
 l)aint from La Santa with a babe in her arms." 
 
 While I was speaking, Camille turned very i)ale, and 
 pressed his hand to his eyes as if to shut out a sight 
 that pained him. "Hush, my friend, with y(mr clever 
 l)redictions. Such a being is not made for earthly love, 
 for simple domestic pleasures. It seems sacrilegious." 
 
 " Is she not preeminently formed to inspire love ? " 
 
 " Yes ; a purely intellectual love ; not the warm, 
 earthly passion you refer to." 
 
 " Then, you think it will be impossible for her to 
 return Paul's devotion 'i" I asked, tentatively, 
 

 , 
 
 r. 
 
 
 study such 
 
 
 on in art. 
 
 •9 
 
 Slio is so 
 
 
 ; so toucli- 
 
 
 ity to licr 
 
 
 " I must 
 
 
 lier follow- 
 
 
 ty of youth 
 
 
 model for 
 
 
 ostiiil type. 
 
 
 rt. I don't 
 
 
 lie will not 
 B good nuin 
 id mothf'r." 
 ed Camillo, 
 
 sr sinci'rj'ly. 
 
 to roligion 
 
 ■j lie woidd 
 
 [•y pale, and 
 out a sight 
 your clover 
 arthly love, 
 rilegious." 
 3 love ? " 
 the warm, 
 
 for her to 
 
 )'•■ 
 
 liA SANTA. 
 
 21:} 
 
 " I do. She will never love him." 
 
 " In so many respeets he is like her," I eontinm-d. 
 " She is sure to lulmire and esteem his pure, nolile ehar- 
 acter, and that may lead to a tenderer fueling." 
 
 " Nonsense, my dear Felix ; all nonsen.se," exelainied 
 Camille, hotly. " She is an uncommon ehara(!ter. She 
 must not he considered as an ordinary woman to bo won 
 by tame, meek devotion. In spite of her softness and 
 angelic sweetness, there is a great deal of strength and 
 luiroism in her. She mi'ijht love a man who had per- 
 formed some exceptionally sublime deed." 
 
 " Cannot you be that one, niy friend ? " I a.sked, ear- 
 nestly, " Such a reward would be worthy a great effort." 
 
 '•' Ah, no ! " replied Camille, " I have no chance. Such 
 a man must have a strong soul and a clean record ; and 
 I have not." 
 
 " But you know that a grand passion often leads a 
 man to noble results. With its aid you can redeem tlm 
 |)ast," 
 
 " Never ! Witii me, a grand passion is more likely to 
 end in a grand despair, God knows, were I half worthy, 
 I would try to win her ; but when I think of the other, 
 I falter and turn dumb before her. She is goodness it- 
 self. She knows I am miserable, and she has offered 
 her sympathy and sweet friendliness with so much ciin- 
 dor and innocent confidence. Ah ! she is truly a saint," 
 
 "Take courage, my friend; you will make yourself 
 worthy, and win her in the end," I said as I left him. - 
 
 When I returned to my apartment after my visit to 
 Camille, the little maid opened the door for me, and 
 said, with her pretty flashing smile, " The Siguore 
 Francese is within." 
 
 J ii M Ann 
 
 .,# 
 
814 
 
 THE 8TOUY OP AN KNTHUHIAHT. 
 
 On oiili-riiij,' my studio, wliirli also sorvi'd for a salon, 
 I I'oiiml Paul Hitting ^,'^)()luily lid'oro an caHfl, on wh'wh 
 was a small ijicturo I was about scndiiit,' to Kn},'land as a 
 gilt to Dorothea. It was a study of my sunny wall 
 opposito, and tin' slcndor olcaniliT. A girl was reaching 
 from the window to pluek one of the red hlossoms, and 
 her fa(!o was a i)oor likeness of La Santa. 
 
 " How did y(m get her?" asked Paul, pointing to the 
 picture, while lie forgot to return my greeting. " She 
 surely did not poso for you, or it would have been 
 bettor." 
 
 " No," I reidied, laughing. " What resemblaiuie there 
 is is stolen. You must not tell her, or she will avoid me 
 in the future. It happened this way. One day when 
 you were painting in the garden, I waa sauntering about 
 among the trees, and from a favorable position I made 
 the little sketch, and just a few hints in my note-book ; 
 then, from that and memory 1 painted this, but, as you 
 say, it is poor. It is neither fish nor fowl; it hwkn 
 everything that La Santa has, and yet, with all its faults, 
 it is a purer face than 1 could get from a model." 
 
 " If you had not left your heart in Englaiul, I should 
 think that you too were touched with the same insanity 
 as the rest of us are suffering from," said Taul, gloomily 
 and bitterly. 
 
 " What insanity ? What do you call insanity ? " 
 
 "Why, to love Mile. Raymond." 
 
 "That is a species of madness that might be easily 
 pardoned. I am her devoted friend, I admire her, 1 
 reverence her beyond what I can express, and I am 
 enthusiastic about her beauty ; but I am not your rival, 
 dear Paul." 
 
 " I can say all of her that you do," returned my friend, 
 
or a salon, 
 , on wliitOi 
 
 i^'liind iis ii 
 unny wall 
 IS rcacliiiiK 
 issonis, and 
 
 tin^ to thti 
 
 iiiK'. " '**'/"' 
 have been 
 
 laii(!(> then) 
 11 avoid nin 
 
 day \vli(!n 
 criiit,' about 
 ion I niado 
 
 note-book ; 
 but, as you 
 :1 ; it la(!kH 
 U its faults, 
 lei." 
 
 id, I should 
 nie insanity 
 il, gloomUy 
 
 lity ? " 
 
 it bo easily 
 
 mire her, 1 
 
 , and I am 
 
 your rival, 
 
 [1 my friend, 
 
 LA 8ANTA. 
 
 215 
 
 raisinj,' his wistful oy, to my faeo ;" but, unhappily, / 
 love her to the ver^e nl iiiadne.ss.'' 
 
 " Why unhappily, my dear boy "/ " 
 
 " Hecause she doen not return it." 
 
 " Are you sure '.* " 
 
 '• All, yes, too sure. I have just loft her. It is her 
 motlier's wish that she should aceept nu-, and Madam 
 Ingres has set her heart on it, and ratlier urged me to 
 tlio ill! none me Ht, which, I fear, was unwisely hastened, 
 I'erhaps if 1 had waited — but that could have nuide no 
 difference," he ad(h'd, hopelessly. "If she ever could 
 love me, she would not l)e so decided in her refusal. She 
 would give mo some hope. I have been indiscreet in 
 showing her my heart. It would have been better to 
 suffer in silence. 1 have been a conceited idiot to think 
 myself worthy of her." 
 
 " I can't agree witii you, my dear I'aul ; you are worthy 
 of the best, Now, pray don't lose your self-respect be- 
 cause a wonuin is beautiful and capricious." 
 
 " She is not capricious. It is her conviction that she 
 must never nuirry ; that some other destiny is marked 
 out for her, — something ideal and spiritual." 
 
 " Her lovely head is full of heavenly images. She 
 has personated saints and angels so long that she has 
 become imbued with the celestial spirit. It has become 
 part of her nature. If she could bo disenchanted with 
 this artistic life, and interested in something more natural 
 and womanly, she would be perfect." 
 
 " She is divinely perfect as she is. Alas ! too perfect 
 for such an earthly nature as mine. I must look at it 
 in that way, intellectually, spiritually. I must tear her 
 image from my heart, and tL\ink of her as I do of the 
 Madonna and saints I have been taught to worship, — 
 
 4 
 
 liWlM ' ll 
 
 J^ 
 
TSSBSSSM 
 
 216 
 
 TIIK STOUY OP AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 as a celestial vision, an ethereal creation beyond earthly 
 hope and passion." 
 
 " And you will be the better for having loved her even 
 if it is not returned," I said, trying to offer what J knew 
 was but meagre consolation. " Slie will always be an in- 
 si)iratiou to you, to help you to the highest and best in 
 
 art." 
 
 " Do you think one can do liis best when his heart is 
 ill at ease, when he is brooding over a misplaced love, a 
 hopeless passion. It seems to me now that I can never 
 do anything good again. In fact, my enthusiasm has 
 had a check that I shall not soon recover from. I feel 
 like hiding myself in some secluded spot away from all 
 that pertains to art." 
 
 " Oh, my friend, this is unworthy of you. You will 
 paint the better for this disappointment ; and I might 
 deluge you with trite sayings about crushed flowers exhal- 
 ing a sweeter perfume, and so on. If I remember rightly, 
 it was you who once said that ' he who has not suffered 
 does not believe.' " 
 
 " Ah, yes ; that was in theory and sounded well. You 
 can't judge of the matter, you who are happy in your 
 love, and prosperous in every way." 
 
 " Now, my dear Taul, you are morbid. Whom have 
 we all envied of late ? Who is our genius 2}ar excellence? 
 Who has just sold a picture to Russia for a fabulously 
 large sum ? Who is getting rich and famous at one 
 stride ? Is not your prosperity of the noblest. Is it not 
 success to be proud of. My dear boy, let me be your 
 mentor ; let me preach a little. You have not a weak 
 heart, a feeble nature. Shake off this despondency, and 
 go straight on and up. Who knows what God may give 
 you at last ? Let me tell you that the truest happiness 
 
 L^^'ife 
 
lAST. 
 
 beyond earthly 
 
 loved her even 
 or what J knew 
 dways be an in- 
 lest and best in 
 
 hen his heart is 
 lisplaced love, a 
 ;hat I can never 
 enthusiasm has 
 IV from. I feel 
 away from all 
 
 you. You will 
 t; and I might 
 ;d flowers exhal- 
 member rightly, 
 las not suffered 
 
 ided well. You 
 I happy in your 
 
 d. Whom hav6 
 s i^ttr excellence ? 
 for a fabulously 
 
 famous at one 
 loblest. Is it not 
 
 let me be your 
 have not a weak 
 lespondency, and 
 at God may give 
 truest happiness 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 217 
 
 is found in renunciiation. Make it your religion to re- 
 nounce this idol instead of worshipping her, and strive 
 to do the duty that lies nearest to you. Work for time 
 and posterity. Do not falter, I praj you. You are not 
 tlie one to tall by the way, to be trodden under the feet 
 of those who pass over you. But I have said enough ! I 
 am sure of you ; I know you will do what is right." 
 
 " I will try," returned I'aul, with a gleam of his old 
 resolution. " One muxf live and struggle on whether 
 his heart aches or not, and there is certainly a great 
 consolation in work. I must think only of my career, 
 I should not like to disappoint M. Ingres and all my 
 friends, because a woman whom I love does not love me. 
 . Mon Dieit ! how horribly I have been hindering you, 
 and T have a model waiting." 
 
 " Not La Santa ? " I ventured. 
 
 " Oh, no, or I should not be here.". 
 
 Wlien he reached the door, he turned back and said, 
 severely, "Don't send that tiling to England. It is not 
 the truth. It is a travesty of her face, and does neither 
 her nor you credit. You had better burn it ; " and with- 
 out another word he marched out, and I heard him clat- 
 tering rapidly down the stone stairs. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 This summer has passed away like an Arcadian idyl, 
 happily, peacefully, with congenial work, charming 
 friends, merry little excursions into the environs, or 
 hours of dreamy idleness stretched at length on the 
 greensward, under the giant trees in the Villa Borghese. 
 Only he who has spent a summer in Rome can fully 
 understand what a boon, as well as a delight, that beau- 
 
218 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 tiful park is. Tlicre, in the languid afternoon, when 
 tlie slanting sunbeams sift a golden dust among the 
 thick shadows, one can lie amid fragrant grasses, on beds 
 of wild-Howers, and study the matchless blue of the sky, 
 or gaze at far-off pictures of purple hills and long undu- 
 lating lines of country, with clumps of blue-black pines 
 and masses of ancient ruins, that give touches of ruddy 
 color to the otherwise sombre landscape. 
 
 In the open glades, groups of children wander about 
 gathering flowers and grasses, or play merry games, with 
 much calling in sweet, clear voices, mingled with tinkling 
 laughter. Young men and maids join in pastoral sports 
 in the cool of the evening, or dance the salterello to 
 the strumming of a guitar or the whir of a tam- 
 bourine. 
 
 Within sight and sound of the great busy city, one can 
 enjoy all the charms of a rural festival, as well as see 
 the Roman population at its best, and free from the 
 restraint imposed upon it by the thousands of strangers 
 that throng every thoroughfare during the other months 
 of the year. 
 
 What charming sketches I have made of the most 
 exquisite groups! What movement, what expression, 
 what coloring in this bewitching light! I am enchanted 
 with Rome. There is no other spot on earth I should 
 prefer for my home. With Dorethea for my compaiuon 
 and painting for my occupation, the days would glide 
 along blissfully. 
 
 And I have promised to live in England, cold, dull, 
 narrow England, at Markland Place, overlooking miles of 
 dreary moorland. Sometimes I am appalled at the pros- 
 pect. How can I ever give up this life of poetry and 
 art ? Here I breathe the spirit of beauty and freedom ; 
 
LA SANTA. 
 
 219 
 
 noon, when 
 among the 
 ises, on beds 
 of the sky, 
 long undu- 
 black pines 
 3S of ruddy 
 
 inder about 
 games, with 
 ith tinkling 
 toral sports 
 lalterello to 
 of a tam- 
 
 3ity, one can 
 well as see 
 B from the 
 3f strangers 
 ;her mouths 
 
 f the most 
 expression, 
 1 enchanted 
 th I should 
 ' companion 
 would glide 
 
 \, cold, dull, 
 [ing miles of 
 at the pros- 
 poetry and 
 ad freedom ; 
 
 which way soever I turn I see pictures, I hear music and 
 poetry, the wind is melody, the sky is paint(?d in ravish- 
 ing tints, and the children of this favored hind are living, 
 breathing poems. There, all is stern, real, and practical, 
 a proud reverence for wealth and family, a severely 
 regular and proper existence, with never a touch of 
 natural feeling or a lapse into Boheniianism even for an 
 hour. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 I have been reading over for the twentieth time one 
 of Dorethca's letters. How sweet and kind they are, 
 but here and there I notice the salient points of her 
 moral and mental training. She is slightly shocked at 
 some of the harmless escapades I describe to her. " Is 
 it safe to wander off alone across the Carapagna ? Am 
 I not afraid of brigands ? Is there not danger of fever 
 from these out-door festivals at night ? Is it possible 
 that ladies promenade on the Corso in the evening with- 
 out their hats ? And am I sure that 1 am not losing my 
 resi)ect for the Protestant Church by attending tlie relig- 
 ious ceremonies so often ? Am I sure that I only care 
 for the music, and am not becoming gradually impressed 
 with the splendor and pomp of the Romish Church ? 
 
 Dear child, her simple nature cannot grasp all the cir- 
 cumstances and surroundings of such r„ life as this. She 
 sees everything through a diiferent medium. Wiiat 
 happiness it will be to enlarge her ideas of the world 
 and to broaden her views of social intercourse ! There is 
 one thing I notice in her letters which gratifies me 
 greatly, and that is her increased interest in all that 
 pertains to art, and her intelligent remarks about pict- 
 ures. This development may be due to her father's 
 position as well as her love for me. She admires her 
 
'^SJGH 
 
 220 
 
 THE STOIIY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 lathor, and has the greatest reverence for his opinions, 
 and ti'uici' he became director of the new London gallery 
 he has taken a wonderful interest in art, and is consid- 
 ered a connoisseur of no mean merit. 
 
 Dorethea speaks often of a Count von Hardenburg, 
 an intimate friend of her father, and a constant visitor 
 both in London and at Hardmoor Hall, who, she says, 
 is an authority on pictures, and an amateur painter^ 
 scidptor, and musician of uncommon talent — in fact, a 
 universal genius. I suppose he is some broken-down 
 old German noble, with the wide knowledge that seems 
 a natural inheritance of the race. Evidently he has done 
 something toward improving my Doretliea's mind, for at 
 times she talks very learnedly of the higlrer philosophies 
 as well as the higher arts. 1 can see that she has bound- 
 less confidence in my future, and wishes to make herself 
 a worthy companion for one she considers so clever. 
 Sweet soul, I hope I shall never disappoint her. I still 
 have so much to learn and so much to do, and withal I 
 doubt if I shall ever be really great in my profession. 
 When I look at Camille's remarkable pictures and Fayl's 
 noble compositions, 1 feel a mere dabbler. However, my 
 heart is in my work, and M. Ingres tells us often that 
 perseverance and real love will lead to the loftiest 
 results. 
 
 li 
 n 
 
 s 
 ti 
 
 'I 
 
 li 
 
 ii 
 s 
 t 
 
 h 
 t 
 V 
 
 
 V 
 
 b 
 
 V 
 
 (I 
 
 I 
 
 s 
 a 
 
 I have just returned from my evening walk in the 
 Villa, where, much to my delight, I met Madam Ray- 
 mond. She and Angelique, have been with the Brents, 
 on a villcgiutiim of some weeks, and have only just re- 
 turned. I came upon her quite unexpectedly ; she was 
 sitting on a bench with Mrs. Brent, Avhile Angelique and 
 Laura sauntered Qver the grass gathering daisies and 
 
 1. 
 
 *iff?!^^t^^it^ ■ 
 
3 opinions, 
 ion gallery 
 I is consid- 
 
 lardenburg, 
 tant visitor 
 o, she says, 
 111- painter 
 — in fact, a 
 iioken-down 
 that seems 
 he has done 
 mind, for at 
 philosophies 
 B has bound- 
 aake herself 
 3 so clever, 
 her. I still 
 nd withal I 
 f profession. 
 s and Paul's 
 lowever, my 
 i often that 
 the loftiest 
 
 walk in the 
 kladain K.ay- 
 the Brents, 
 only just re- 
 \\y ; she was 
 ngelique and 
 ■ daisies and 
 
 -^-,J 
 
 L.\ SANTA. 
 
 221 
 
 ('aiu[ianiila, wliich ard already a little faded by the first 
 breath of autumn. 1 am .sure slie shared my joy at 
 meeting, for her face lighted up with a beautiful expres- 
 sion of welcome ; and Angeliipie and Miss lirent has- 
 tened to greet me. 
 
 I never noticed before how really pretty Laura is. 
 The summer's lieat and languor have softened and re- 
 lined her too robust cliarms, and her eyes are like violets 
 in spring. TJefore 1 had fairly ex[)ressed my pleasufet at 
 seeing them, Paul sauntered up, and from another direc- 
 tion Caniille a]>peared. 
 
 " I was drawn to this part of the Villa by an irresisti- 
 ble influence," he said, as he shook hands. " I tried to 
 turn the other way, but something told me that a great 
 pleasure awaited me if 1 followed this winding path." 
 
 " And I, too," said Paul, " was brought here by some 
 other volition than my own. I started for the Pincio, 
 where I promised to meet M. Ingres and Madam ; and 
 before I was aware of it, I had entered the gate of the 
 villa, and was far on niy way to a delightful surprise." 
 
 " It is a remarkable coincidence," laughed Mrs. Brent ; 
 " but the most astonishing part of it is that Madam 
 llaymond and I were just talking of you. After this, I 
 shall be a firm believer in the old adage: 'Talk of 
 angels and you will hear their wings.' " 
 
 " I have heard a different quotation, with a moral not 
 quite so flattering to us," rejoined Camille, while his 
 eyes rested with undisguised pleasure on the beaming 
 face of Angeliqiie. 
 
 " I am sure your villegiatura has benefited you greatly. 
 Mile. Angelique looks in radiant health," said Paul, with 
 a shy glance; "and Miss Brent seems to have been 
 drinking immoderately of the fountain of beauty." 
 
 1 
 
 «P 
 
. ip ) m| i i , » m. i W j if ;» 
 
 222 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 
 "Oh, M, Fahrion, have you been ever since we went 
 away composing a sonnet to our charms ? Thanks, it is 
 very sweet. Here is your reward " ; and the merry girl 
 offered him a bunch of daisies, with mock gravity. 
 
 Ho took them with a i)lc:ised smile and a little depre- 
 cating glanc(!at Angclique, pressed them to his lips, and 
 laid them on his lieart, with an affected sentimental 
 sigh. 
 
 We all laughed heartily ; any frivolity in our serious, 
 self-contained friend was very rare; after a little more 
 light banter, I seated myself near the two ladies, while 
 Camille and Angelique walked slowly away, in earnest 
 conversation. Paul and Laura found a seat at a little 
 distance, and, from the girl's merry laughter, I judged 
 that our sedate friend could be very amusing when 
 there was some one to call out the latent humor in his 
 character. 
 
 Lookiug at them, I thought how much happier he 
 would be if he could love such a bright, warm-hearted 
 girl, instead of wasting his youth on a hopeless attach- 
 ment. Since the day of our conversation in my studio, 
 he has made no sign. If he is unhappy, he conceals it 
 well, and works constantly with an almost savage energy. 
 He has accomplished more than any of us, and M. Ingres 
 is very proud of him, and sings his praises constantly, 
 but always adds : " Strong as he is, he has not the brill- 
 iant genius of Camille. There is a fire, a spirit in his 
 work that none of you others have." 
 
 The sun was getting low, and Madam Eaymond 
 looked often in the direction where Camille and Ange- 
 lique had disappeared. " The gates will be closed soon. 
 What can the child be thinking of ? " she said, uneasily. 
 
 *' You know Cauiille is very entertaining," I replied. 
 
nsiAST. 
 
 ^er since we went 
 >s ? Thanks, it is 
 nd tlie merry girl 
 ock gravity, 
 [ind a little depre- 
 (ni to his lips, and 
 jcted sentimental 
 
 lity in our serious, 
 fter a little more 
 I two ladies, while 
 away, in earnest 
 a seat at a little 
 lughter, I judged 
 y amusing when 
 ;ent humor in his 
 
 much happier he 
 ;;ht, warm-hearted 
 a hopeless attach- 
 tion in my studio, 
 py, he conceals it 
 )st savage energy, 
 us, and M. Ingres 
 raises constantly, 
 has not the brill- 
 re, a spirit in his 
 
 ^adam Eaymond 
 lamille and Ange- 
 .11 be closed soon. 
 f?he said, uneasily, 
 lining," I replied. 
 
 ^ffmtm^miff^ 
 
 I. A SANTA. 
 
 223 
 
 by way of excuse; "one is apt to forget the flight of 
 time while listening to him." 
 
 "If they do not appear soon, I must go in search of 
 them," she said, evidently greatly aiuioyed. " The dew 
 is already falling, and Angelique takes cold from the 
 least exposure." 
 
 Presently thoy came in sighfc,*walking slowly and 
 silently; Angt'-liipie's face looked like a little clear pool 
 slightly rufHed by a summer breeze ; wliile Camille's 
 eyes rested ou her with bitter disappointment. 
 
 " Angeliciue," cried her mother, "how could you re- 
 main so long ? It is nearly dark ; how could you forget 
 yourself ? " 
 
 " I did not forget, mama. I knew we were gone too 
 far, but I was saying something very important to M. de 
 Brecourt, and I could not return any sooner." 
 
 C.amille winced, but made no remark, and we all 
 turned toward the gate, Angelique walking with me, and 
 the others following in a group. 
 
 For a few moments, we were silent ; then the girl 
 raised her trustful eyes to my face, and said, gravely : 
 " M. Felix, I can always talk to you, because you are 
 really my friend, and you understand me better than 
 any one else. Tell me, please, do you think it would be 
 well to do a thing that one feels is wrong, just for the 
 sake of doing good to another ? " 
 
 " From a Jesuitical point of view, it might," I replied; 
 "but from a moral point of view, I should say it were 
 better never to do wrong that good might result." 
 
 " Even if it should be for the salvation of a human 
 soul, even if it should save a — a person from eternal 
 ruin ? " She hesitated in her trouble, and looked at me 
 imploringly, as if she thought I might find some solution 
 to her problem. 
 
 ' 
 
824 
 
 TIIK STOIty OP AN KNTIIUSIAST. 
 
 " My dear Aiigolirjuo, no one has a right to expect •sal- 
 vation from another; no one lias a right to put any 
 human soul in such a position as to make it. necessary 
 to decide a question of such importance." 
 
 "Oh, I understand that clearly; no one should be 
 forced into siich an attitude toward another, by any 
 exterior intluence; but suppose one saw one's self that 
 he could do another a great good, and, in order to, should 
 do violence to his own conscience, should sacritice his 
 own convictions, should you say it were best t(; make 
 the sacrifice ? " 
 
 " Never ! " I replied, decidedly. '• We may with impu- 
 nity sacrifice our tastes, our sentiments, our worldly in- 
 terests, but our moral rectitude never ! " 
 
 "And if one should make the .sacrifice and renounce 
 all," she continued, earnestly, "one could never be <iuite 
 sure that the other would really be saved by it. I some- 
 times think our influence does not go as far as we suppose. 
 I doubt if a human being can do God's work. It would 
 look like presumption to attempt it." 
 
 " It would be more in accordance with the intention 
 of our Creator if one should endeavor to save himself, 
 instead of tryijig to shift the responsibility to some one 
 else," I replied, unhesitatingly. 
 
 " I look at it in that way too, at times," she said ; " but 
 suppose one made a mistake and the other should be 
 ruined, lost, by that mistake, would not one be guilty of 
 neglecting a solemn duty ? Oh, I wish I knew just what 
 was right." 
 
 "My dear little friend," I exclaimed, almost impa- 
 tiently, "don't distress yourself by trying to decide such 
 a knotty question. Pardon me if I am indiscreet, but I 
 am your friend from the depths of iny soul — I love you 
 
U3IAST. 
 
 'i^lit to oxpect h;i1- 
 liylit to put any 
 make it. necessary 
 je." 
 
 no one should be 
 . anotlier, by any 
 aw ont''s st'ir that 
 in onh'r to, should 
 louhl sacritiee hiH 
 ,'ere best to make 
 
 Ve may with im pu- 
 tts, our worldly in- 
 
 ifiee and renounce 
 )uld never be quite 
 ved by it. I some- 
 i far as we suppose, 
 's work. It would 
 
 with the intention 
 r to save himself, 
 bility to some one 
 
 es," she said ; •' but 
 le other should be 
 lot one be guilty of 
 h I knew just what 
 
 imed, almost impa- 
 ying to decide such 
 im indiscreet, but I 
 f soul — I love you 
 
 Wxia i m 
 
 LA RANTA. 
 
 oo: 
 
 as if you were my sister, and T understand your moral 
 dilemma. I am anj^vy at Caiiiillc, wiio, I know, is tiie 
 subject of your sju'culations. lie should not try to win 
 your love so unfairly. Let Iiim niake himself worthy of 
 you first. Wiiy should a man be so nnjust as to exp(!ct 
 a woman to save him because she is better than he ? He 
 sliould know that if you love him y«m will take him as 
 lu> is, and try to make him better. It seems like coer- 
 cion to attempt to win you in that way." 
 
 "You must not blame M. de Hreoourt. He has been 
 very unhappy. I have never asketl the cause of liis trou- 
 ble, but I think he has been greatly disappointed, great- 
 ly deceived ; consequently, he ha.s not much confidence 
 in human affection. I am sure he tliinks my spiritual 
 convictions but the ith'al fancies of a young girl. I can- 
 not make him look at it as I wish him to. He does not 
 in the least understand my true character. If now I am 
 an enigma to him, if he cannot look into my soul and 
 see what is there, will he be able to read me more clear- 
 ly should I return his love ? '* 
 
 "He would never try. He would be satisfied to have 
 you as you are outwardly, and the hidden mysteries of 
 your sonl would remain mysteries to him always." 
 
 Tears started to her eyes, and she said, almost hum- 
 bly, " I think you are right. I know I must never prom- 
 ise to love any one in an earthly way. I am not like 
 otiiers. I cannot give up my spiritual life, my mystical 
 reveries, my ideal existence, my religious ecstasies — ah, 
 no ! They are a part of me, and my soul would have no 
 fellowship with the one I loved ; it would sit lamenting 
 alone; we would be united and yet divided. Such an ex- 
 istence would be a falsehood, a double falsehood, and I 
 should die of shame and sorrow." 
 
 i 
 
 -miVumm'. 
 
226 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 We liacl reached the gate, the others of the party were 
 near U9, and I had only time to say, " I beg that you 
 will not make yourself raisera\)le thinking of this, lie- 
 main your own sweet self. Do what you know to be 
 right, and leave the rest to God." 
 
 She raised her beautiful eyes with a grateful look, 
 but made no reply. 
 
 Late that same evening, Paul and T dropped into tlu- 
 Greco for a bite of supper, and there we found CaimlU; 
 surrounded by a numb.'r of the wildest and noisiest ol 
 \\xo. penshnnaires, as well as several German and Italian 
 iirtists. They were drinking wine and playing at domi- 
 noes, while the frequent bursts of uproarious laughter 
 told that CamiUe, who was the speaker, was unusually 
 amusing, and that his wit was not of the most refined 
 qutdity. His face was flushed, and his eyes were red 
 and restless. He drank freely and laughed loudly, and 
 his whole manner was careless and reckless, as though 
 he were trying to drown his better nature, and drive 
 away intrusive thoughts by unholy mirth and degrading 
 
 °" Unhappy man ! Where will it end ? " I said gloom- 
 ily to Paul as we came away and left him to his heart- 
 less mirth, which sounded to me like the crackling of 
 thorns in a consuming fire. 
 
 Looking over my journal, 1 see that in order to keep 
 it within reasonable limits I must omit many little inci- 
 dents that are of great int.aest to me, but as they have 
 no direct connection with my story I will pass them by 
 
SIAST. 
 
 [)f the party were 
 ' I bpg that you 
 ing of this. Uc- 
 you know to be 
 
 a grateful look, 
 
 dropped into thf 
 ,-0 found CuniilU; 
 t and noisiest of 
 rnian and Italian 
 , playing at donii- 
 roarious laughter 
 er, was unusually 
 the most refined 
 liis eyes were red 
 ighed loudly, and 
 ckless, as though 
 nature, and drive 
 rth and degrading 
 
 I ? " I said gloom- 
 
 him to his heart- 
 
 the crackling of 
 
 t in order to keep 
 it many little inci- 
 , but as they have 
 will pass them by 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 227 
 
 mill glance brielly over the events of importaneo tliat 
 luive occurred during the hist year. 
 
 At the Villa Medici, every tiling is now going on in the 
 iisua,! routine. Our dear master is again in good health, 
 iiltcr a long and serious illness, through wliicih he was 
 nursed with the greatest devotion by l'aul,\vh(» tilled the 
 ]>lace of a son in that time of troul)le. And I'aul was not 
 the only one who showed the deej)est alfeetion and in- 
 terest ; every student in the Academy was anxious to 
 do something for the dear master, who has gained the 
 love of all by his kindly nattire and patient, faithful ef- 
 forts for the welfare of those entrusted to his care. 
 
 In Paul he has a never-failing source of happiness. 
 Mis ambition is gratified through him, for his pictures 
 tliat went to Paris this year created quite a furor at the 
 Salon. 1 had a letter from ^l. i\richelet, which the mas- 
 ter read with great pride, in which that Nestor of art pro- 
 nounced favoral)ly on Paul's pictures. Even more — he 
 added that his young friend was the greatest painter of 
 the day, with the exception of his master. 
 
 Of Camille's Saint Elizabeth lie said but a few words, 
 and they were expressive. Tlie work of a brilliant ge- 
 nius marred by prosperity. As to mine, he damned me 
 with faint praise, and observed that my mission was to 
 lind a picture nistead of making one. I feel this mild 
 reproach keenly. Instead of passing my time in this 
 agreeable study of art, I should have been searching the 
 •vorld over for that picture of inestimable value which is 
 hidden .somewhere from the eyes of the world. But, pa- 
 tience, M. Michelet! you shall have your revenge; for I 
 mean soon to set out on my pilgrimage, and I feel that I 
 shall be successful. 
 
 Then I shall return to England, marry my Dorothea, 
 
228 
 
 THE STOHY OF AN KNTIIlTSIAST. 
 
 anil paint pietnrcs for the IJiitiHh \mh\\v, wliiilv is more 
 iii(lniK'<'nt. 1111(1 It'Hs (u-iticiil tliiin the Kiimu-Ii. However, I 
 do not nu'iin to siiy tliat tlic iiictiiri' I sent to the 
 Siilon dill not ri'ceivi' t'liir trciitmcnt. It wiis wcdl linnj: 
 and reasonably well noticed. Kortnnatoly for nic, as 
 well as others, M. Miolielet is not tlie sole jndj,'e ; and as 
 toCaniille, I tliink M. Miidielet unjustly prt\iudieed. His 
 Siiint Kli/aheth of IhuiKary is an uni'i'«iiinon pietnre. 
 Our master pronounced it a veritable outburst of geni\is. 
 I know it was painted at a time of f,'reat mental exeitc- 
 mcnt, which is not always eondneivo to harmonious re- 
 sults, but La Santa was the model, and the tignre of 
 Saint Klizabeth is really sublinu-. The other iigures 
 (men! accessories), I dare say, were faulty ; but they 
 should not be considered seriously, as all the interest 
 should centre on the prominent subject of the c mposi- 
 tion. 
 
 However, unhappily for my poor friend, he was not 
 in a condition to be deeply atfeetod either by praise or 
 blame, for, at the time his picture was exhibited, he was 
 at the sick-bed of his father, whose death was a sudden 
 and severe blow to' him. He remained with his family 
 for several months, and when he returned, a few weeks 
 ago, beseemed much changed, and greatly subdued. He 
 has lost that indifferent, reckless manner whicdi grieved 
 us so deeply before his departure, and he jjasses his 
 days working diligently in his stydio, and his evenings 
 either at the Villa Medici, or in ]\Iadam Itiymond's 
 charming little salon in the Capo le Case. 
 
 He is still devoted to Angelique, and seems to under- 
 stand at last that he must make himself worthy if he 
 ever hopes to win her. Sometimes he talks sadly and 
 hopelessly of his future, and regrets bitterly the in- 
 
 I 
 
'a I A ST. 
 
 c, wliii'h is Jiiurc 
 iii^li. Howfvi'f, 1 
 ri' I Kfiit to till' 
 It WHS witU limij: 
 ;iti'ly lor me, an 
 )ltf jiiil^'i", iuul as 
 / prt^juilicinl. His 
 icciiiiiiioii pictiii'i'. 
 iitlmist of gi'iiiiis. 
 iit nu'iitiil cxiMto- 
 i) li;iriiH)ni()us re- 
 iiid the tiguri! of 
 'lie other figuivs 
 faulty ; but they 
 all tlio intcrt'st 
 L of the c miiusi- 
 
 ■iend, hi; Wiis not 
 ithor by praise or 
 exhibited, he was 
 ■ath was a sudden 
 id with his family 
 •ned, a few weeks 
 ,tly subdued, lie 
 ler wliieh grieved 
 ud lie })a83es his 
 and his evenings 
 ad am liayniond's 
 Case. 
 
 d seems to nnder- 
 iself worthy if he 
 e talks sadly and 
 3 bitterly the iu- 
 
 TiA nAKTA. 
 
 220 
 
 heritance whieh he forfeited by his insane prodigality 
 in I'aris. 
 
 "I have nothing to look forward to now but labor, 
 eonstant lal)or," he said, ilejectodly, •' unless my elder 
 brother chooses to allow me a pension. I have no right 
 to expect it, but my mother may urge it. My dear motli- 
 er, she still loves her bhudc sheep, and cannot Ihi recon- 
 ciled to the fact of my earning a subsistence by so preca. 
 rious a calling. As for marrying, that is out of the 
 question now. While my father lived I was sure of an 
 income, but I cannot expect my brother to 1)0 so generous." 
 
 " Only apply yourself, h(>art and soul, to your pro- 
 fession, and, with your talent, you will soon be inde- 
 pendent, and Angelique will be your reward," I said, 
 hopefully. 
 
 "Work, work, that is my only salvation now"; and 
 with a sad smile he hurried away to his studio. 
 
 Paul goes on his upward way serenely, steadily, like a 
 mounting star. If he is uidiappy he makes no sign. I 
 think his passion for Angelique is fast merging into a 
 spiritual and intellectual attachment. He still adores 
 her, but with the reverence one shows toward his patron 
 saint or the religion he professes. She is his religion 
 and his inspiration, and every picture he paints bears 
 the stamp of her influence. He is also much with the 
 Brents, and Laura and he understand each other per- 
 fectly. She brings out the sunny part of his natiire, as 
 Angelique does the spiritual and reverential. I should 
 not wonder if they learn to love each other, which is 
 a consummation devoutly to be wished. Vaid will find in 
 a matter-of-fact woman like Laura the needed comple- 
 ment to make his life perfect. He is too much of a 
 dreamer, and if left to himself lie bids fair to become a 
 
 -.H'.-M.iW-^W.g i li*', . '' . ' ,■. ' 
 
230 
 
 THE 8TOUY OF AN KNTHIT8IAST. 
 
 recluse, a devotee to religious art. His noble takuts 
 should have the widest scope. lie slioidd paint grand, 
 heroic pictures, should aspire to something sublime ; but 
 — 710US i^errons. 
 
 With the exception of the picture I sent to the Salon, 
 all my work has gone to England and has been enthusi- 
 astically received there. How strange that the country 
 with which I have the least affinity should appreciate 
 me beyond my deserts. It may be due in a measure to 
 Lord Hardmoor's influence, who, thanks to his art- 
 mentor, Count von Hardenburg, has become a fair 
 critic. I was astonished the other day, when reading 
 one of his letters, at the artistic acumen he displays, 
 and his skill in placing my pictures so that they have 
 sold remarkably well. I am beginning to reap quite a 
 little harvest of golden fruit, which I propose to use in 
 repairing and decorating my much neglected ancestral 
 halls. The work is already begun under Lord Hard- 
 moor's supervision, and in less than a year I shall return 
 to England and settle down with my golden-haired 
 darling into a steady, practical country gentleman. 
 
 Oh, how much it will cost me to give up Kome and 
 my life here ! To give up art, for it means that, put it 
 however 1 will. One's talent cannot live without some 
 aesthetic nourishment, some atmosphere congenial to it. 
 In that cold moorland home, bound down to the hum- 
 drum duties of life, how can I paint ? Alas ! my soul's 
 worship will give place to my heart's worship. I shall 
 paint Dorethea a few times in different attitudes ; I shall 
 make some severe gray studies of barren moors, sand 
 dunes, and stunted trees; I shall go up to London for I 
 the exhibitions, and be turned to gall and vinegar at the 
 sight of others' progress, and shall return with new re- 
 
 mm-imim-mmim' 
 
USIAST. 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 lis noble tal'juts 
 uould paint grand, 
 hing sublime ; but 
 
 sent to the Salon, 
 has been enthusi- 
 
 > that the country 
 should appreciate 
 e in a measure to 
 lanks to his art- 
 s become a fair 
 lay, when reading 
 lunen he displays, 
 so that they have 
 ig to reap quite a 
 
 propose to use in 
 leglected ancestral 
 under Lord Hard- 
 year I shall return 
 
 my golden-haired 
 y gentleman. 
 
 give up Kome and 
 means that, put it 
 
 live without some 
 ere congenial to it. 
 iown to the hum- 
 
 > Alas ! my soul's 
 5 worship. I shall 
 it attitudes ; I shall 
 )arren moors, sand 
 
 up to London for 
 
 and vinegar at the 
 
 eturn with new re- 
 
 solves, make a few more ineffectual struggles, and final- 
 ly succumb to the inevitable, and drift away from my old 
 love, with its thousand numeless charms, until my hand 
 shall forget its cunning, my eye its seeing, and so I shall 
 idly float down to the shadows of oblivion, forgetting 
 and forgotten. 
 
 But 1 must not look at it so gloomily. There is a 
 reverse side to the dark picture. With Dorethea and the 
 Raphael, which must again be mine, shall I not find all 
 the inspiration I need '.' The blue eyes of one and the 
 brown eyes of the other will open up a paradise where 
 I can wander at will, and find the purest, sweetest scenes 
 to revel in. Ah me ! and become a weak sentimentalist, 
 a thing I despise; and so this internal debate goes on 
 ever and ever. Fool that I was to promise to live in 
 England ! Dorethea loves me, and she would go with 
 me wherever my destiny led me. 
 
 • " • • • 
 
 I have just returned from the Villa Medici, where I 
 found our dear master and madam in a state of great 
 anxiety. The cholera has broken out in the Trastevere. 
 This terrible scourge is really here in Rome, and the 
 question of what we are to do arises — stay here and 
 brave it, or run away and perhaps find it wherever we 
 go? M. Ingres and madam are resolved to remain. 
 Paul will not leave them, and I will not leave Paul. 
 Camille will stay, because, I surmise, that he is indiffer- 
 ent and does not fear death. The Brents will go to 
 Sienna, and some of the pensionnaires to the heights of 
 Perugia. 
 
 Madam Raymond and Angelique were present, and 
 agreed with our master that it would be weakness to 
 leave the stricken city. " We may be able to help the 
 
 ' gpa^g 
 
 ■"■:"|. ! M"A.W; ' )!se.. 
 
232 
 
 tllK STOIlY OP AS KNTHtTSIAST. 
 
 suffering," said Angwliciue, her diviuo face aglow with 
 noble fervor. " It is our duty to stay. I am young and 
 strong, and I do not fear ; but mama must not be exposed 
 
 to it." 
 
 "My child," replied ^ladam Raymond, firmly, 
 "neither of us will seek danger, but if it comes to 
 us we will not shrink from it — we will do what 
 we can." 
 
 "My friends," cried M. Ingres, "you shall come up 
 liere where it is dry and sunny, and we will all take 
 shelter like a flock of frightened birds under the trees 
 of the garden," 
 
 " But I am not frightened," rejoined Angclique ; " I 
 have always wanted an opportunity to do something 
 devotional, and now is my chance. I shall nurse the 
 sick." 
 
 We all protested in terror, but the girl was firm. 
 " Mama," she paid, simply, " if the cholera spreads, and 
 I am needed, I shall do what I can." 
 
 Madam Raymond burst into tears, and looked implor- 
 ingly at our master. " She is capable of it ; she would 
 risk her life for an idea," she said, through her 
 
 sobs. 
 
 " Calm yourself, my dear friend," said madam ; " An- 
 g«51ique loves you too well to grieve you needlessly, and 
 we shall all keep a watch over her. Depend upon us, we 
 shall not allow her to expose herself." 
 
 Angelique flew to her mother, and used all sorts of 
 endearments to soothe her, but she still repeated : " If I 
 am needed, mama, only if I am needed, I should be 
 obliged ; and you know I do not wish to make you un- 
 happy. In that case, I should not belong to you, nor to 
 myself, but to God and the suffering." . . . 
 
 f i i» ii « ii a iii ai »Wi M<>i i ai'ifiiifi ii fBiTrKftiii*i^^^^^ 
 
aglow with 
 n young and 
 t be exposed 
 
 )iul, firmly, 
 
 it comes to 
 
 11 do what 
 
 all come np 
 will all take 
 der the trees 
 
 igelique ; " I 
 o something 
 ill nurse the 
 
 rl was firm, 
 spreads, and 
 
 loked implor- 
 t ; she would 
 through her 
 
 ladam; "An- 
 icdlessly, and 
 i upon us, we 
 
 d all sorts of 
 seated : " If I 
 I should be 
 make you un- 
 to you, nor to 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 233 
 
 This evening we were all at the Villa Medici, rather 
 sad than otherwise, for to-morrow the Hrents go, and a 
 number of the pensionnaires, and our party will be 
 greatly diminished. We have just learned that most of 
 the foreigners will leave the stricken city, for fear that 
 quarantine will be declared ; then they will be obliged to 
 remain, whether they wish to or not. 
 
 1 think this unexpected separation has brought about 
 an understanding between Paul and Laura. He has 
 been at her side most of the evening, and I notice that 
 the gay girl is very much subdued, while our reticent 
 friend looks at her with a happy smile that quite betrays 
 his secret. 
 
 Just before leaving, Angeliique and I had a few mo- 
 ments' conversation, when she told me that she had seen 
 a French swur de charite, who was an old friend of 
 her fath — a good, holy woman, — and that she has 
 promiset' . :- her when she is needed. "She thinks 
 it my duv i. dearly as I love mama, I must consider 
 that first. 
 
 I tried to dissuade her. " You are all your mother 
 . has. It would kill her to lose you." 
 
 "There is no certainty that I should lose my life, 
 even if I expose myself to the infection. Many people 
 live through it ; I have no fear. It is not my destiny to 
 drop this earthly part of me so soon. Oh, no ; I have yet 
 much to learn and much to suffer. My friend," she added, 
 with a tearful smile, "you may live to regret that I did 
 not fall early in the strife. I can see a long distance into 
 the future, and I know that I am not always to walk 
 over smooth i)aths ; but, whatever comes, I shall try to 
 walk firmly and fearlessly." Then, holding out her 
 hand and turning the divine light of her eyes full upon 
 
234 
 
 THE STORY OB' AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 im>, she said, softly : " Dear friend, bless me, and say 
 CJod-speed, and x shall be happier for it." 
 
 As I looked into her face, a sudden wave of Rorrow 
 snrged through my soul, for distinctly and vividly a 
 pieture came before me — a wide, burning desert, a soli- 
 tary 2>'dm, t vo 2>il'Ji'ii>^ii seekin;/ it, and under its scanty 
 shade clasping hands and weejiing together. 
 
 X. 
 
 To-day I recei^-ed a letter from Dorethea, telling me 
 of the serious illness of her mother. The doctors give 
 them little hope; therefore, the poor child is in deep 
 grief, and I must hasten to her. 
 
 How sad that such ill tidings should come close upon 
 the suffering and death of these last dreadful months. 
 It seems to me that I have been living in a cliarnel- 
 house, with death all around me. From five to six hun- 
 dred a day have fallen under the sickle of the relentless 
 reaper. 
 
 Rome is almost deserted. Few foreigners remain, ex- 
 cepting our little group, gathered around our dear master 
 at the Villa Medici. Noble man ! he refused to leave 
 his post of duty, even when most of the pensionnaires 
 sought safety in flight. And now we hope the worst is 
 over. The plague is steadily abating, and is- confined 
 mostly to the Borgo and Trastevere ; there, the unfor- 
 tunate sufferers have fallen like dumb animals at the 
 slaughter, without an effort to save themselves. This 
 reign of terror has demoralized them to such an extent 
 that they have become hardened and indifferent. 
 
 What scenes of woe, what selfishness and base coward- 
 ice, we have witnessed, as well as deeds of heroism and 
 
 ^. 
 
me, and say 
 
 ve of sorrow 
 1(1 vividly a 
 desert, a soli- 
 Icr its scant ij 
 
 a, telling me 
 doctors give 
 d is in deep 
 
 e close upon 
 dful montlis. 
 n a cliaruel- 
 e to six hun- 
 tlie relentless 
 
 ■s remain, ex- 
 ir dear master 
 used to leave 
 pensionnaires 
 the worst is 
 i is- confined 
 re, the uufor- 
 limals at the 
 iselves. This 
 ich an extent 
 erent. 
 
 1 base coward- 
 l heroism and 
 
 ■ 
 
 LA SANTA. "Sdii 
 
 solt'-sacritidi' that to-day stand recorded in living char- 
 acters on the book of life ! 
 
 As for La Santa — for I must call lier by that name — 
 she has been sublime. That delicate young girl, that 
 frail cliild, has taught us all the beauty of charity and 
 self-renunciation, and what could we strong iiuMi do but 
 follow where her gentle footsteps led us. Her mother, 
 seeing that her entreaties were useless, and that the girl 
 was called and sustained by a divine power, assisted 
 her in her good work, and endured her anxieties silently 
 and patiently. The Jesuits, the S(eurs de Charit6, a 
 few foreigners, and a young girl as fair and frail as a 
 lily, have stemmed the tide, without government organ- 
 ization or aid, and with very little nxedical assistance. 
 
 How many sufferers have been comforted and lighted 
 through the darkness to the verge of the Valley and 
 Shadow of Death, none but God can know. How many 
 little children and aged and feeble women have been 
 cared for, fed, and warmed, only their grateful hearts 
 can bear witness to. Camille, the brilliant, reckless 
 trifler, has shown us of what fine clay he is moulded, and 
 what a tender, unselfish heart beats beneath the careless 
 surface. He seems to have laid aside the very needs of 
 nature. Fatigue and fasting have no power over him. 
 Day and night, he plunges into the depths of this pit of 
 misery with an indifference Lo self that is wonderful. 
 I sometimes think he is trying to expiate his past sin, 
 trying to ease his burdened conscience, which, since his 
 father's death, accuses him bitterly. 
 
 " I shortened his life," he said one day, with a burst 
 of passionate sorrow, when I was urging him to spare 
 himself a little. " I made his last days miserable ; my 
 folly struck the fuLal blow. He never smiled after the 
 
 — -aiJtaws i inami i wM j 
 
 ^ > fej<w>ii ' .i ; l!..l.lqi!illl!JW < n<-«mHS ' W,H 
 
236 
 
 THE 8TOUY 01-' AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 (liiy he knew of luy disgrace. What is my blighted life 
 compared with that noble, upright man, wliose iiame 
 and love 1 was never worthy of? Let me do what I 
 can. It is a consolation. I am neither weary nor ill. 
 Think of Angelique ; try to sjjare her. She is worn 
 out, poor child, and her sweet life is worth a dozen 
 of mine." 
 
 A few d.ays after this burst of emotion, Paul, wild- 
 eyed, pale, and dishevelled, rushed into my room, where 
 I Avas seeking a little rci)ose. " My friend, our poor Ca- 
 mille is stricken ; come with me, for God's sake, and let 
 us try to save him." 
 
 " Where is La Santa ? Does she know ? " 
 
 " Ah ! we could not keep it from her. The Seeur 
 Agnes was called first, and Angfilicpie was with her. 
 They are there, doing all they can for him." 
 
 When we reached Camille's apartment in the Fratina, 
 we found a sad group gathered around his bed. A doc- 
 tor had been summoned some time before, and had just 
 arrived, worn out, and unnerved from sleeplessness and 
 fasting. He was hopeless, and at the first glance said 
 that nothing could be done. It was a fatal case, and 
 the poor young man was even then in a state of coma. 
 A few hours before, he miglit have been saved, but now 
 it was too late. 
 
 " It is sad, very sad," added the kind-hearted doctor. 
 " He has been so brave, so good ; he has saved so many 
 lives, and now he must lose his own; he must fall just 
 when the battle is over. One can scarcely believe in a 
 special Providence " ; and with a Aveary, disheartened 
 sigh he Avent away. 
 
 Angelique had been kneeling silently by the bed, her 
 face covered Avith her hands ; now she rose up like one 
 
 iiiinWrtMiMBiii. 
 
 iilttita'iMnWfMwrt 
 
HAST. 
 
 ny blighted life 
 n, wliose iiame 
 i me do what I 
 r weary nor ill. 
 . Hlie is worn 
 worth a dozen 
 
 ion, Paul, wild- 
 luy room, where 
 lul, oiu" i)oor Ca- 
 t's sake, and let 
 
 ?" 
 ber. The Soeur 
 
 was with her. 
 m." 
 
 . in the Fratina, 
 is bed. A doc- 
 e, and had just 
 leeplessness and 
 tirst glance said 
 
 fatal case, and 
 I state of coma. 
 
 saved, but now 
 
 [-hearted doctor, 
 saved so many 
 e must fall just 
 ely believe in a 
 L'v, disheartened 
 
 by the bed, her 
 rose up like one 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 287 
 
 refreshed. She had been praying, and her eyes were 
 wet with tears. 
 
 "My friends," she said, softly, laying her hand ou 
 Camille's cold forehead, "there is still hope. Dr. 
 Vauozzi is weary to despair. If it is God's will, Ave can 
 save him." 
 
 Sister Agnes chafed his cold hands, while Paul and I 
 administered the most efficacious remedies ; while An- 
 g<^lique bathed his brow, and wiped away the cold dew 
 that gathered on his temples. 
 
 Who would have i-ecognized the handsome, brilliant 
 Camille in that wan, sunken face, as pallid and immo- 
 bile as carved stone ? From time to time, a faint sigh 
 escaped from between his drawn lips, and Angelique 
 bent her head to listen. Was it the suft'ering gasp of 
 the last struggle, or the first painful effort of returning 
 vitality ? 
 
 It was a moment of intense agony to us all ; but La 
 Santa seemed inspired with divine confidence. "He 
 will live," she said, softly; "he will live. The end is 
 not yet. Oh, my poor Camille ! perhaps it were better 
 if God called you now. Merciful Heaven ! what do I 
 see !" she exclaimed, suddenly, falling on her knees, and 
 covering her eyes. " It is a vision of his future. I seem 
 to see him dying far from here — far from me; he 
 reaches out his hands toward heaven. Oh ! he is gone 
 from my sight ; a great wave swallows him. His body 
 whirls downward like a leaf in a tempest. I see it all, 
 and I cannot help him." 
 
 " She is losing her senses," whispered Sister Agnes. 
 "Can you not take her away? This is too much for 
 her." 
 
 "Angelique, my little sister, let me take you home," 
 
288 
 
 THE 8TOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 I said, entreatingly. " You are so weary, you will be ill 
 yourself. Vou imist take some rest." 
 
 "No, no, my friend, I am not tired. I have seen 
 into the future, and my soul is sad. You do not know ; 
 you cannot understand." 
 
 " Aly dear child, your nerves and brain are worn out. 
 Your imagination is full of horrors. Let me take you to 
 your motlier ; she will soothe and comfort you." 
 
 " I must stay here until the crisis is passed. If God 
 saves him now, I shall know that it is my mission to 
 live for him, to give my life for his soul. I see it all 
 clearly now : my future and my duty." 
 
 All our persuasion was useless. Several hours passed, 
 and our friend's life still hung in the balance ; at length, 
 his extremities showed a slight warmth; his limbs 
 relaxed, and a low, burdened moan fell distinctly on our 
 ears. Angclique never removed her eyes from his face 
 So intent was her gaze that it seemed to draw him back 
 from the gates of death. His eyelids quivered slightly, 
 and she bent to his ear and whispered softly. I only 
 heard his name ; and Camille heard it also. 
 
 " There is a change," whispered Sister Agnes, her fin- 
 ger on his wrist. "His pulse is stronger. The crisis is 
 passed, thank God ! there is now hope." 
 
 Angulique pressed her lips to his pale forehead. Then, 
 reaching out her hands like one groping in darkness, she 
 said, in a broken voice : "Take me home ; I must, rest 
 now." 
 
 Poor child ! she was half-fainting when I lifted her 
 into a carriage, and went with her to the Capo le Case. 
 Madam Raymond and her maid carried the weary, ex- 
 hausted girl to her room, where she lay for some time 
 too ill to take any part in the rejoicing at Camille's 
 recovery. 
 
UAST. 
 
 •, yoii will be ill 
 
 L I have seen 
 u do not know ; 
 
 in are worn out. 
 t me take you to 
 it yoii." 
 
 passed. If God 
 i my mission to 
 ul. I see it all 
 
 •al hours passed, 
 ance ; at length, 
 ith ; his limbs 
 listinctly on our 
 es from his face 
 • draw him back 
 aivered slightly, 
 . softly. I only 
 
 iO. 
 
 r Agnes, her fin- 
 i\ The crisis is 
 
 orehead. Then, 
 in darkness, she 
 ae ; I must . rest 
 
 len I lifted her 
 le Capo le Case, 
 i the weary, ex- 
 ly for some time 
 ng at Camille's 
 
 "V^ 
 
 LA SANTA. 
 
 239 
 
 Yesterday, they saw each other for the first time 
 since that day of fearful anguish. Madam Ingres, who 
 was present, said their meeting was quite touching. 
 Camille was very interesting in his pallor and weakness, 
 and Angelique looked more like a saint than ever. Both 
 of them are fully conscious of the danger through which 
 they have passed, and humbly grateful that the dark 
 days are over, and warm, bright life still lies before them. 
 
 " It is not just as I wished it to be," said dear madam, 
 her gentle eyes tearful, and her mouth smiling. " You 
 know I was so afraid that you would mar my plans that 
 I never thought of Camille ; besides, I did not think it 
 possible for Angelique to love a man so supremely vion- 
 dnin. But you know the old proverb, ' I'hoinme propose ' 
 — and it may be the salvation of our friend. ^The love of 
 such a saint will make him better, in spite of himself." 
 
 « But are you sure that they love each other ? You 
 remember — " 
 
 " Oh, please don't. Yes, I remember, and I admit I 
 was wrong. After this, I must humbly confess that I 
 know nothing of human nature, and that the ways of 
 women are past finding out." 
 
 " Ah, well ! if you are sure — " 
 
 " Sure ! one needs only to see them together torday ; 
 their happy eyes tell the whole story." 
 
 "But Paul, poor Paul! who will console him?" I 
 
 asked. 
 
 « Why, Laura, of course. Did you not notice the excel- 
 lent understanding between them before she went away ? " 
 
 I smiled, but said nothing. I had gone to the Villa 
 to say good-by to my dear master and madam, to Paul, 
 and the other pens ionna ires, who had returned, when 
 this conversation took place. 
 
240 
 
 THE HTOUY OK AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 I atn glad for my friend, and I am glad that Angt'lique 
 has decided to be more human, although she cuu never 
 be less saintlj'. I wonder if Dorethoa will ever meet 
 her. I should like them to know cacli other. I feel a 
 deep tenderness for the sweet girl, — a purely fraternal 
 tenderness, — and I hope that our lives will never be en- 
 tirely separated. 
 
 To-morrow I leave Rome for England, and I just begin 
 to feel what it will cost me to leave this dear home. 
 Who knows, Avhen he goes, whether and how he will re- 
 turn. How much I shall miss my favorite pictures, the 
 Kaphaels scattered around mo in every gallery, the 
 Vatican, the gardens, the palaces, and my second home, 
 the Villa Medici. Where shall I tind such warm hearts, 
 such friendly greeting, and my pretty sunny rooms, my 
 bright little Tita? — the garden below my window, which 
 next spring will be odorous with violets and stately 
 with white, waxen camellias, for other eyes to feast upon. 
 Some other glance will rest on my warm pink wall and 
 slender oleander. But will they love it all as I have ? 
 And at night where shall I look for my serene star ? 
 It will still hang above the black cross ; and haply some 
 other soul will find the calm and consolation in it that I 
 have. 
 
 Ah me ! Is it true that every joy in life has its re- 
 frain, its echo of sorrow ? It is all sad and mournful. 
 My Dorethea may even now be weeping, and I not there 
 to comfort her. I leave the dead behind me : the young, 
 the pure, the noble, who have perished from the earth, 
 and I go perhaps to 'find another sorrow — I know not. 
 God keep us all, and give us patience and courage. 
 To-raorrow's sun may dawn on a brighter day. 
 
IU81AST. 
 
 lad that Angt'liquo 
 ugh she cut; never 
 oa will ever meet 
 ch other. I feel a 
 ■a purely fraternal 
 y will never be eu- 
 
 (1, and I just begin 
 B this dear home, 
 lid how he will re- 
 write pictures, the 
 jvery gallery, the 
 . my second home, 
 such warm hearts, 
 
 sunny rooms, my 
 my window, which 
 iolets and stately 
 eyes to feast upon. 
 urn pink wall and 
 it all as I have ? 
 
 my serene star ? 
 i ; and haply some 
 illation in it that I 
 
 in life has its re- 
 ad and mournful. 
 ig, and I not there 
 id me : the young, 
 d from the earth, 
 ow — I know not. 
 ince and courage, 
 ter day. 
 
 l^ 
 
 PART V. 
 THE STRANGE STORY OF A PICTURE. 
 
PART V. 
 
 \> 
 
 THE STKANOE 8T0HY OF A I'lCTUKK. 
 1. 
 
 When I reached Iliidilingham Hall, three (hiys after 
 Lady Hardmoor's burial, I louiid tliat Dorethea was 
 (luito prostrated with grief, and contined to her room ; 
 therefore, she was not told of my arrival. Lord Hard- 
 moor seat for mo to come to his study, where lie was 
 sitting with a hook open before him, which he did not 
 appear to be reading. 
 
 Ho welcomed me kindly but sadly, spoke of his great 
 loss in a constrained, formal way, and then turned tlie 
 conversation to other subjects. He seemed greatly in- 
 terested in art, asked me what I had been doing, and 
 if I had any pictures ready for the spring exhibition, 
 talked a great deal about the new gallery in London, 
 and his friend. Count von Hardenburg, and regrcltcd 
 that I could not make his acquaintance now, as they 
 were not receiving any one at the Hall, and then went 
 on to inquire about my present plans. 
 
 I told him briefly that I had returnsd to England only 
 to see Dorethea and to try to comfort her in her great 
 sorrow. 
 
 " Poor child ! she needs it sorely, she is terribly broken 
 down, her nervous system is quite deranged, and the doc- 
 tor says she must be very quiet for a few days. 'No doubt 
 it seems hard for you not to see her at once when you 
 
 243 
 
244 
 
 THE STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 have come so far, but have patience ; she is young and she 
 will soon recover from her tirst passionate grief. In the 
 meantime, try and make yourself comfortable. You will 
 find it a sad house now ; however, do the best you can, as 
 we all must. If possible, I will meet you at dinner. 
 You may see your cousin Walter during the afternoon ; 
 he is here often, as he is settled at East Haddingham." 
 
 " Dorethea wrote to me that he had taken orders, but 
 I did not know that he had the curacy." 
 
 " Yes, your uncle as well as I thought it best that he 
 should be here. My brother's health is much broken, 
 and he needs some one to relieve him of his duties as 
 much as is possible." 
 
 " I will walk over to the village and call on Walter, 
 I want to see the cottage and Mr. Lonely's grave," I 
 said, rising. 
 
 As I was leaving the room, Lord Hardmoor spoke 
 abruptly, and in a choked voice, while he looked away, 
 "You will see her grave too. You know she always 
 loved you. She spoke of you just before her death, and 
 left some message for you. Let me think ! what were her 
 words ? — my memory seems to be failing," and he pressed 
 his hand to his eyes to hide his tears. " It was this, I 
 think ; to tell you to be very tender with Dorethea, and 
 to do all in your power to make her happy, and she left 
 you her best love." 
 
 I could not speak, I only shook his hand silently and 
 went away. How kind she was in those old days, when 
 I was so ill and desolate, my Dorethea's mother, and if 
 she had lived I could have called her mine. Never 
 again could that sweet, gracious smile greet me, that 
 gentle hand clasp mine, or soothe my aching head with 
 tender touch and soft caressing. I was weary from my 
 
 ■ WWMWi ii HW ii J>MU i ^iweM!i«irt;mw» 
 
mi" """ 
 
 i |it i i i ! i > i !i i i i iri i jj iji ^^jn ^^n ^lyl 
 
 PHUSIAST. 
 
 she is young and she 
 iionate grief. In the 
 infortablc. You will 
 J the best you can, as 
 neet you at dinner, 
 iiing the afternoon ; 
 East Haddingham." 
 ad taken orders, but 
 icy." 
 
 aught it best that he 
 ilth is much broken, 
 him of his duties as 
 
 and call on Walter. 
 . Lonely's grave," I 
 
 >rd Hardmoor spoke 
 hile he looked away, 
 lu know she always 
 before her death, and 
 think ! what were her 
 liling," and he pressed 
 ars. " It was this, I 
 !r with Dorethea, and 
 r happy, and she left 
 
 liis hand silently and 
 those old days, when 
 sthea's mother, and if 
 3d her mine. Never 
 smile greet me, that 
 my aching head with 
 [ was weary from my 
 
 THE STRANGE STORY OF A PICTURE. 245 
 
 jo\irney, and grievously disai)pointed because I could 
 not fold my darling in my anus and kiss away her tears. 
 It seemed an eternity to wait two or three days, when 
 I was so near her ; therefore my heart was very heavy 
 when 1 started to walk alone to the cottage. 
 
 When I reached the church-yard, 1 went first to the 
 Hardmoor tomb, near the chancel window, and there I 
 knelt and gave free vent to my sorrow in a copious flood 
 of tears ; after that I was calm but profoundly sad. 
 
 Again I stood by Mr. Lonely's grave. Another white 
 slab lay beside the one that bore the name of Alice. 
 Already the trees had united their branches, and the 
 vines, climbing upward, luxuriantly entwined one Avith 
 the other. On the slab was his name, and beneath a 
 single line :— 
 
 " And he also has come to his desired haven." 
 
 The western sun threw the long shadows of the trees 
 across the greensward, the leaves whispered in the soft 
 wind, a few birds twittered plaintively, hopping about 
 among the flowers as fearlessly as though they knew 
 the silent sleepers could never awake to disturb them. 
 The river flowed on and on, its farther margin reflecting 
 the purple hills and the blue dome of heaven, while near, 
 it lay like molten silver set with bars of gold and spark- 
 ling jewels. 
 
 The intervening years seemed to slip away, and once 
 more I was gliding down that swift stream with Lady 
 Hardmoor and Dorethea, or dashing over the bleak 
 stretches of moorland, or walking in the twilight through 
 the shady lanes, listening spell-bound to the beautiful 
 words that fell from the lips of my beloved teacher. 
 What talent, what a lofty soul, what a strong passionate 
 
246 
 
 THE STOUY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 lieart he had, and this was the end, a blighted life, a 
 wasted genius, years of lonoliness, remorse, and unrest. 
 Through this he had come to his desired haven — a 
 lonely, neglected grave. 
 
 Deeply affected, yet with an inward thankfulness that 
 his sorrows had found so peaceful an end, I walked to 
 the cottage and unbidden entered the little parlor. A 
 pale, slight, young man, in a clerical coat, was sitting in 
 Mr. Lonely's chair, near the window, reading. He rose 
 as I entered, and I recognized my cousin Walter at a 
 glance because of his likeness to his mother. 
 
 He looked at me for a moment with a pleasant smile, 
 and then, holding out his hand, said, " It is true, you are 
 much changed, but you have the same eyes and features ; 
 you are taller, broader, and browner, but you are my 
 cousin Felix without a doubt." 
 
 I clasped his extended hand warmly. I had always 
 liked Walter. During the uncomfortable time at the 
 Rectory he had been my stanch friend, and now, look- 
 ing at me with his mothers eyes, my heart went out to 
 him at once. He gave me Mr. Lonely's chair, and, 
 drawing the very one I used to sit in close beside me, 
 we were soon engaged in a friendly chat. 
 
 AVhile talking, I looked around the room where I had 
 spent so many peaceful days. It was but little changed. 
 I missed the lovely face of Alice from over the mantel- 
 piece, and some of my favorite books ; otherwise, I might 
 have thought the years that had passed but a dream, so 
 familiar did everything appear. 
 
 In the twilight, we walked to the Hall, through the 
 park; on our way I visited my former studio, which 
 Dorethea had insisted on keeping in the same condition 
 as when I occupied it, and quite ready for my use should 
 
 I 
 
 t: 
 
 e 
 
 ti 
 
 t: 
 I 
 
 o 
 a 
 ii 
 i 
 
 h 
 h 
 u 
 
 si 
 :i 
 w 
 a 
 
 1> 
 
 11 
 h 
 h 
 
 o; 
 o: 
 11 
 V; 
 ai 
 w 
 t( 
 li 
 w 
 
' J IWy l >; i i«MpiM »!BHi»uijiM i li¥t i w l i » i' 
 
 81AST. 
 
 L bliglited life, a 
 orse, and unrest, 
 ■sired haven — a 
 
 hankfulness that 
 end, I walked to 
 
 little parlor. A 
 it, was sitting in 
 sading. He rose 
 Lsin Walter at a 
 )ther. 
 
 a pleasant smile, 
 [t is true, you are 
 yes and features ; 
 
 but you are my 
 
 jr. I had always 
 ible time at the 
 d, and now, look- 
 leart went out to 
 iiely's chair, and, 
 
 close beside me, 
 It. 
 
 oom where I had 
 but little changed. 
 
 over the mantel- 
 otherwise, I might 
 I but a dream, so 
 
 Hall, through the 
 ner studio, which 
 16 same condition 
 for my use should 
 
 THK STRANGE STOUY OF A I'lCTUUE. 
 
 247 
 
 T return. 1 was deeply touched by this evidence of her 
 thoughtful care. Everything was in perfect order ; my 
 easel stood in the same place, with an unfinished pic- 
 ture resting upon it, and my paints and palette lay on 
 the little table as if I had used them the day before. 
 
 Walter remained at the Hall to dinner, and Lord 
 Hardmoor asked to be excused from joining us ; therefore 
 our confidences were continued. Walter told me of his 
 approaching marriage with the " loveliest and best " girl 
 in the county,' and of his future prospects. The living of 
 Haddingham would eventually come to him ; his uncle 
 liad promised it him. His father's ill-health would oblige 
 him to resign his rectorship, Mrs. Lorrinier insisted 
 upon it. She had a fine estate in the next county, where 
 she spent much of her time with the younger children, 
 and she wished to reside there permanently. Therefore, 
 without doubt he would take his father's place, marry, 
 and settle there for the remainder o2 his life. 
 
 He seemed perfectly satisfied with his futur" as it was 
 planned for him. It was a good living, his duties would 
 liot be wearisome, he would have a curate as his father 
 had. It was an honorable, peaceful existence, and he 
 had no ambition beyond the Church. 
 
 Hearing him discussing the probabilities of his life so 
 calmly, and with such practical foresight, I began to think 
 of my own destiny. Was not the outlook similar in 
 many respects ? — my life as a country gentleman would 
 var^' little from his. He would preach on Sundays, hunt 
 and dine out on other days. I Avould do about the same 
 with the exception of preaching. He was perfectly con- 
 tented with his future prospect.^, v'l'.il" the thought of 
 living the remainder of my life in England filled me 
 with a vague dissatisfaction and unrest. 
 
 1 
 
248 
 
 TllK STUUY OF AN KNTUUSIAST. 
 
 Why was I so different from my cousin ? Did not the 
 same blood course through our veins ? My father and his 
 only sister must have been entirely unlik? in their tem- 
 perament, if 1 got my strain of Hohemianism from him. 
 Or did I get it from my French mother? I was not 
 like my English relatives — either in looks, thought, or 
 feeling; and the more I knew of them, the wider I felt 
 the dissimilarity to be. 
 
 Suddenly I found myself wondering for the first time, 
 how Dorethea, Avho is a pure child of the soil, can love 
 me and find her other self in me, when I am so un-Eng- 
 lish, so different from those whom she is accustomed to. 
 Will I not disappoint her by and by, and perhaps make 
 her miserable ? 
 
 The next morning, while walking in the garden, the 
 same thoughts occurred to me ; but I would not allow 
 them to mar my happiness. My Dorethea was better, 
 and her father promised me that I should see her later 
 in the day. 
 
 I was wandering about restlessly through the formal 
 walks and well kept avenues, and thinking how different 
 they were from my sunny wall and the tangle of violets 
 beneath the camellia trees. Oh, for another glimpse of 
 the dilapidated j^in'ffola, the grassy walks, the patches of 
 vegetables, and the spreading iig-tree, of my favorite 
 garden under that lloman sky ! Verily, there was some- 
 thing wild and uncultivated in my nature. I was 
 startled to see it so apparent. It was there, but I must 
 hide it from every one, and my whole life must be a lie. 
 
 There was a slight rustling behind me; a shadow 
 darted across the path. I looked up and my Dorethea 
 stood before me. I held out my arms, and in an instant 
 she was sobbing on my breast. 
 
 h( 
 
 gc 
 ca 
 
 Wi 
 
 h( 
 
 Wi 
 
 h( 
 m 
 Ik 
 
 h£ 
 
 "( 
 of 
 loi 
 de 
 
 wl 
 or 
 fo 
 ha 
 fo 
 
 mi 
 an 
 so 
 
 is 
 
 yo 
 
 all 
 
 fai 
 
 to 
 
 K^- 
 
TUUBIAST. 
 
 iousin ? Did not the 
 1 ? My father and his 
 unlik? in their tern- 
 lemianism from him. 
 mother ? I was not 
 in looks, thought, or 
 hem, the wider I felt 
 
 ing for the first time, 
 of the soil, can love 
 'hen I am so un-Eng- 
 3he is accustomed to 
 y, and perhaps make 
 
 g in the garden, the 
 
 t I would not allow 
 
 Dorethea was better, 
 
 should see her later 
 
 yr through the formal 
 hinking how different 
 [ the tangle of violets 
 or another glimpse of 
 walks, the patches of 
 -tree, of my favorite 
 nily, there was somo- 
 niy nature. I was 
 vas there, but I must 
 lole life must be a lie. 
 ehind me; a shadow 
 up and my Dorethea 
 rms, and in an instant 
 
 - i m-,^ mi II I n>.n i^»B»i||p»M i r M mii i . if 
 
 /'' I|U I ' I' . » , UJW» i|l» 'l. i 
 
 THK STUANGE STORY OP A I'lCTUUK. 
 
 249 
 
 I tried to soothe her — as well as I could, for my own 
 heart and voice were full of tears. 1 stroked tlie soft 
 golden hair, tied up with a mournful black ribbon. I 
 called her by every tender name I could think of. I 
 wanted to take her into my very inmost soul and shield 
 lier from the sorrow that had shaken her so deeply. She 
 was pale and thin, and seemed too feeble to Avalk ; I led 
 her to a garden-seat and drew her within the shelter of 
 my arms. Poor motherless girl, her black gown made 
 lier look so white and ill, and she seemed so helpless in 
 her grief, that my heart ached bitterly for her. 
 
 For a long time she could only say, between her sobs, 
 "Oh, mama, dear mama!" At length her violent burst 
 of grief exhausted itself, and she spoke of her terrible 
 loss quietly, but with a mournful calm that told how 
 deep the wound had been. 
 
 " Ho ./ can I live without her ? " she said, piteously. 
 
 "My darling, do you remember that night, so long ago, 
 when I arrived in England, a weeping, desolate little 
 orphan, how you comforted me and made life brighter 
 for me. Let me try now to do as you did then. You 
 have your father, and you have me. You must live 
 for us." 
 
 " Poor papa ! he is all I have beside you, Felix, you 
 nmst stay here with us. I can never leave papa, now, 
 and I need you so much to help me bear this burden of 
 sorrow." 
 
 "My dear Dorethea, I will do as you wish. My life 
 is yours to use as you see fit, only let me try to make 
 you happier." With these words T thought I renounced 
 all control of my own destiny, and at that moment I 
 fancied myself more than blest to belong soul and body 
 to that frail, weeping girl. 
 
 k 
 
250 
 
 THE STOUY OF AN KNTHU81AST. 
 
 II. 
 
 A FEW weeks after my arrival at Hartlmoor Hall, I 
 made a curious discovery, which awakened all my old 
 feelings in regard to the lost picture. 
 
 " My insanity had returned in full force," Lord Hard- 
 moor said angrily and contemptuously. 
 
 In looking back now, after my bitter disappointments 
 
 and losses, I am inclined to think that Dorethea's father 
 
 was not very far wrong when he said he was not inclined 
 
 ■ to trust his daughter's happiness to a man who had such 
 
 a small stock of common-sense as to leave her and fly 
 
 off on a wild-goose chase for nothing — merely nothing. 
 
 This was the nothing that started the old flame, which 
 
 had only been smouldering for six years, and which had 
 
 been waiting for the first breath to fan it to life. One 
 
 morning I was looking over an album of engravings 
 
 from works of the old masters. It lay on a table in the 
 
 drawing-room, and I had opened it several times, but 
 
 ' had not examined the contents carefully; on this day 
 
 I was waiting for Dorethea to ride in the park with me, 
 
 and took up the book to while away the time. Turning 
 
 over the leaves indifferently, I came upon a picture that 
 
 startled me like a flash of lightning from a clear sky. 
 
 It was an engraving of the head with the black berretta. 
 
 In a moment the picture swam before my eyes, misty, 
 
 uncertain, and so closely was it interwoven with the 
 
 memory of my childhood that I could not tell whether 
 
 it was my father's face or my mother's features that 
 
 floated before my blurred sight. I was dizzy and faint ; 
 
 a rushing, surging sound filled the room, something of 
 
 the sensation that I had felt twice before in my life ; 
 
 r 
 t 
 
 h 
 f 
 
 ti 
 
 t: 
 
 V 
 
 h 
 
 e 
 b 
 w 
 s< 
 
 a; 
 ni 
 b( 
 
 (M 
 g< 
 
 H 
 
 fa 
 
 si 
 ai 
 
lUSIAST. 
 
 Hardmoor Hall, I 
 akened all my old 
 
 'ovce," Lord Hard- 
 
 ir disappointments 
 b Dorethea's father 
 he was not inclined 
 man who had such 
 
 leave her and fly 
 — merely nothing, 
 le old flame, which 
 \TS, and which had 
 m it to life. One 
 um of engravings 
 y on a table in the 
 
 several times, but 
 'fully ; on this day 
 
 the park with me, 
 he time. Turning 
 ipon a picture that 
 J from a clear sky. 
 
 the black berretta. 
 re my eyes, misty, 
 terwoven with the 
 Id not tell whether 
 her's features that 
 as dizzy and faint ; 
 oom, something of 
 I before in my life ; 
 
 ' "ti'P'.w i " 
 
 qHXtHPw i ii MJ w ip ii 
 
 THH stuancp: story op a I'Kjture. 251 
 
 the first time, on the morning when my uncle Lorrimer 
 destroyed my drawing, and again when 1 read my fath- 
 er's journal. To gain possession of myself, I was 
 obliged to close my eyes and make a strong effort of will 
 and reason over my physical weakness. Then I exam- 
 ined the picture with a heavily throbbing heart and 
 hands that shook like one stricken with sudden palsy. 
 
 Yes, it was the picture, the long lost picture, — or 
 rather a shadow of it, — and I had found it in England. 
 On closer examination, I discovered that the engraving 
 had not been copied from a painting but from a care- 
 fully executed drawing of the Raphael. It was unmis- 
 takable, even to the pattern of the slender gold threads 
 that outlined the figures of the embroidery on the broad 
 velvet collar. 
 
 Where had Lord Hardmoor found this picture, and had 
 he recognized it as a copy of my father's painting ? The 
 engraving was handsomely mounted on thick paper, and 
 bound with some fifty others in rich leather covers. It 
 was evidently one of those collections of copies from 
 some foreign gallery which travellers often bring home 
 as a souvenir of their wanderings. There was no name, 
 no indication whatever to show where the engraving had 
 been made, or where the original was to be found ; how- 
 ever, it was a clew, and I resolved to hold on to it. 
 
 While I was debating in my mind the best means of 
 getting the information I required without exciting Lord 
 Hardmoor's suspicion, Dorethea entered with a brighter 
 face than I had seen for many a day. 
 
 " I am sorry I have kept you waiting," she said, as 
 she drew on her gloves; "but I see you have been 
 amused. You have been in good company." 
 
 "Yes," I replied, as carelessly as I possibly could, 
 

 TIIK STOUY or AN KNTHITSIAS'I 
 
 " tl)ey are lino copios from many cclcbratod pictures. 
 Where did you get the allHim, Doretliea?" 
 
 " It belongs to Count von llardenburg. He brought 
 it down some time ago to show to dear mama. It 
 amused her to look at pict\ires when she did not care 
 to read or even to listen to reading. She was very fond 
 of some of these engravings, especially that Hue head of 
 a youth in a black cap. She always said that a beautiful 
 soul seemed to look out of the face — a strong, sweet 
 soul, that soothed and comforted her. And, by the way, 
 Felix, if it will not make you vain, I will tell you that 
 once, when we were speaking of you, she said the picture 
 reminded her of your face when you were moved by 
 some strong feeling." 
 
 "Do you know where Count von Hardenburg made 
 the collection ? " I asked, with such eagerness that I 
 feared my manner would betray my anxiety. 
 
 " I think he said they were engravings from original 
 pictures in the galleries of Vienna." 
 
 Opening the book, I turned to the head with the 
 black berretta, and said, while I examined it critically : 
 "Your mother was correct in her judgment. This is 
 the gem of the collection ; I think it is a copy from 
 Eaphael.' 
 
 " Yes, Count von Hardenburg said it was from one of 
 his original drawings, or something of the kind. Papa 
 can tell you all about them, as the Count explained them 
 all to him. You know, the Count is a great collector and 
 claims to have copies, either paintings, drawings, or en- 
 gravings, of every known work of the old masters. I 
 shall be glad when you can meet him. You will find him 
 very interesting. Papa says the Count has educated him 
 in art. But let us go. It is nearly lunch time, and I must 
 
■•T? i""*' ••*"■ 
 
 U8IAST. 
 
 Icbratod pictures, 
 lu'ii?" 
 
 urg. He brought 
 
 dear mama. It 
 
 she did not care 
 
 he was very fond 
 
 { that tine head of 
 
 id that a beautiful 
 
 — u strong, sweet 
 
 And, by the way, 
 
 will tell you that 
 
 he said the picture 
 
 II were moved by 
 
 Hardenburg made 
 eagernes.s that 1 
 ixiety. 
 ings from original 
 
 he head with the 
 lined it critically : 
 idgment. This is 
 it is a copy from 
 
 it was from one of 
 f the kind. Papa 
 mt explained them 
 great collector and 
 ;s, drawings, or en- 
 [le old masters. I 
 You will find him 
 it has educated him 
 ch time, and I must 
 
 THE STKANOR STOItY OP" A fICTlTBE. 
 
 253 
 
 ,i,'t't hael; to read to papa directly after. lie is so sad, 
 and is so nnicli alone in iiis study. Poor dear papa!" 
 
 Alter hiiieii Duretliea read a while to her father and 
 then went to \w.v room to write letters. Lord Hardmoor 
 was alone in his study, and, taliing tlie allmm witli me, 
 I liiioeked at his door, and asked liim if I could iiavo 
 some conversation with liim on a matter of importance. 
 
 " Certainly ; come in," he replied, cordially. " I am 
 so much alone that I am becoming morbid. I must 
 bestir myself, and get out these fiue days. I am glad 
 you i)ersnaded Doretliea to ri<Ie; she is looking much 
 Ixftter. I hope the keen edge of her grief is wearing 
 off. Ah, well ! she is young, and life is full of interest 
 for her. I must get about some my.self, and not make 
 her unhupi)y by moping here alone. I have been want- 
 ing to talk with you about your plans, and now is as 
 good a time as any. Of course you know that your 
 marriage must be deferred until Dorethea's year of 
 mourning expires. Wliat do you propose to do in the 
 meantime ? " 
 
 "I propose to travel," I replied, laying the album on 
 the table, and turning the pages with nervous fingers. 
 " I have a mission to fulHl before my marriage can take 
 place, unless Dorethea can join me iu my pilgrimage." 
 
 " A mission. Wliat mission ? Pray explain your- 
 self," said Lord Hardmoor, impatiently. 
 
 "I told you of it years ago," I returned, calmly and 
 firmly. "I have not found the Raphael, and ray search 
 is not over yet. That is the mission I refer to, and I 
 consider it sacred." 
 
 "Sacred! fiddlesticks!" interrupted Lord Hardmoor, 
 testily. "You talk the most absurd nonsense. Is it 
 possible you still entertain that childish idea?— and at 
 
 MHMIllii 
 
 i MttHW 
 
254 
 
 THR STORY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 Buch a timo too.? I thouf,'lit you had more serious mat- 
 ters to think of. Good Heavens! liow can I ever give 
 ])oretliea U) you ! You will go dragging licr all over the 
 world wlienever this mad idea seizes you. It is ridicu- 
 lous ; it is unheard of. I really am beginning to think 
 that you are a monomaniac." 
 
 I waited jialiently until his ebullition of anger had 
 spent itself, and then I said, quietly and persuasivcdy : — 
 "You do not understand me, sir ; or else you wilfully 
 misrepresent me. It is no insane idea. It has been the 
 intention of my life to rectify, if possible, a serious mis- 
 take, A work of Raphael that cost part of my father's 
 fortune " — 
 
 "There, stop!" interrupted Lord Ilardmoor, violently. 
 "I am tired of that. I am losing all patience with you. 
 If you insist, we shall certainly end by (luarrelling." 
 
 "I beg of you," I urged, calmly, "to listen to me. 
 You say yourself that I must wait a year for Dorethea, 
 and I intend to employ that time in visiting the princi- 
 pal cities of Europe, which I have not yet seen ; to in- 
 spect the public and private collections. In fact, to 
 make every effort to discover the picture. If I fail I 
 give you my word to discontinue my search as far as it 
 interferes with my domestic and social duties ; and to 
 settle down and become, as you say, a respectable mem- 
 ber of society." 
 
 " And if you succeed in finding the picture, what great 
 good will it do yon ? " 
 
 " I will convince the world that my father was correct 
 in his judgment, and was not the ignorant dupe of dis- 
 honest dealers, as you believe. And to do this I will 
 make any sacrifice that will not affect Dorethea's future 
 welfare." 
 
 II : 
 
 r^m 
 
HAST. 
 
 ore serious mat- 
 can I ever give 
 her all over the 
 J. It is ridicu- 
 ;iiuiing to think 
 
 n of ans^or had 
 persuasively: — 
 Iso you wilfully 
 It has been the 
 e, a serious mis- 
 t of my father's 
 
 ilnioor, violently, 
 tience with you. 
 iiuarrelling." 
 to listen to me. 
 ar for Dorothea, 
 liting the princi- 
 yet seen ; to in- 
 ms. In fact, to 
 ure. If I fail I 
 irch as far as it 
 ,1 duties ; and to 
 •espectable mem- 
 
 cture, what great 
 
 ather was correct 
 ■ant dupe of dis- 
 ,0 do this I will 
 Dorethea's future 
 
 TIIK HTKANfir, STOIVV OP A PlCTrUK. irtl") 
 
 "How will you recognize the picture. Vou can't re- 
 ineinher it iifter all these years." 
 
 "I remenilu'r every lino and siiad.- of it. I renu-ni- 
 I)er it as I remenilier my fatlier's face, wliieh is always 
 with mi', unehangcd !.y time." Tlien taking the allium 
 I laid it open lu-fore him, and jiointed to the head with 
 the l)la(!k lierretta. " Did yon ever see the ori^'iual of 
 this engraving?" I asked, while I watched the expres- 
 sion of his face Avith the keenest interest. 
 
 "N(!ver, to my knowledge," ho jeplicd, after glanc- 
 ing at it carelessly. " It is a (ropy of an original draw- 
 ing by Uaphael. Count von I[ardeid)urg told uie where 
 the drawing is, but I have forgotten ; I think, however, 
 that it is in some (Jerman collection." 
 
 " This," I said, laying my finger on the jiictnre, " is a 
 copy of my father's liaphael." 
 
 " There you are off at a tangent again ! Now, see how 
 easily you may be mistaken. 1 remember distinctly that 
 Oount von Hardenburg told me that it was engraved 
 from a drawing. It is particularly impressed on my 
 mind, because ho pointed out the manner of the manijiu- 
 lation, which, he .says, is entirly ditTerent from any other 
 master; and ho also says that ho had seen the original, 
 and that it is in red chalk. Your father's i)ictnre was 
 a painting. How, then, with the utmost stretch of your 
 too vivid imagination, can you pronounce it a copy of 
 that ? " 
 
 " You mistake my meaning," I replied. " I know, as 
 well as Count von Hardenburg, that this engraving is 
 copied from a drawing ; but the drawing was made from 
 that picture you sold in Paris as an Andrea Mantegna." 
 
 "That is most likely ! Do you suppose Raphael copied 
 his picture with red chalk, after he painted it ? I tell 
 
 iiiiiiiiini 
 
iM 
 
 TIIR STORY OF AK RXTIIUSIAST. 
 
 you the ilmwiug is by Uiiphiwl. H' you will tuk.- iluit 
 iiiii<,'i>>»'y'"n «l!i«« !i"'l '""'^ closely, you will s.-e in tlu! 
 eiiibroiilt'i-y ou tlit! corner of tlie colliir, tins letters K. V. 
 which Uaiihiicl of Uibiiio \i8ecl fre(iaeutly as a M^w.i- 
 
 ture." 
 
 "This is still more rouviiiciiiK'," I replied, after exann- 
 iiiiif,' the letters carefully. " It is, then, the original 
 study for tho painting. Kvery line and feature of this 
 driiwini,' and of my father's picture arts iihuitical." 
 
 "Good Heavens^! you exasperate nu' beyoiul endu- 
 rance. Do you pretend to say tliat after more than 
 twelve years you can remember every line and feature 
 of anythiuf,', no matter what it may be V It is simply 
 impossible." 
 
 "1 do," I said, lirmly, "and I will yet i)rove it to 
 you. I will follow up this clew until I discover the 
 original, and trace it back to the sale in Taris." 
 
 "And when you have found it, what do you intend 
 to do?" 
 
 " Purchase it, if possible." 
 
 " Aud if it is a Raphael, as you say it is, it is worth as 
 much as your estate. Do you intend to sacrifice your 
 property for it ? " 
 
 " If it*s nec(,'ssary I shall do so," I returned, in a tone 
 that must have carried conviction with it, for Lord Hard- 
 moor started from his chair, i)ale and excited, aud said, 
 in a harsh, inflexible tone : — 
 
 " Then understaiul me fully, ^farkland, and remember 
 that I am as mmdi in earnest as you are, aud have 
 much more at stake — nothing less than the welfare of 
 my child. If you perpetrate such a piece of folly, if 
 you squander any part of your income, which, as you 
 kuow, is barely sufficient to support my daughter iu a 
 
 
 -■^^mstam^^y 
 
will tiiki- Unit 
 vill set; ill tilt! 
 n! Ifltrrs K. II. 
 tly as a si^'iia- 
 
 inl, after t'xaini- 
 II, tlio ori},'iiial 
 IVatiirt! of this 
 entical." 
 
 beyond eiidu- 
 ftei more tliaii 
 ine u»tl feature 
 'f It is si 111 ply 
 
 yet prove it to 
 I discover the 
 
 'aris." 
 do you iuteud 
 
 9, it is worth as 
 J sacritiee your 
 
 urned, in a tone 
 , for Lord llard- 
 ceited, and said, 
 
 I, and venieniber 
 are, and have 
 I the welfare of 
 iece of folly, if 
 , which, as yo\i 
 y daughter iu a 
 
 ^Sl^S&lSSSTesR. 
 
 ^ 
 
 THE RTKAN<1K STOKY OK A I'HTl'ltK. 
 
 257 
 
 way Huitahlo to Ii.t pnsition, she shall never he your 
 wife. 1 will take her away from you at tlu^ altar. Voii 
 are insane, and I should he as crazy as you are to allow 
 her to marry you." 
 
 My heart stood still. For a moment I seemed to bo 
 stiHiiif,', but I maiia-,'ed to say quite calmly: "My dear 
 Ii(u-d Ilardmoor, don't excite yourself needlessly. 1 trust 
 I shall never find my.self in such a painful extremity. 
 My love for J)orethea is as dear as my life. 1 would 
 .';:icrilic(? one as soon as the other. Let us look calmly 
 at the situation. Tliere is nothing tragic iu it. 1 will 
 go away for a year, and I beg o'f you to say nothing to 
 any one of my intention. Allow me to pursue my search 
 quietly and secretly; and, as I said, if I fail, I will re- 
 linquish the hope of ever finding it, and will then devote 
 the remainder of my days to Dorethea and liappiness." 
 I held out my hand; he took it half reluctantly. "For- 
 give me if I have worried you." 
 
 He turned away suddenly, threw himself into his 
 ohair, and burst into tears. "Go away and carry out 
 your plans ! " he cried, in a broken voice : " I can't argue 
 with you now. I am too much unnerved, too weak from 
 trouble, to cope with such a nature as yours. You are 
 stubborn to folly. You will make a wreck of your life 
 yet, if you are left to yourself, liut, for Heaven's sake, 
 spare Dorethea. If you make her unhappy, you will 
 kill me. She is all I have to live for, and she shall not 
 be sacriticed. Now go, 50, — I am worn out, — and don't 
 let me see you until you are more reasonable." 
 
 What could I say ? As I looked at the cold, proud 
 man, so weakened by his recent bereavement, I felt guilty 
 of the utmost selfishness and perversity, and the mem- 
 ory of words I had beard long ago floated warningly 
 
 —^<MM>iifiilW "l il i l jir i n i I I I • r i i n lfc ll ii0mmm*ttn^ig0m 
 
 imhiiri^B/ 
 
 iii«'»if->1ii«iW^'»-^»tii'j^' 
 
258 
 
 THE STORV OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 through my mind: "You will become the slave of an 
 idea, and through it rush obstinately to your ruin." 
 
 III. 
 
 Possessed by an inipetnosity that I could not control, 
 a feverish excitement caused by the sight of the fatal 
 picture, I was anxious to be away on my wanderings, 
 and yet I was restrained by my love for Dorethca, and 
 my sorrow at the thought of leaving her for another 
 year. Again the old restlessness and eagerness of pur- 
 suit controlled me, urged me, drove me onward. I could 
 not remain inactive. There were still some hours before 
 dinner at my disposal, and a rapid walk would allay my 
 excitement. A keen autumn wind was blowing when I 
 rushed through the park and into the open country, as 
 I had done years before, when I first saw my destiny 
 
 before me. 
 
 What was the peculiar power of that fatal picture ? 
 The strange, weird fascination of it, that at the sight of 
 it, the memory of it, my whole being was disturbed ? It 
 drew me to it as the moon draws the tides. Through it, 
 and in it, I seemed to have a twofold existence. Some- 
 where, I knew not where, another part of my being was 
 compelling me to seek it, to unite my life with it. For 
 the first time I felt that there was some mystic bond 
 between it and me — that in some mysterious manner it 
 controlled and fashioned my destiny. There was a phys- 
 ical as well as an intellectual cause that connected me 
 with it. Like a voice out of the past, Pv. Langham's 
 words by my sick-bed occurred to me — I had inherited 
 this strange impression from my mother. Had not Lady 
 Hardmoor noticed ^nd spoken of a resemblance of 
 

 SIAST. 
 
 the slave of an 
 
 your ruin. 
 
 :roul(l not control, 
 iulit of the fatal 
 
 my wanderings, 
 "or Dorethea, and 
 
 her for another 
 eagerness of pur- 
 onward. I could 
 jome hours before 
 ic would allay my 
 i blowing when I 
 
 open country, as 
 
 saw my destiny 
 
 lat fatal picture? 
 lat at the sight of 
 as disturbed ? It 
 ides. Through it, 
 existence. Some- 
 c of my being was 
 life with it. For 
 some mystic bond 
 sterious manner it 
 There was a phys- 
 that connected me 
 ast, Pv. Langhani's 
 — I had inherited 
 er. Had not Lady 
 a fesemblance of 
 
 THE STRANGE STOKY OF A riCTDRE. 
 
 259 
 
 features and expression — as though my soul looked 
 through the eyes of the picture ? The eyes of the picture 
 that haunted me always, that searched into my heart, 
 that appealed, urged, i)lea led. The impression was a part 
 of my nature ; it was useless to combat the imperious 
 demands of myself for this other self. In spite of the 
 struggle, I felt that I must succumb, and follow wlici-- 
 ever it led me. 
 
 But why should I succumb to this sentiment — this in- 
 sane folly, as Lord Hard moor characterized it — and per- 
 haps mar Uiy whole future ? Was I not a responsible 
 human being ? had I not my destiny in my own hands ? 
 was I not so far the arbiter of my own fate that I could 
 remain in p]ngland and adopt the life that had been 
 planned out for me, relinquish this seardi, forget this 
 alluring picture, cast off the spell that bound me to it 
 and it to me, and live a peaceful, rational existence, un- 
 disturbed by any inordinate love or enthusiasm for art ? 
 Would it not be better to give up painting, to cut myself 
 loose from all its associations, to forget that I had ever 
 listened to the divine voice, that I had ever seen visions 
 of beauty, or dreamed of empyrean heights where every 
 ambition of my soul could be satisfied ? Ah ! whither 
 was this worship of art leading me ? Was it all false, 
 unreal, a fata morgana to lure me onward to ruin ? 
 
 But to give it up — what did that mean to me ? I 
 was appalled at the desolation it implied. It was strip- 
 ping life bare of every rharm. Even love was undesir- 
 able. Wealth, honor, name, all were but jangling, brazen 
 sounds. Suddenly it seemed as if all the beauty and 
 harmony had gone out of nature. I stood still and 
 looked around me. Above, the cold leaden sky ; below, 
 the bleak, dreary moor, dead and colorless, — uot one gleam 
 
 ^^..^ - , ..^, ■ iii l'i] I -l l - i - i ) I 'i ii ^ i ft u i iiiiii ' i n i llll H MllliB r 
 
260 
 
 THE STORY OF AN KNTHUSIA.ST, 
 
 I 
 
 m\ 
 
 of sunlight, nor the ghmcing wing of a bird. Tlie harsh, 
 jagged outline of tlie rock-bound hills; the keen wind, 
 that dried the very marrow in one's bones ; the op2)res- 
 sive silence and torpor, were all emblems of my future, 
 denuded of the beauty of art, and its gentle influences. 
 I felt benumbed and cold. A bitter resolve was forming 
 itself in my mind. I would force myself to be stoical, 
 imi)ervious to every tender sentiment. I would become 
 man of stone, and crush and kill my soft, impressionable 
 nature. In that way I could conquer myself, overcome 
 my ideals, and lind a fictitious strength to endure the 
 severe and practical. 
 
 And so the everlasting debate went on. I was weary 
 with my rapid walk, and exhausted with ray mental 
 struggle, and yet I was no nearer the decision that was 
 to make or mar my future, llemain in England, give 
 up my search, give up art ? — or follow the voice of my 
 soul? It was the turning-point in my destiny, and the 
 choice must be made then .and there. It was an awful 
 hour to me. I was suifering physically as well as men- 
 tally. A strange weakness came over me ; my whole 
 frame trembled as if a sudden palsy had smitten me. 
 Enable to proceed larther, I threw myself prone upon 
 the ground, and again reviewed the harrowing situa- 
 tion. I thought of Mi'i Lonely j he seemed to look at me 
 padly and reproachfully, I seejned to hear him say, in his 
 deep, c^lm voice, '< You ave the slave of an idea. Your 
 devotion to a shadow, to a dream, will lead you to disap- 
 pointment and eternal regret." Then liiy mother's soft 
 eyes and tender, girlish face came before me, and her 
 soothing words filled me with peace. If my mortal ears 
 did not hear them, my soul did. " Do not struggle 
 against your iove for the beautiful | it is your birthright. 
 
 ■"^SetMSRSS^SfS"' 
 
AST. 
 
 THE STRANGE STORY OF A PICTURE. 
 
 261 
 
 (1. Tlie harsh, 
 he keen wind, 
 s ; tlie oppres- 
 of my future, 
 itle influences. 
 iQ WHS forming 
 ; to be stoical, 
 would become 
 impressionable 
 f'self, overcome 
 to endure the 
 
 I was weary 
 th ray mental 
 '.ision that was 
 
 England, give 
 lie voice of my 
 jstiny, and the 
 } was an awful 
 ,s well as men- 
 ne ; my whole 
 ,d smitten me. 
 (If prone upon 
 rrowing situa- 
 i to look at me 
 
 him say, in his 
 m idea. Your 
 I you to disap- 
 f mother's soft 
 e me, and her 
 ny mortal ears 
 ) not struggle 
 our birthright. 
 
 You inherited it from me, your mother. I endowed you 
 with it, before you saw the light. There is nothing mys- 
 terious or unnatural in the attraction the picture has for 
 you. It was impressed ou you from the moment my 
 eyes first looked upon it. I loved the picture. Your 
 father loved it. We worshipped it together, as the 
 noble and true worship what is noble and true. Follow 
 the voice of your own soul, the impulses of your own 
 heart. Do not strive to kill the ideal. It is one thing 
 in us that is God-like. Live your own life, love your 
 own loves, and work out your own plans. Another can- 
 not judge for ^ou, for another is not possessed of the 
 secret of your soul. Follow the path you see plainly 
 before you, no matter whether it be smooth or rough. 
 Only follow it ; it is marked out by your Creator." 
 
 For some time I lay there listening to the voice of 
 Nature. I was calmed, convinced, resolved ; again my 
 idea was victorious, again my impressions conquered my 
 reason. It was Nature. It was therefore right. The 
 struggle was over. The moral conflict had ended us I 
 wished it to. I had simply listened to the voice of 
 Nature, and henceforth there was no more doubt, no 
 more indecision. My soul was as immovably fixed in its 
 purpose as were the surrounding hills upon their rocky 
 base. My bodily weakness vanished with my mental 
 vacillation, and I sprang to my feet with new life and 
 energy, just in time to see the setting sun look througli 
 a rift in a black cloud, before night hid him from the 
 world. 
 
 How that one gleam of yellow light transfigured 
 everything: now I saw the wide moor resplendent in 
 purple and gold, and even the barren hills and brown 
 crags were transmuted into chalcedony and chrysolite. 
 
 m^i:imffi:" 
 
 ...■,. ,,.„ -. n, - ■..^;..», -^.:...-.-,^,.. - . . -. -jjj jf ,| gpaajij,vi^-f^~ ^ ^^--^a 
 
262 
 
 THE STOltY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 The cutting wind had softened to a low sighing breeze, 
 that rustled and murmured among the gorse and tangled 
 grass. The i)urple and gold changed to violet and pale 
 saffron; a slender slip of a moon sat like a silver boat 
 on a sea of black cloud, convoyed by one serene star on 
 her journey Avestward; again I was in harmony with 
 Nature ; the passion and despair vanished from my soul 
 as the last beam of day laid its peaceful benediction 
 upon me. 
 
 When I returned to the Hall, it was near the dinner 
 hour ; therefore, 1 dressed hurriedly, in the hope that I 
 might see Dorethea alone in the dramng-room a few 
 moments. She was there, and was evidently waiting 
 for me, for when I entered she met nie with a nervous, 
 anxious manner, and said reproachfully : — 
 
 "Oh, Felix! how could you quarrel with papa?" 
 
 "My dear Dorethea, you are mistaken," I returned, 
 gently. 
 
 " Then, why do I find him so worried and excited ? I 
 went to his study, to try to induce him to come into the 
 drawing-room, and found liim quite upset. He will not 
 even dine with us, and he says that you have been very 
 thoughtless and unkind." 
 
 " My darling, let me tell you the facts of the case. I 
 went to your father, after you left him, to talk to him 
 about a matter of the greatest importance to me, when 
 he became unreasonably angry, and used some very un- 
 pleasant language, which T did not resent, because he is 
 in trouble, and, in short, because he is your father." 
 
 " Poor papa ! Oh, Felix, how could you annoy him 
 just now ? " 
 
 " Dorethea," I said, speaking to her severely for the 
 first time, " you surely cannot think that I am capable 
 
VST. 
 
 THE STKANGE STOKY OF A PICTUUE. 
 
 263 
 
 ghing breeze, 
 e and tangled 
 Lolet and pale 
 a silver boat 
 serene star on 
 lannony with 
 from my soul 
 d benediction 
 
 ixr tlie dinner 
 110 hope that I 
 g-room a few 
 ently waiting 
 ith a nervous, 
 
 L papa ? " 
 
 ," I returned, 
 
 d excited ? I 
 
 come into the 
 
 He will not 
 
 lave been very 
 
 •f the case. I 
 to talk to him 
 3 to me, when 
 some very un- 
 , because he is 
 r father." 
 ou annoy him 
 
 iverely for the 
 ; I am capable 
 
 of purposely angering your father at all — much less 
 now. You and he both misunderstand me. My time 
 may have been ill chosen, but I cannot blame myself 
 for your father's injustice and harshness. I certainly 
 did not provoke it." 
 
 The poor girl looked at me for a moment with grieved 
 surprise ; thd turned proudly away, without speaking. 
 
 " For God's sake Dorethea," I cried, passionately, " do 
 not you quarrel with me ! I cannot bear it now, when 1 
 have to say good-by to you for a year." 
 
 " Good-by for a year ? What do you mean, Felix ? " 
 
 I hold out my arms, and she came to me sobbing. 
 " You surely do not mean to go away for so long ! " 
 
 " My dearest, I must. It is an imperative duty that 
 forces me." 
 
 " Oh, Felix ! I am so unhappy and so lonely ; and 
 poor papa is quite changed ; I need you so mi; oh." 
 
 My heart was torn within me, when I looked at her 
 dear face, wet with tears and piteous in its appealing 
 sorrow. 
 
 " Dorethea, I suffer more to leave you than you can 
 to have me go. But take heart, sweet soul ; this, I trust, 
 will be our last parting. Be patient with me, and love 
 me faithfully, for without your love I should be ruined 
 and desolate." 
 
 " And yet you leave me, merely to search for a picture. 
 Surely, that cannot be imperative." 
 
 " I thought you would approve, and bid me God-speed 
 on my errand." 
 
 "Oh, Felix! how can you find it, after all these 
 years ? I think papa knows best when he says you 
 ought to give it up, and it seems as though you love the 
 •picture better than you love me." 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 "" irir-iriiTikmMiM'iiiiifi ' 
 
 i# 
 
r 
 
 264 
 
 THE STOKV OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Again the blue eyes overflowed, and again my heart 
 bled silently. 
 
 " Let us say no more, my darling,'' I entreated ; " or 
 we may come to misunderstand each otiier, and that 1 
 could not endure. AVe have but little time togotlier; 
 let us not waste it in idle arguments. I must leave for 
 London in the morning, and I shall not see you before I 
 set out. Walter is coming to dine, and there Avill be no 
 chance for conversation of a private nature. Let me 
 tell you what I have already told your father. You do 
 not know how much this journey is to me ; but I would 
 abandon it for you, my love, if I was not certain that I 
 should suffer all my life from unrest and regret ; sliould 
 feel that I had failed in sometliing I might have accom- 
 plished. In short, that I had neglected a duty I owed 
 my dead father. This journey once over — even if I do 
 not succeed, I shall have done my utmost; and there 
 ■will be nothing to regret, save the failure ; and when I 
 return, it will be to devote the remainder of my life to 
 you. And, oh, my dearest ! never doubt my love. 
 Trust me and love me, and try to understand me. Your 
 father's nature and mine are widely different. He can- 
 not appreciate the sentiment that influences me ; but I 
 do not blame him. He thinks as the world thinks, and 
 he has little sympathy with what he considers foolish 
 enthusiasm and romantic ideas. But you, my love, 
 you must know me better ; you must estimate me 
 more justly. We must be one in soul and feeling. 
 Try to think that it is best that I should leave you 
 now ; and be the brave, sweet soul you have always 
 been." 
 
 " Felix, I always had mama. She was always with 
 me to help me " — another burst of tears — another 
 
 t v 'Vilitirn 
 
ST. 
 
 jain my heart 
 
 itreatctl ; " or 
 r, and that 1 
 iiue togotlier; 
 lUst leave for 
 ; you before I 
 ere Avill be uo 
 lire. Let me 
 her. You do 
 , but I would 
 certain that I 
 egret ; should 
 ; have accom- 
 1 duty I owed 
 - even if I do 
 st; and there 
 ; and when I 
 of my life to 
 iibt my love. 
 ,nd me. Your 
 ent. He can- 
 es me ; but I 
 id thinks, and 
 siders foolish 
 'ou, my love, 
 estimate me 
 and feeling, 
 uld leave you 
 have always 
 
 3 always with 
 lars — another- 
 
 THE 8TUAN0E STOHY OF A I'lCTURE. 
 
 205 
 
 tender (faress, and a few low-spoken words of love, aiul 
 Doretlioa slipped away as Walter entered. 
 
 A few moments later she appeared at tlie dinner-table, 
 quite calm, but her sweet eyes were stained with tears, 
 and her face pale and downcast. 
 
 Walter remained until late, and then insisted upon 
 my walking with him to the east gate. WJien 1 re- 
 turned, Dorethea had retired, and 1 thought I should see 
 her no more before my departure. 
 
 With a heavy heart I mounted the stairs to my room, 
 when I heard light footsteps jtdvancing through the 
 long corridor, and a little black-robed ligure stood before 
 me. 
 
 " I could not let you go, dear Felix, Avithout another 
 word. Do not thiiik me weak and childish ; 1 will be 
 strong for your sake, and try to convince papa that you 
 are right." 
 
 Ah! why linger over that exquisite moment! — the 
 bliss and pain of such a parting ! When I went to my 
 room, her tears were still on my face ; but a heavy load 
 was lifted from my heart. Dorethea bade me go, with 
 her love and blessing. It was a good omen. Surely, I 
 must succeed. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Vienna. — I have been here for more than a month, 
 iiiid during that time I have examined every collection, 
 both public and private, that I can gain access to, and I 
 have searched into the hidden recesses of every dealer's 
 portfolio of engravings and drawings, and have failed 
 to find a duplicate of the head in tne black berretta, or 
 anything that bears a likeness to it. To every inquiry 
 
266 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 and descriptidii I rccoivo the same tliscouraging nega- 
 tive reply. Anioii',' tlio artiats aiul coiinoissours, the of- 
 ficials of public collections, and owuor.s of rave paintings, 
 such a drawing by Raphael has never been hoard of; 
 nor is there anything among the original studies of the 
 old masters that bears the least resemblance to it. 
 Therefore, Count von Hardenburg is mistaken about 
 the picture being in Vienna. 
 
 There is one thing which is a serious drawback in 
 my search, and that is the caution with which I am 
 obliged to conduct my investigation. I fear to arouse 
 any interest in the missing original, for I well know if 
 it were once pi'oven to be a llaphael, I should have no 
 chance of getting possession of it, even should I dis- 
 cover it. 
 
 However, I am not disheartened by my failure liere. 
 I know the picture is somewhere in the world, and some 
 day I shall suddenly come upon it; perhaps when I 
 least expect it. 
 
 An artist told me yesterday that he was quite certain 
 he had seen such a picture as I described in the 
 Hermitage at St. Petersburg. To-morrow I leave for 
 Bussia. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 Berlin. — For the last six months I have been wan- 
 dering in the north of Europe, visiting every city and 
 town, every gallery, palace, and museum, where pictures 
 are to be seen. At times I am sure I have made myself 
 a nuisance by my eagerness and insistence ; and, in spite 
 of the greatest caution, I have aroused various suspi- 
 cions in different minds. No doubt but some have 
 thought me a monomaniac ; others, an artist gone mad 
 OU the subject of original drawings, or au eccentric con- 
 
 li irm-ii ii Tfff-r" -'""^"'-" '''""''»■" 
 
**iiii 
 
 [AST. 
 
 3ouragiiig neg.a- 
 )issoui's, the of- 
 F rave paintings, 
 
 been heard of ; 
 
 studies of the 
 mibhinco to it. 
 mistaken about 
 
 us drawback in 
 
 th which I am 
 
 fear to arouse 
 
 I well know if 
 
 shouhl have no 
 
 11 shoukl I dis- 
 
 ny failure here, 
 ivorld, and some 
 erhaps when I 
 
 [IS quite certain 
 scribed in the 
 ow I leave for 
 
 have been wan- 
 every city and 
 I, where pictures 
 ve made myself 
 ce ; and, in spite 
 d various suspi- 
 but some have 
 artist gone mad 
 u eccentric con- 
 
 THK 8TUANGE STOUV OF A I'ICTUHE. 
 
 207 
 
 noisseur trying to make a now discovery in the history 
 of art. 
 
 In St. Petersburg I was closely watched as a suspect; 
 and my prying curiosity aliout pictures was considered a 
 ruse to get acquainted with the interior arrangements 
 of the Winter J'aluee. I never entered tlie Hermitage 
 without being conseious that I was watched closely by a 
 detective, who often engaged me in eoiwersation under 
 the incognito of a fellow-traveller, \isiug all liis skill 
 to discover what nuinner of man I really am, and why 
 the different collections can be nuitters of such vital 
 importance to me. 
 
 OiH! evening my valvt de j}hic,e respectfully intimated 
 that I liad better leave St Teterslmrg as cpiickly and 
 quietly as possible, as 1k> had reason to think that I 
 might be detained against my will if I delayed my de- 
 parture. 
 
 The next day I was on my way to ]\Ioscow. 
 
 The fartlier I go the more interested I become. Some- 
 times T am possessed by a spirit of restlessness, and 
 rush from place to place so hurriedly and excitedly that 
 those wlio do not understand my purpt.e and method 
 under my eccentric movements may well think I am a 
 little queer and unsettled in my mind. 
 
 A few days ago I was told of a collection of old draw- 
 ings here in the Royal Gallery. But on examining all 
 the rooms T could not discover it. This morning 1 lost 
 my patience, and questioned the custodian so sliarply 
 that he looked at me Avith a half-frightened expression, 
 and, as he turned away, he touched his forehead signifi- 
 cantly and said to a woman who was copying near, 
 "that I was a half-crazy English artist, who had wor- 
 ried him beyond emlurance about original drawings by 
 
 •rp:'?v ^fW t !immwsfmwff : mm^ , 
 
 -Vi^}'-^ ' AAimM ^ ^M 
 
 
268 
 
 THR HTOUY OP AN KNTIIUSIA8T. 
 
 Kiii>hiU'l, wliidi T insisted were there, althmiRli lie, had 
 told 1110 over and over to tlic contrary. Of tM)Urse, no 
 one Imt an insane person could be so absurdly trouble- 
 
 some. 
 
 Tlie man's words startled mo. T stood still and tried 
 to think. IVrhaiis he was not so far wrong. IVrhaps I 
 was bocoining iiisano on tliis one idea. Had my excita- 
 ble nervons organization gained the ascendency, and was 
 I becoming a slave to wild vagarie" ? 
 
 What was 1 doing, rushing over tlio world in this 
 (ixtraordinary manner, storming through Europe as if the 
 fate of the universe depended upon ray movements ? 
 For a moment the thought was horribly grotesque, and 1 
 smiled bitterly to myself. CJood God ! what an absurd- 
 ity for a sane human being — a man with intelligence 
 and reason, to devote his time and wealth to a searcli in 
 far-olT places, even to obscure northern cities where art 
 liad scarcely penetrated, enduring weariness, susi>icion, 
 contempt, and repeated disappointment '.' And for 
 what ? A picture, a shadow, an idea ! Driven, pursued, 
 haunted by an imperious desire, which would leave me 
 neither bodily rest nor mental peace until I had lost all 
 — wealth, love, respect, and perhaps even reason. 
 
 But these gloomy reflections do not convince me nor 
 shake my convictions. I am young and full of hope, 
 and I have a great love for all that is true and beautiful. 
 I am an enthusiast, but is that a sin ? I love the ideal 
 better than the real. I have strange impressions — they 
 are a part of me, created with me,' my inheritance, my 
 destiny, and I must have the courage to live up to them. 
 It is cruel, almost tragic, the way I am tossed and 
 baffled by this unhappy fate. However, the end must 
 soon come. 
 
I AST. 
 
 TIIK HTIiANCK STdllV or A I'lrl'nirK. 
 
 !•»;!) 
 
 Ithougli he had 
 
 or (M)urso, iio 
 
 bsuriUy troublo- 
 
 (1 still and tried 
 mg. IVrliaps I 
 Had my i-xcita- 
 ulency, and was 
 
 1 world in this 
 Europe as it' the 
 ly movements ? 
 grotesque, and 1 
 what an absurd- 
 rith intelligence 
 th to a searcli in 
 cities where art 
 iness, suspicion, 
 !nt ? And for 
 Driven, pursued, 
 would leave me 
 I til I had lost all 
 sn reason, 
 convince me nor 
 nd full of hope, 
 ■ue and beautiful. 
 
 I love the ideal 
 
 pressions — they 
 
 r inheritance, my 
 
 live up to them. 
 
 am tossed and 
 jr, the end must 
 
 
 For nearly a year 1 liiive been rarnestly pursuing this 
 seurc^h, Inlldwiiii,' up the sli,i;lil, dew I discdvcrt'd in Kni,'- 
 lund, and wliicli i iiavi' not yet abaudoncMl. Tlicro si'cni 
 but a Ifw nuirt' plucrs to visit. I must try to moderate 
 my ardor, and eonliiiuo my search in a less hostile man- 
 ner, for 1 am aware that my attitude is a little peculiar. 
 I fe(d as if tlie whole world has combined to^ji'ther to 
 hide this i)ictiin! from mi', and that I am battling .single- 
 handed against the universe to wrest this secret from it. 
 
 The circle of my investigation is narrowing each day, 
 and therefore my cliances of success are incutasing. I 
 cannot think tliat it is in any of the countries I have 
 explored. It must be still before me, and I must press 
 on even to the end. 
 
 • . . . , 
 
 MiTNicii. — I often think of M. Michelet's woflu: 
 "The world is not large enough to hide such a incturc." 
 But 1 find that it is a very large world ; and the j)ro- 
 verbial searching for the needle in the liaysta^^k is as 
 nothing compared to the hopelessness of my undertak- 
 ing. Heavens I how many pictures there are in the 
 world. There would be loo many if no more were 
 painted for a thousand years. Seeing the great surplus 
 of mediocre jjroductions, I am lesolved to refrain iTi the 
 future from adding to it ; I am surfeited witli all I have 
 seen; the savor has gone out of modern art. There is 
 certainly, as in many other things, over-production, and 
 I should consider the individual a benefactor to unborn 
 generations wlio would get together all the bad can- 
 vases and make a bonfire of them, whose smoke would 
 reach even to heaven. It would be a service to art as 
 well as to mankind. 
 
 However, I do jaot wish to take a morbid view of 
 
 
h« 
 
 safe 
 
 I 
 
 '110 
 
 THK HTOltY <»F AN KNTIM'HIAST. 
 
 liiiiiiiiii fiidfi'or. Tli.'y Imvf tloiu- wliufc tlu'y ctKild, imd, 
 ill accoraiinci with diviiio tciuihini,', I'k' v liiivc iinprov.'il 
 tlii'ir siiKiU tiilouts. (i<Ml «Ii'l ix't i»t<'i"i ''v<''-v painU-r to 
 \w a. Raiili:iol, or I slioultl not lie licvo c Misiimiiij,' my lilc 
 in this wi'iiry H«'iui'h, whic''. 1 am I'lee to confess, is 
 becoming ralht-r ho[)t'lt'ss. 
 
 i have just received a letter from Paul, who is in 
 Venice witli the lirents. 
 
 As Venice is about the only city in Italy that I have 
 not seen, 1 shall liasten thither to ) An them, not, how- 
 ever, witli much hope of success th* <■ It seems to mo 
 that I have already exhausted Ital.y in my study of 
 hV.-'hael. I thii V it impossible that a painting? or even 
 a ,'rawing of the ;')'.at master can have escaped me, so 
 thorou^'h has been my search at different times among 
 all of the Italian collections. But Venice still remains, 
 and 1 knov,' there is a i"ne gallery of original drawings 
 in the I'inacoteca. Venice, Vienna! — how stupid I 
 have been ? What more likely than that Dorethea con- 
 founded one with the other, and that, after all, it may 
 be in Venice. I can scarcely restrain my impatience to 
 get there ! Let me once prove that drawing to be an 
 original, and then there can be no doubt about the 
 painting. 
 
 Vknice. — I have found tlie subject of the engraving in 
 Count von Ilardenburg's album, among the original 
 drawings by llaphael in the gallery of the Pinacoteca. 
 
 Paul was with me when I discovered it, and I think 
 he was seriously alarmed. For he said, a few moments 
 afterwards, when we met the Brents, that he thought I 
 bad suddenly gone insane, so unaccountable was my lj«- 
 
 ,;.. .■i<.vj^...u.....r I iTHTAIiiiSiHt.Ji ii r i n'MfVI n . li H . .^.. 
 
UAST. 
 
 tlit'y could, and, 
 
 li;ivc iiiiprovt'd 
 
 •vcrv painter to 
 
 isiiiniiij,' my life 
 
 to confess, is 
 
 rani, who is in 
 
 taly that I have 
 them, not, how- 
 It seems to nie 
 in my study of 
 paintinj? or even 
 3 escaped me, so 
 •ent times among 
 ice still remains, 
 )riRinal drawings 
 — how stupid I 
 lat Dorothea con- 
 after all, it may 
 my impatience to 
 drawing to he an 
 doubt about the 
 
 if the engraving in 
 long the original 
 the Pinacoteca. 
 id it, and I think 
 d, a few moments 
 ;hat he thought I 
 ntable was my be- 
 
 a i »rri»a i 
 
 jMi^ t 
 
 J 
 
IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-S) 
 
 V. 
 
 
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 KS Itt III 2.2 
 
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 tut 
 
 
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 1.25 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 1 
 
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 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14380 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
 
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 'A 
 
 '%^^* -"^%^-^^"- ^SS^:^^^/^^ 
 

 *' 
 
 CIHM/ICMH 
 
 Microfiche 
 
 Series. 
 
 CIHM/ICMH 
 Collection de 
 microfiches. 
 
 Canadian Institute for Historical Microreprodu.tlons / Instltut Canadian de microreproductlons historiques 
 
THE STRANGE STORY OF A IMCTURE. 
 
 271 
 
 liiivior over a. simple drawing in rod chalk. Oolunibus, 
 when he discovered tlie New World, I'once de Leon over 
 the Fountain of Youth, Tlie Knights of the Holy Grail, 
 never maihi such extravagant demonstrations of joy as I 
 did over that bit of paper. 
 
 " Oh, I beg of you to spare me ! " I cried, for I was 
 too sensitive to endure ridicule. " You will not be sur- 
 prised at my joy when I toll you liow much this hit of 
 jHiper is to me. My father once owned the painting, by 
 llaphael, of Avhich this sketch is tlio original study." 
 
 " Indeed ! Where is it now? " asked Mr. Brent, much 
 interested. 
 
 " I wish I could tell you. It was sold in Paris, direct- 
 ly after my father's death, as a copy, ami for a mere 
 trifle, and I have been searching for it all my life." 
 
 " Tliat picture is in England, and I have seen it," ex- 
 claimed Mr. Brent, " a youthfid head with a black ber- 
 retta — the fac-simile of this drawing. While I look at 
 this, the painting comes vividly before my mind because 
 of the impression it made on me at the time, but every- 
 thing connected witli it is very vague." 
 
 " Cannot you remember where you saw it. Pray, try 
 to recall it," I said, almost breathless with anxiety, "if 
 you can only remember." 
 
 Mr. Brent remained in deep thought for a few mo- 
 ments, and then said, reluctantly : " I can't. I am sorry 
 to say I can't recall any of the circumstances ; 1 am only 
 confident that it was in England. It is long ago; before 
 I came abroad to live." 
 
 " Was it before we were married ? " asked Mrs. Brent, 
 anxiously. 
 
 "Was it before I was born, papa?" questioned Laura, 
 much interested. " Think of some event of long ago," 
 
 .wm 
 
 It 
 
 J 
 
r 
 
 272 
 
 TIIK STORY OK AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 " Then, his memory must go back farther, much far- 
 ther, than the time of your birth," said J'aul, gaUa;.tly. 
 
 Laura lifted a I.ippy, hiughing faee, and, tapping 
 Paul with her parasoi, whispered : " Hush-hush ! Don't 
 change the current of thought with irrelevant remarks. 
 I want to help papa think." 
 
 "Of something that happened long before your birth," 
 
 persisted Paul. 
 
 " Oh, vou are too cruel," cried Lain-a. "Don't notice 
 what hc'says, papa; oidy try to remember where it was." 
 
 " That's just what I'm trying to do, my dear ; but I 
 can't. The more I try, the more it all slips away. The 
 only thing that remains in my memory is the picture, 
 and the impression that T saw it in England. I have not 
 thought of it for years, but seeing the drawing recalls it 
 to my mind forcibly." 
 
 "it could not have been in any collection of impor- 
 tance, unless it has been removed," I said, feeling anoth- 
 er clew slipping away, "for I have examined every 
 picture gallery in England. Ever since my childhood I 
 have been using every means in my power to discover it, 
 and to-day it seems farther away and more hopeless than 
 
 » 
 
 ever. 
 
 <' Don't despair," replied Mr. Preut; "continue your 
 search in England. It is in England ; most likely in 
 some small private collection that you have missed, or 
 perhaps it is owned by some ignorant lover of old paint- 
 ings, who does not know what a treasure he possesses." 
 
 " Let me beg of you," I said, as I turned reluctantly 
 from the drawing, " to say nothing of our conversation. 
 You understand why it is better for me to conduct my 
 inquiries with the utmost secrecy. The picture must 
 not be a Kaphael until it is again iu my possession. It 
 
 ''^■"■"' ■■"'^"TrrTi -^-^ T.,-, ..^1 
 
AST. 
 
 thor, mucli far- 
 lul, galliUitly. 
 
 and, tapping 
 -hush! Don'b 
 ivant remarks. 
 
 )re your birth," 
 
 "Don't notice 
 where it was." 
 my dear ; but I 
 ips away. The 
 is the picture, 
 lid. I have not 
 iwiiig recalls it 
 
 3tion of impor- 
 [, feeling anoth- 
 xaniined every 
 my childhood I 
 ■r to discover it, 
 ■e hopeless than 
 
 " continue your 
 
 most likely in 
 
 have missed, or 
 
 rev of old paint- 
 
 I he possesses." 
 
 rned reluctantly 
 
 iir conversation. 
 
 to conduct my 
 
 le picture must 
 
 possession. It 
 
 TIIK STRANGE STOUY OF A riCTUUK. 
 
 273 
 
 was sold as tiio work of an ordinary artist, and as such 
 it must be recovered, or else my chances of buying it 
 will be small." 
 
 " I understand you. You are right, quite right. The 
 l»ict,ure w.is sacrilietid. It was unpardonable. U' you 
 can get possession of it again by concealing its real 
 value, you should ceitaiiily do so. I will keep my mouth 
 closed and my eyes open, and if ever 1 come across it 
 again it won't slip from my m(>mory, I assure you." 
 
 "Terhaiisif you were in England it might occur to 
 you. Sometimes associations " — 
 
 "Yes. It really might, and T should not mind a trip 
 to England if I could help you. However, we shall be 
 there next summer, and we will see what can be done." 
 
 "If one could advertise in the Times," said Mrs. 
 Hreiit, laughing. 
 
 "Or go to a fortune- teller," suggested Laura. 
 
 "Let me tell you what will bo better than either," 
 said Taul. " Instead of going to England to search for a 
 lost Ilaphael, go back with us to Komc, where there are 
 dozens to be seen without trouble or expense." 
 
 "If you don't return with us, you may miss seeing 
 Angelique married," added Mrs. IJrent. 
 
 " Ah ? " I inquired, interested at once. " Is it really 
 drawing so near the climax. When will it be ? " 
 
 "My dear," exclaimed, Mr. Hrent, reprovingly, "you 
 should not make such a statement on your own suspi- 
 cion. There really is no time fixed, though there seems 
 to be the best possible understanding between them ; 
 but you may depend upon it that La Santa has not yet 
 decided to give up her. pretty dreams and ideals to settle 
 down to domestic duties." 
 
 " Why, my dear, one would think that you were the 
 
 
f 
 
 274 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 yoiin- lady's confidant," retnrnod Mrs. Brent, laughing. 
 "I am not making my statement on suspicion, as you 
 sav but from information received from Miulam Ray- 
 mond I suppose ske knows something of her daughter s 
 atfairs; and she told me, the day before wo, left Kome, 
 that she thought the marriage would take place directly 
 after M. de Bivcourt's return from France, where he has 
 been for some months." 
 
 "I think OamiUo went away to bring Mile. Angelique 
 to reason," s:,id Paul, glancing at Laura. " He is im- 
 patient for her to fix her sweet mind on some decision. 
 Thcn-'s no doubt but slie loves him as much as a sauit 
 can love a sinner; but, for some reason unexplaiuable, I 
 can't think that she will ever marry him." • 
 
 " Perhaps she wants to punish him, first, for all Ins 
 past sins, and when he is sufficiently penitent and pious, 
 she will take him," remarke.l Laura, with an arch smile. 
 «« That's very likely. You women are so cruel, re- 
 turned Paul. . , , 
 
 "Now, pray, don't distinguish us all with the charming 
 attributes of the Princess Natilika," retorted Laura. 
 
 "Who is the Princess Natilika? " I inquired. They 
 were iust stepping into their gondola; we were about to 
 part until dinner; and the young girl answered back 
 
 lauffhingly: — . . __ ^.,., 
 
 "What! have you not heard of the divine Natilika, 
 
 who set all Rome wild about her last winter ? " 
 
 "Not a word. Who is she, and where did she come 
 
 '°^Ah, that 1 can't tell. You must find out for yourself 
 when you return to Rome." 
 
 The gondola glided away, and I heard no more of the 
 
 Princess Natilika. , 
 
 • ■-. ' : M ' '%-- ^^ ^ • 
 
 L 
 
 i^^MallMifc a ii n ia inrilir ii i i f 
 

 HAST. 
 
 Brent, laughing, 
 uspicion, us you 
 »m Miulam liay- 
 )f her dauglitei's 
 •0 wo. left Komt', 
 ko place directly 
 ce, where he has 
 
 Mile. Angelique 
 
 ira. " He is ini- 
 
 m some decision. 
 
 much as a saint 
 
 unexplainable, I 
 
 n." 
 
 , first, for all his 
 ?nitent and pious, 
 ith an arch smile, 
 are so cruel," re- 
 
 ivith the charming 
 itorted Laura. 
 : inquired. They 
 we were about to 
 irl answered back 
 
 e divine Natilika, 
 
 winter ? " 
 
 liere did she come 
 
 nd out for yourself 
 
 ird no more of the 
 
 THE STRANGE 8T0UY OF A PICTURE. 276 
 
 V. 
 
 I HAD been absent from England over a year, and it 
 was nearly (Jliristiiuis when I roturnod. I reached the 
 station at Iladdingham on a dull December afternoon. 
 There was no one to meet me, as I had not informed 
 them of the exact time of my intended arrival. Twi- 
 light was already drawing down her gray curtain as I 
 started on my walk across the park to the Hall. The 
 air was clear and frosty, and the frozen ground echoed 
 and re-echoed my rapid steps through the mournful 
 silence of the Avoods. Now and then, a frightened hare 
 scurried across my path ; or a pheasant whirred upward 
 from some warm nook among the low branches. These 
 were the only signs of life around me, and a dreary, 
 desolate feeling, amounting almost to solemnity, filled 
 my soul as I contemplated the gathering darkness, 
 which seemed an emblem of the mystery surrounding 
 human destiny. 
 
 For some inexplicable reason, the nearer I approached 
 the Hall, the more isolated and friendless I felt ; and it 
 Avas not until the twinkling lights gleaming from the 
 Avindows met my sight that the clouds dispersed 
 and the gloomy premonitions vanished, dispelled by 
 brighter, happier anticipations of my meeting with 
 Dorethea. 
 
 It must have been the light of my love's near pres- 
 ence that dispersed the shadows so suddenly, for, as I 
 turned into the main avenue, I saw, a few feet in ad- 
 vance of me, a slight figure, wrapped from head to feet 
 in furs, walking rapidly toward the Hall. 
 
 " Dorethea, my Dorethea ! " I called, in a voice broken 
 
r 
 
 ■^iw^i L i| H. i f^> 
 
 270 
 
 THE 8TOUY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 with emotion. She did not hear me, and, not wial.inj,' to 
 alarm her in the gathering darkness, I made a (U'sperate 
 eHort to control myself, and said ealnily and distinctly ; 
 '< JJorethea, why do yon run away from me '! " 
 
 Hearing her name and recognizing my voice, she 
 turned, crying: "Felix, oh, Felix! What a surprise! 
 What a pleasure ! Why are you here ? When did you 
 come V " all of which questions I answered with a ram 
 of hai)i)y kisses. ^^ 
 
 " Hut how is it my darling is out so late, and alone '. 
 I asked, caressing the little cold face nestled against n>y 
 shoulder. ^ 
 
 " 1 have been to the lodge, reading to the keeper s 
 wife, who is ill; and I forgot how short the days 
 are now; but if I had not stayed so late, I should not 
 have seen you so soon, for 1 should have been dressing 
 
 for dinner." 
 
 "Thank Heaven for anything that has given me this 
 pleasure a moment sooner," 1 exclaimed, devoutly, as I 
 drew her little hand, iu its thick, warm glove, into my 
 
 close clasp. 
 
 " Come around to the west porch," she said, taking 
 my arm, and drawing me in that direction. "I think 
 papa is in his study, just where you left him. Oh, no, I. 
 don't mean to say that he has been there ever since," 
 with a light laugh, " but I think you had better see him 
 at once, while I dress for dinner. We have friends 
 staying with us. I will send a servant to the station for 
 your boxes, and, while you are waiting for them, you can 
 have a chat with papa; and now, dear," she said coax- 
 ingly, her hand on the latch," before you go in, promise 
 not to get angry with papa, no matter what provocation 
 . you may have. Fromise, dear, for my sake." 
 
 i^'iii II' rriirnMiTiri • 
 
 ibAiMiiwaMiiVM*" 
 
rSIAST. 
 
 id, not wialiinj; to 
 made a dt'si»t'rate 
 y and diHtiuctly : 
 
 i; my voice, shi- 
 iVhat a sui'iirist' I 
 ' When did you 
 vered with a rain 
 
 late, and ah)ne ? " 
 estled against my 
 
 T to the keeper's 
 r short the days 
 late, I should not 
 ave been dressing 
 
 has given me this 
 led, devoutly, as I 
 i-m glove, into my 
 
 " she said, taking 
 ■ection. "I think 
 ;ft him. Oh, no, 1. 
 there ever since," 
 had better see him 
 We have friends 
 t to the station for 
 ; for them, you can 
 ar," she said coax- 
 you go in, promise 
 L- what provocation 
 f sake." 
 
 .iwiiiiifrtlfiiftrii)tiaaii.ii» 
 
 TIIK STIiANCiK STOUY OF A I'ICTITUB. 
 
 277 
 
 1 pri'ssi'd my lips to her little ear, rosy with the cold, 
 and promised. 
 
 As if by magic, all my dark forebodings and fears dis- 
 appeared, and I was in my best, my hai)piest mood. 
 Dorothea's bright, loving welcome had exorcised the 
 brooding demon ; and, in that state of mind, il was im- 
 possible for me to take exception at Lord Hardnioor'8 
 half-playful, half-satirical inquiries. 
 
 " Had 1 succeeded in my search ? Had I brought back 
 the Raphael." 
 
 I replied that I had not found the painting, but that I 
 had found the subject of Count von Hardenburg's en- 
 graving, among the original studies of Raphael in the 
 rinacoteca in Venice. " Which," I added, " proves be- 
 yond a doubt the authenticity of my father's picture." 
 
 Lord Hardmoor laughed disagreeably, and said, in a 
 tone that would have been very provoking at any other 
 time : " If you had not been in such a hurry to start out 
 on your search. Count von Hardenburg could have saved 
 you all the trouble you have taken. He told me at once 
 where the original of the engraving could be found, and 
 also said that it was Raphael's first study for the head 
 in the Louvre, or the Violin-Player in the Sciarra Palace 
 in Rome." 
 
 Bor a moment the blood rushed angrily to my face. I 
 was disgusted at such childish evasion of the truth., but, 
 thinking of my promise to Dorethea, I replied, ^ "iifily, 
 that we had agreed — or, rather, that 1 had promio-e-i — 
 not to renew the subject of the picture, and I thereiore 
 thought it best to leave all discussion until some future 
 occasion, when we might have a better opportunity of 
 settling the vexed question. 
 
 Lord Hardmoor readily assented, and began to speak 
 
278 
 
 TIIK STOUY OK AN KNTllllSIASl'. 
 
 of the improvcineiits tliiit hud hoeii nuuli' ut Miir'vhin.l 
 Vhwx', and also of soiuo chaiiKos that ho I'oiitomphitod 
 making on his own estate. He was so briglit and genial, 
 so interested in everything, so youthful and hopeful, so 
 different in every respect, fronv the melancholy, irritable 
 man I had left a little more than a year ago, that I could 
 only look at him and wonder at the healing power of 
 
 time. 
 
 After a i)leasant half-hour, he said it was time to dresa 
 for dinner, and remarked that there were ladies staying 
 in the house and that Count von llardeid)urg had come 
 down the previous day. 
 
 On my way to my room, I was stru(;k l)y the signs of 
 gayety and fashionable life, «piite unusual at Hardmoor 
 Hall. A smart French maid, with red ribbons on her 
 cap, was chatting on the stairs with a foreign-looking 
 valet; an opening and shutting of doors, a constant 
 tinkling of bells, much light laughter, and many merry 
 voices, all betokened a number of visitors and an uncom- 
 mon activity among the servants. 
 
 I found a bright fire blazing in my room, my boxes 
 unstrapped, and all the necessities of a hasty toilet set 
 out and quite ready. 
 
 I was impatient to see Dorethea alone for a few 
 moments before dinner, therefore, I was not long in dress- 
 ing. However, I was too late, for others were in the 
 drawing-room before me. As I approached the door, I 
 heard a very iine tenor voice singing an arrangement 
 from Chopin ; I lingered a moment, and then entered. 
 
 The room was brilliantly lighted, and had quite a fes- 
 tive appearance; Dorethea sat at the piano; a dainty 
 gown of lavender and white set off to advantage the 
 gold of her haiv and the tender whiteness of her skin. 
 
 ■- 1 f-ii lY''^'"^*^''-^"''^"^ 
 
tmr *-"i.7 iii ;i i i itSMu rniiH 
 
 HAST. 
 
 THK RTIIANOK STOPV oK A PrOTiritK. 
 
 270 
 
 le ut Miir'vl;ui(l 
 e ci)iik'iui)l;iti'(l 
 I'iglit •.iiul geiiiiil, 
 and hopeful, so 
 uchnly, irritable 
 :igo, that I could 
 billing power of 
 
 k-as time to dress 
 a ladies staying 
 iiburg had come 
 
 by the signs of 
 lal at Hardnioor 
 ribbons on her 
 I t'oreigu-looking 
 oors, a constant 
 lud many merry 
 rs and an uncom- 
 
 room, my boxes 
 hasty toilet set 
 
 ilone for a few 
 not long in dress- 
 lers were in the 
 Lchcd the door, I 
 J an arrangement 
 I then entered, 
 I had quite a fes- 
 piano; a dainty 
 to advantage the 
 less of her skin. 
 
 Kcside hiT, with a sln'ct of music in his liaiul, stood a 
 very liaiulsonic, courtly-looking iiiiui. I took iu at a 
 glance tlic group at the piano, and Micu I saw Walter 
 and a picasaut-l'accd girl coming toward nic. 
 
 Dorothea was at my side iu a moment, l)lushing 
 sweetly, as she presented me to my new cousin Kditli, 
 Walter's wile. Tlu'u turning to the gontleman, who 
 .still lingered near the piano, a.s if he did not Avish to 
 intrude on a family meeting, she said, iu a wiusonu', 
 friendly tone, "Count von llardenlnu-g, let me introduce 
 you to j\Ir. \rarkland. Felix, ycm and the Count are sure 
 to be fast friends, you have so many tastes in common." 
 
 The usual polite and graciou.-; remarks passed between 
 us, while I furtively studied his face. He was undeni- 
 ably handsome, and fearfully young to be a friend and 
 mentor to Dorethea. I had thought of him as an old 
 stuffy German pedant; instead, he was still on the 
 youthful side of forty, and charming in looks and man- 
 ners. 
 
 While wo were all talking pleasantly. Lord Hardmoor 
 entered briskly. He was better dressed and younger- 
 looking than I remembered to have seen him for years. 
 
 He glanced around uneasily, and, after a few remarks, 
 took his usual place on the rug before the fire, where ho 
 furtively looked at his watch from time to time. 
 
 In a few moments there was afrou frou at the door, 
 and a very musical voice, followed by a ripple of laugh- 
 ter, as three ladies entered ; an overdressed young-old 
 lady, and a very plain oldish-looking young lady, fol- 
 lowed by quite a remarkably handsome woman, of the 
 dark, dashing type, who was talking volubly, while with 
 every breath she laughed with little tinkling trills, that 
 were very cheery and musical. 
 
OHO TIIK sTOItV OK AS KNTIIIfHIAHf. 
 
 Tlu.y wcr. I.uiy (•l;tv..rl.uus.., Miss Cl.m-vl.ons.., a.ul 
 
 Lulon society nnth.. last six yeavs. ^V'-«--:^- 
 o„o fl."om.>.l to know exactly. However, sho was a 
 :;::,. or .emus ..l eviaent wealth. ;; -^ - 
 
 nniet but elegant siyle, in l-on.lon ;. arteete.l 1 te.a.y am 
 tistic society; «avo chanuin^' .liuuers and nms.ca ; 
 : «^.^^iUa;;Vintea better than n,ost fashuu.ab e 
 !^aUn,r , and wrote very readable papers on a^sthetu, 
 d -ects/which were published in the leadu.« .u^^u^ 
 ,5„t her .n-eat charmlay in her Bupovb dramatic tale. . 
 V reel ations, once heard, were sometlun. to remembe 
 .lways,and her comedy an.l tragedy -^uig wer d ko 
 remarkable. She was very sweet-tempored, her fiUMxla 
 Xand the most obliging genius that ever existed. 
 S e was always ready to use her numerous acemuj^s^ - 
 meats for charitable purposes, or for any "- *'''^ ; ^ 
 l,y people who are ever itching to unprove the cond t 
 of those who arc best off in the station assigned 
 by an all-wise Creator. She was the ^^'f '^'f ' ^^^ ," ;! 
 entertaining, the most popular woman m London, an.l was 
 etom d tartily everywhere. 'Vo me she appeared 
 somewhat loud and showy, but undeniably charming. 
 
 T lire was one other guest, Lord Olaverhouse, who 
 hobbled in at the last moment, evidently suffering greatly 
 
 'ToiSnardmoor, as he gave his arm to Lady C|aver- 
 house looked enviously at old Olaverhouse, toddling 
 afr ;v!th Mrs. Coleman Leeds who laug^ as ^ly as 
 though her escort had been Adonis himself ; Count von 
 Hardenburg and Walter's wife followed; then Wa ter 
 and Miss Olaverhouse, and lastly I -oh, happy I!- 
 brought up the rear with Dorethea, whom I could scarcely 
 
 il I'ii 'rl iitifti'«t 
 
 _u>iri'iri"' " ' • "'•"■'-■•. i 
 
i^mMp 
 
 
 :iiivi'ili(iiisi', iuitl 
 lail lifiiid of in 
 ,Vlu) slu) wa8, lu) 
 ivcr, h1»o wiiH ii 
 Slu' lived in 
 (•led litcniry and 
 IS anil mnsicals; 
 most t'asliionai)lo 
 povs on ii'Htlu'tic. 
 !adinj,' inatjaziiu'S. 
 
 dramatic taliMit. 
 Iiing to romcmlu'r 
 icting wi'i'o aliko 
 lored, her fripmls 
 liiit evor oxisti'd. 
 orons accomiilisli- 
 ly new fad started 
 •ove the condition 
 111 assijjned them 
 iriiJthtest, the most 
 n London, and was 
 lue she ajipeaved 
 ably charming. 
 
 Olaverhouse, who 
 ly suffering greatly 
 
 n to Lady Claver- 
 verhouse, toddling 
 laughed as gayly as 
 imself; Count von 
 )wed; then Walter 
 — oh, happy I ! — 
 lom I could scarcely 
 
 TIIK HTKANOK HTOllV (»K A I'KiTirUK. 
 
 2HI 
 
 refrain from kissing on the sly, she looked such a lovely 
 child, in her dainty gown. 
 
 The dinner went on pleasantly. There was a great 
 deal of lively chatter, and a continual ripple of laughter 
 from Mrs. (!oleiaan Lceils, wiio would make the dinner 
 gay at a tahlt> of TrappistH, proviiling she were allowed 
 to talk herself. 
 
 Lord Ilanlmoor was at his best. I had never seen 
 him so brilliant and entertaining. If Lady Claverhouse 
 had been less interested in her dinner, she certainly 
 would have notiitcd the almost exclusive attention her 
 host gave to the guest on his left. 
 
 From time to time Dorethea's soft ey(!8 turned toward 
 the head of the table a little anxiimsly, then she would 
 raise them to me, with troubled inquiry in their blue 
 depths. 
 
 "Tapa seems very happy, does ho not?" in a low 
 voice, with a soft sigh. "JSIrs. Coleman Leeds is so 
 amusing she quite makes him forget Lady Claverhouse." 
 Then apologetically, '-Dear papa! I'm glad to see him so 
 cheerful, lie has been sad so long, but I hope he won't 
 offend Lady Claverhouse. He liaa scarcely Bi)oken to 
 lier all through dinner." 
 
 "Are Lady Claverlnmse and Mrs. Coleman Leeds inti- 
 mate friends V " I asked, stooping to Iht pretty ear. 
 
 "Oh, yes; they go everywhere together, and tliey 
 average very well.'' 
 
 " May I ask in what way ? " 
 
 "Lady Claverhouse makes up in birth what IMrs. 
 Coleman Leeds lacks ; and Mrs. Coleman Leeds adds iu 
 attractiveness and beauty what is wanting in her friend. 
 Do you understand what I mean, or am I very am- 
 biguousV" 
 
282 
 
 THE 8T011Y OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 " You are a very clever little woman of the world, and 
 my innocence can scarcely grasp the subtlety of your 
 
 meaning." ■ ■, ■ , c 
 
 "Oh, I assure you it is not an original idea ot mnie. 
 It is what every one says, only 1 suppose I have 
 expressed it badly. But what am I saying ? It is very 
 rude to talk so long in an undertone, and especially 
 
 about one's guests." 
 
 " Lady Claverhouse is very good-natured to give your 
 father such an opportunity to make himself agreeable ; 
 and he is improving it witli such good effect that, it 1 
 am not mistaken, something serious will result. 
 
 "Why Felix! What do you mean?" and Dorethea 
 shot a grieved, puzzled look from under her white lids. 
 
 " She is a widow, is she not ? " 
 
 " I suppose so. I have never heard of a Mr. Coleman 
 
 Leeds." , , , 
 
 Just at that moment Count von Hardenbnrg made a 
 remark about the skating to Walter's wife, who sat on 
 my left; and she appealed to Dorethea to know some- 
 thing of the condition of the ice on the river. 
 
 Wliile they were discussing the possibilities of a trial 
 the next day, I furtively studied the handsome face of 
 the German. He had a singularly frank expression, and 
 his clear blue eyes were full of sunny, youthful light; 
 but his mouth, under his tawny moustache, looked a 
 little cvnical and hard. However, when he smiled his 
 eyes aiid moutli were more in harmony, and his whole 
 face grew soft and gentle when he spoke to Dorethea. 
 
 Every one at the table seemed to place a high esti- 
 mate on his judgment, and he was frequently appealed to 
 to settle a disputed point or confirm a wavering opinion. 
 'I'here was a great deal of complimentary small talk ; 
 
 - _-^*»it»«fi*»M>*'^ 
 
UA8T. 
 
 f the world, and 
 ubtlety ot' your 
 
 \\ idea of nuue. 
 suppose I liave 
 ng? It is very 
 , and especially 
 
 red to give your 
 luself agreeable ; 
 . effect that, it' I 
 1 result." 
 " and Dorethea 
 her white lids. 
 
 if a Mr. Coleman 
 
 irdenbnrg made a 
 wife, who sat on 
 ;a to know some- 
 river. 
 
 abilities of a trial 
 liandsome face of 
 ik expression, and 
 r, youthful light ; 
 .istache, looked a 
 len he smiled his 
 ny, and his whole 
 ke to Dorethea. 
 place a high esti- 
 uently appealed to 
 wavering opinion, 
 nitary small talk ; 
 
 <f ffl » "r}i .. ' 
 
 THK STKANGE STOIIY OV A I'lCTUKK. 
 
 283 
 
 flashes of wit and mirthful allusions, mingled with con- 
 stant tinkling laughter between the Ouunt and Mrs. 
 Coleman Leeds, who mutually admired and flattered 
 
 each other. 
 
 One other thing I noticed which seemed peculiar at 
 the time. It was the eifort that Count von Hardenburg 
 made to bring out Lord Hardmoor's best points ; while 
 he was quietly and with perfect good-breeding trying 
 to promote a close intimacy between his host and the 
 brilliant widow. 
 
 When the ladies retired to the drawing-room, I asked 
 to be allowed to join them ; for I never liked the heavy 
 English fashion of sitting so long over wine and wal- 
 nuts. Dorethea took her place at the tea-table, and I 
 joined her, while the ladies gathered around Mrs. Cole- 
 man Leeds at the piano. Lord Hardmoor soon entered, 
 followed by the other gentlemen, who at once were 
 drawn to the centre of attraction, where Mrs. Coleman 
 Leeds and Count von Hardenburg engaged in a spirited 
 discussion while they sipped their tea. 
 
 I drew a chair to Doretbea's table, and watched her 
 pretty hands as she filled the cups of old Dresden, and 
 wondered to myself why Count von Hardenburg was so 
 anxious to establish a mutual interest betwceu Lord 
 Hardmoor and Mrs. Coleman Leeds. 
 
 "Dorethea," I asked at length, in a low voice, "do 
 you like Mrs. Coleman Leeds ? " 
 
 " Why, Felix ! what a question t Of course 1 like her. 
 She is very lovely and sweet, and so clever." 
 
 "Yes, I grant she is all that, but at times, when you 
 think of her, do you never feel a little distrustful ? " 
 
 " Why should I ? " evasively. " She is only a guest. 
 We met her a great deal in London two years ago, and 
 
 ' filiiiWintirirfriiWii 
 
284 
 
 THE 8TOUY OF AN KNTHU81A8T. 
 
 floar mama was much pleased with her. She spent 
 Christmas of that year here ; and oh, Felix," with a 
 very sad sigh, "we were so happy then, buh now — " 
 and she bent her head over the cups to hide the quick 
 tears that started to her eyes. "I did not quite want 
 people this Cliristinas, but papa could not endiire the 
 country without Count von Hardenburg ; and you know 
 it would have been very dull for him with only us two. 
 The Claverhouses and Mrs. Coleman Leeds are always 
 invited with him. Tliey are great friends, and had 
 numbers of invitations, but of course they gave us the 
 preference because of papa's intimacy with the Count."^^ 
 
 " What is the basis of tliis extravagant friendship ? " 
 I asked, a little satirically. ^ 
 
 " Ah, you must ask papa to explain that. I can t 
 judge for him. I only know the Count is delightful, 
 always entertaining and agreeable, and so unselfish I 
 think he forgets himself entirely in his efforts to make 
 
 others happy." • , i. * 
 
 « Yet he seems to get a good deal of pleasure out ot 
 
 life." 
 
 '» Yes, he is always happy. It is his nature. I shall 
 always be grateful to him for helping papa to regain his 
 interest in life once more. It was so long before we 
 could get him to leave the seclusion of his study ; and 
 it was the Count who first prevailed on him to go up to 
 town last spring. Of course, we did not go out, but papa 
 was deeply interested in art, and quite devoted his time 
 to the new London gallery ; which, under his direction, 
 was renovated and rearranged with excellent effect, and 
 the Count's advice and assistance were invaluable. The 
 members of the lloyal Academy opposed a great many 
 of the improvements, but the Count brought most of 
 
3IAST. 
 
 THE STRANGE STOUY OF A IMCTUUK. 
 
 285 
 
 lor. She spent 
 Felix," with a 
 sn, buh now — " 
 hide the quick 
 . not quite wimt 
 not end\ire the 
 ; and you know 
 ith only us two. 
 jeeds are always 
 riends, and had 
 they gave us the 
 nth the Count." 
 ,nt friendship?" 
 
 u that. I can't 
 ut is delightful, 
 id so unselfish I 
 is efforts to make 
 
 f pleasure out of 
 
 s nature, I shall 
 papa to regain his 
 
 long before we 
 )f his study; and 
 
 1 him to go up to 
 )t go out, but papa 
 ! devoted his time 
 iider his direction, 
 cellent effect, and 
 I invaluable. The 
 )sed a great many 
 , lironght most of 
 
 them around to think with papa and him; especially 
 about restoring some of the old paintings, and changing 
 the catalogues. It was very funny that ever since the 
 gallery has been in existence some of the finest pictures 
 have been ascribed to inferior artists, and some of the 
 ])oorest were catalogued as old masters. I'apa and the 
 Count made some very important discoveries, which 
 delighted some of the Academicians, who had thought 
 for a long time in the same direction. I don't know all 
 the details, — papa can tell you them, — but they made 
 a great revolution, and provoked no end of discussion 
 among artists and connoisseurs." 
 
 I was about to make some reply not very flattering to 
 Lord Hardmoor, when Mrs. Coleman Leeds walked to 
 the centre of the room. Taking a graceful position near 
 a table, she began to recite a poem of Browning's, with 
 exquisite effect. Every one was much impressed, while 
 Lord Hardmoor's face wore an expression of the most 
 fatuous devotion, which must have been agreeable to 
 Count von Hardenburg, who smiled while he watched 
 him. 
 
 VL 
 
 The next morning, directly after breakfast, the whole 
 party, with the exception of Lord and Lady Claverhouse, 
 started for the river to test the ice. The air Avas clear 
 and crisp, and the sun shone brilliantly among the 
 naked branches, which were tipped with diamonds and 
 outlined in crystal against the purple sky. 
 
 We were all in excellent spirits. Even Lord Hard- 
 moor swung along over the smooth, hard road with a 
 youthful stride, laughing gayly with Mrs. Coleman Leeds, 
 
286 
 
 THK 8TOUY OV AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 who looked chavniing in a green velvet jacket and cay bor- 
 dered with rich fur. . 
 
 Whether it was my happy mood or the beautityu.g 
 effect of the morning, I thought that plain Miss Claver- 
 house looked quite pretty in her jaunty skating costume, 
 as she stepped along briskly between Count vcm Harden- 
 burg and Walter, while the little bride walked with us 
 She and Dorethea were excellent friends, and they kept 
 up a running fire of pretty, harmless witticisms at tlie 
 expense of the others. 
 
 It was all delightful. The ice was in excellent condi- 
 tion, and, under the influence of the bright sky and 
 merry company, I ielt like alight-hearted, careless boy. 
 With Dorethea's little hand clasped in mine, as we 
 glided down the shining track, I thought of our future 
 together, and wondered if our life would be as harmo- 
 nious and buoyant, as bright and joyous, as then. 
 
 It has always been a peculiarity of my nature that in 
 the very midst of mirth and gay laughter some sad scene, 
 some mournful thought intrudes itself with such power 
 that I can scarce refrain from weeping. At tliat moment 
 I thought of the quiet sleepers on the river's bank, not, a 
 mile away — of the tragic sorrow of one life and the 
 quiet happiness of the other; and both had come to 
 the same end, to sleep and be forgotten. 
 
 Dorethea's sweet voice and Mrs. Coleman Leeds tink- 
 ling laughter sounded like discordant notes in the midst 
 of a solemn harmony. A cloud passed over the sun ; a 
 sound of rising wind swept down the valley. I pressed 
 the little clinging hand close, close to my heart as ^^•e 
 glided under the shadow of a giant tree near the water s 
 edge, where Lord Hardmoor was pacing restlessly back 
 and forth, watching the graceful evolutions of Count von 
 
5IAST. 
 
 ket and ca») bor- 
 
 tho beautifying 
 liii Miss Claver- 
 skatiiig costume, 
 unt von HardtMi- 
 walkiul with us. 
 i, and they kept 
 k'itticisms at the 
 
 excellent condi- 
 
 bright sky and 
 ted, careless boy. 
 in mine, as we 
 ;ht o£ our future 
 idd be as harmo- 
 3, as then, 
 ly nature that in 
 !r some sad scene, 
 : with such power 
 
 At that moment 
 fiver's bank, not a 
 one life and the 
 )oth had come to 
 in. 
 
 eman Leeds' tink- 
 lotes in the midst 
 
 over the siin; a. 
 valley. I pressed 
 3 my heart as we 
 e near the water's 
 iig restlessly back 
 tious of Count von 
 
 TIIK STUANGE STORY OF A PICTUKE. 
 
 287 
 
 Hardenburg and Mrs. Coleman Leeds, who were in ad- 
 vance of us. 
 
 "Don't speak," said Dorethea, softly, and, pulling me 
 with her, she glided silently and swiftly close behind 
 them. The Count was saying something in a low, im- 
 pressive tone, and the lady replied contemptously and 
 
 angrily. 
 " Why are you so anxious ? If I marry Hardmoor, 1 
 
 shall drop you." 
 
 "Do as you please about that, only improve your 
 
 present chance." 
 
 She was about to reply, when the slight noise of our 
 skates on the ice caused them to turn simultaneously 
 and reveal two troubled, excited faces. 
 
 Dorethea flashed a glance at me, and then said, with 
 wonderful tact, " We were trying to pass you, but you 
 both skate so swiftly that we could not gain on you." 
 
 "I was just scolding the Count for getting me so out 
 of breath," returned Mrs. Coleman Leeds, with a^forced 
 laugh; "you see I'm not as young as I once was." 
 
 "I beg your pardon. We do not see it," said the 
 Count, recovering himself instantly. 
 
 "I think we have come far enough," remarked Dore- 
 thea. " I'm afraid papa will take cold waiting." 
 
 "He seems impatient, judging from the way he is 
 stamping back and forth ; perhaps we had better start 
 homeward," said the Count, looking inquiringly at Mrs. 
 Coleman Leeds. 
 
 " I agree with you. I see the others have gone back, 
 and I think it's turning cold. After all, I don't think I 
 like skating as well as I did at sixteen." 
 
 When we were out of hearing, on our way back, Dore- 
 thea asked, hesitatingly, "Did you notice what the 
 
288 
 
 THE 8TOIIY OV AN KNTIIL'SIAST. 
 
 Count and Airs. Coleman Leeds were saying just as we 
 came up behind them ? " 
 
 " I heard some remarks which I don't think were in- 
 tended for us, therefore we had better not remember 
 them," I replied, evasively. 
 
 " Their voices were so very singular, or rather Mrs. 
 (Jolemaii Leeds' was. It sounded so harsh, and almost 
 as if she were angry." 
 
 " Quite as if she were angry," I assented. 
 " Perhaps it was the cold, and her being out of breath. 
 Did you hear distinctly what she said, Felix ? Don't 
 think I'm curious ; but I thought I heard her mention 
 papa's name, and it struck me like a blow, although I 
 didn't quite understand what she said." 
 
 "Then don't try to, my darling. It don't concern 
 us, and it will do no good to recall it. I don't want to 
 prejudice you against your friends, Dorethea, but let me 
 tell you frankly that I distrust both Mrs. Coleman 
 Leeds and Count von Hardenburg." 
 
 " Oh, Felix ; how can you ? I am sure you wrong the 
 Count. We have known him so long, and he is devoted 
 
 to papa." 
 
 "And how is it about papa's daughter?" I asked, 
 
 quietly. 
 
 "Oh! as for me," and she laughed merrily, "he is 
 very fond of me, and always has been. He treats me 
 quite as if I were a little ignorant sister. I just adore 
 the Count. You can't shake my good opinion of him, 
 Felix." 
 
 " I don't wish to, seeing that your liking has such a, 
 substantial basis; but the widow, my dear Dorethea — 
 are her claims upon your aifection and confidence as 
 great ? " 
 
SIAST. 
 
 ,ying just as we 
 
 t think were in- 
 T not remember 
 
 r, or rather Mrs. 
 larsh, and almost 
 
 iteil. 
 
 ing out of breath. 
 I, Felix? Don't 
 Miril her mention 
 blosv, although I 
 
 It don't concern 
 
 I don't want to 
 
 •ethea, but let me 
 
 ;h Mrs. Coleman 
 
 ire you wrong the 
 and he is devoted 
 
 jhter?" I asked, 
 
 I merrily, "he is 
 n. He treats me 
 ter. I just adore 
 I opinion of liim, 
 
 liking has such a 
 
 dear Dorethea — ■ 
 
 ,nd confidence as 
 
 THK STKANOE STOliV OF A I'lCTUUK. 
 
 2H9 
 
 " Now Felix, you must not push me too far, and make 
 me say unkind things about a guest. You know how 
 greatly I admire her." 
 
 " Every one does," I said, curtly. 
 
 "But still I don't think tliere is any real sympathy 
 between us. She is very nice to me ; yet, 1 know I like 
 cousin Edith and May Claverhouse much better. She 
 is charming in society ; but I should not like to live 
 with her." 
 
 " Well, my darling, I don't mean you shall ; therefore, 
 we must hasten our marriage." 
 
 " Oh, Felix, how cruel you are ! I believe you think 
 papa -^ oh, it is impossible! And, unable to Unisli the 
 sentence, she turned away her head to hide her tears. 
 
 We were just in time to see Lord Hardmoor stooping 
 laboriously to unfasten Mrs. Coleman Leeds' skates, and 
 to hear some of the effusions of pleasure with which he 
 graced his rather awkward services. 
 
 " I know we kept you waiting too long ; but the ice 
 was perfect, and one goes so rapidly — too rapidly. I 
 shall enjoy the walk back," she added, in a confidential 
 tone. " It will be quite a rest, after that tiresome whirl." 
 
 Lord Hardmoor was beaming with happiness as she 
 took his arm and smiled bewitchingly in Ids face. 
 
 After the skating party, there were several days of 
 unpleasant weather, which mostly confined us to the 
 house. But, nevertheless, the time passed delightfully. 
 Lord Hardmoor was a most agreeable host ; always 
 cheerful, attentive, and constant in his efforts for the 
 amusement and comfort of all. 
 
 The billiard-room, which was the most attractive part 
 of the house, was the usual meeting-place during the day. 
 A wide fireplace piled with logs made it very cheerful. 
 
 f: „mmts$ifms&':U 
 
200 
 
 THK STOIIY OF AN KNTHU8IAST. 
 
 The lively click of the balls, the light imisic!, the cureless 
 laughter and merry talk, nuule one feel perfectly at 
 home, and free to amuse himself in any way ho pleased. 
 Then there were a great many visitors from the neigh- 
 boring country-houses, who sat in their riding things 
 while they drank tea and gossiped good-naturedly, or 
 joined the musical group around the piano, or took a 
 hand at cards with Lord and Lady Claverhouse, who 
 were devoted to whist; while Lord Hardmoor and Mrs. 
 Coleman Leeds played cliess, apart in a corner, inter- 
 changing a great many ardent smiles and confidential 
 remarks, which they fancied were unobserved by those 
 
 around them, 
 
 In the few odd moments that I could find an opportu- 
 nity of talking with Lord Hardmoor alone, he discussed 
 my affairs very freely, and with much interest, and 
 seemed rather anxious that our marriage should take 
 place as soon as practicable. 
 
 "When the Christmas-party here breaks up," he 
 said, " we have promised to pass a few weeks at Braxton 
 Hall. Then, I shall take Dorethea up to town to select 
 her trousseau, and the wedding had better take place 
 before the beginning of the season." 
 
 " Dorethea wishes to be married at Hardmoor," I re- 
 marked. 
 
 " Certainly. We will return here for a month or so. 
 It is my intention, while you are away on your honey- 
 moon trip, to tak3 a little journey myself. I shall find 
 the Hall very lonely without Dorethea," he added, as a 
 reason for the intended journey. 
 
 " But you will have to learn to do without her," I 
 ventured, " as I have always supposed it was your in- 
 tention that we should live at Marklaud Place." 
 
HA8T. 
 
 THK 8TUAN0K STOKV OK A IMOTUUK. 
 
 t)( 
 
 !>1 
 
 isin, the ciireli'ss 
 el porfectly at 
 way lie pleased, 
 truiu the neigh- 
 iv rilling things 
 od-nutuiedly, or 
 )iano, or took a 
 laverhouse, who 
 dmoor and Mrs. 
 a corner, inter- 
 and confidential 
 served by those 
 
 find an opportu- 
 me, he discussed 
 3h interest, and 
 age should take 
 
 breaks up," he 
 iveeks at Braxton 
 ;o town to select 
 )etter take place 
 
 Hardmoor," I re- 
 
 3r a month or so. 
 f on your honey- 
 elf. I shall find 
 1,," he added, as a 
 
 3 without her," I 
 d it was your in- 
 d Place." 
 
 " Vcs, of course. Your estate has been nt-glccted 
 long enough." Then, witli some confusion — '• 1 must try 
 to accoMUuodato niysidf to the situation. I must make 
 some arrangenu'uts for my happiness apart from Dore- 
 thea. Wlien a daughter marries, one can't look to her 
 for companionship. 1 am still a youn;^' man, and I can't 
 be expected to pass the remainder of my life without 
 domestic ties. However, it is premature to speak of my 
 own plans. I want first to see you and Dorothea 
 settled." 
 
 " It cannot be too soon for me," I replied. "It only 
 , remains to fix the day, which I shall urge may be as 
 soon as possible." 
 
 " Well, we will settle that ; and, my dear boy, in the 
 meantime, pray remember that there is some one in the 
 house beside Dorethea. Exert yourself a little to help 
 amuse my guests. I'm afraid :Miss Claverhonse feels 
 herself neglected sometimes ; and do me the favor to 
 give Dorethea a hint to be a little less formal with Mrs. 
 Coleman Leeds. She is a charming woman, and I want 
 her to receive especial attention." 
 
 "Certainly, I will do all I can to carry out your 
 wishes," I returned, with a confidential smile, and an af- 
 fectation of understanding the situation. " But I fancy 
 ^Irs. Coleman Leeds only cares for attention from one 
 quarter ; any other might bore her." 
 
 " What ! You don't mean that she likes Von Har- 
 denburg ? " he asked, eagerly and anxiously. 
 
 " Oh, no, it is not the Count. If you don't see whom 
 she prefers, you are not as observing as others." 
 
 Lord Hardmoor blushed to the eyes, and then laughed 
 heartily. "Dear me! Is it possible ? You young peo- 
 ple see too much. But wasn't she exquisite last evening ? 
 
 j.:»nwiW!i.i'.ji ' t-W-» i n i .» ■» i;!!*. ' !; 
 
202 
 
 Tin: HTf)llY Ol' AN KNTI11J81AHT. 
 
 Sh.. c.Ttiunlv has wondorful talent, aixl is one vi the 
 loveliest wouuMi 1 have ever known. Oh, by the way, 
 ean't you h-li. Dorethca with the invitations ior the 
 dance Christinas week ? U't me see, it is only ten days 
 off, ami they must l.e sent at once"; ami he hurneil 
 away, ratliant witli satisfaction, and as confident as a 
 boy over his first love-affair. 
 
 The days passed away in tlie usual festivities of 
 Christmas holidays; other guests arrived, and there 
 were dinners, theatricals, iinin-omptu dances, music, and 
 card parties, with numerous out-door amusements svhen 
 the weather permitted. Dorethea was kept away from 
 me a great deal by long consultations with the liouse- 
 keeper, and frequent discussion with Walter's wife, wlio 
 assisted her greatly in her onerous duties as a hostess. 
 Therefore I had many opportunities of conversing with 
 Count von Hardenburg, whom 1 found to be a man ot 
 uncommon attainments. ■., i • 
 
 lu spite of my distrust, I was fascinated with his 
 powerful intellect, his universal knowledge, that em- 
 braced everything ancient as well as modern, and, 
 more than all else, his devotion to art. He was an 
 artist to the very core of his being, and why he did 
 not paint was a mystery to me. Among the few sketches 
 that he had presented to Lord Hardmoor, I discovered 
 some that bore the stamp of great and original genius, 
 as well as a thorough acquaintance with the technicalities 
 of art, and a profound feeling for the truth and beauty 
 
 of nature. , 
 
 He evidently preferred the modern German school 
 rather than the French, but thouglit the early Italian 
 masters the only painters wortliy of worship. He 
 was as Lord Hardmoor said, so intimately acquainted 
 
HIAHT. 
 
 TIIK 8TUANOK 8TOKY OF A VWTVHK. 
 
 298 
 
 1(1 is one cf tlio 
 I >li, by tlve way, 
 citations for the 
 is only ten days 
 ) and he Inirried 
 IS confident as a 
 
 aal festivities of 
 rived, and there 
 anci>», music, and 
 imusemeiits when 
 1 kept away from 
 1 with the liouae- 
 ^alter's wife, wlio 
 uties as a hostess, 
 f conversing with 
 id to be a man of 
 
 scinated with his 
 iwledge, that era- 
 as modern, and, 
 art. He was an 
 , and why he did 
 ig the few sketches 
 moor, I discovered 
 nd original genius, 
 1 the technicalities 
 e truth and beauty 
 
 rn German school 
 
 b the early Italian 
 
 of worship. He 
 
 imately acquainted 
 
 with every school and master, so thoroughly educated 
 in the difft-rent style and manner of each, and his opin- 
 ion was of sutih value, that I wished to Hju'ak to him 
 about the lost Raphael, but wa.s deterred by the fear that 
 my conlidcnee might be used to my disadvantage should 
 the picture ever ap])ear before tlie pul)lic. 
 
 One day we were discussing the original stiidies of 
 the old masters, and with much wariness I led the con- 
 versation to his collection of engraved (copies. 1 said 
 I had seen the head with tlio black berretta, and spoke 
 of that as an excellent example of Kaphael's manner of 
 treating his subject. 
 
 He replied that he was familiar with the drawing, and 
 had examined it carefully when last in Venice, and 
 almost startled me into betraying my secret by asking 
 me if I did not think it was the study for the Violin- 
 player, or the boy of the Louvre; and while I was 
 trying to frame a reply he added, carelessly, that he 
 believed it was the opinion of some that liai)hael had 
 painted another head from that study, which had disap- 
 l)eared ; and it was not unlikely. No doubt, there were 
 a number of his pictures of wliich there was no history, 
 hidden away in obscure corners, that would be discov- 
 ered in time. 
 
 Had ha learned my secret from Lord Hard moor, and 
 was he trying to draw me out ? I could not tell ; but 
 I decided to keep my own counsel. . 
 
 vn. 
 
 Life went on merrily at the Hall. Christmas week 
 drew near, and Dorethea was so much engaged that 1 
 could scarcely get time for a little chat. .Sometimes I 
 
 mm 
 
 muumamm iim 
 
 i MWd l Ki ii imioi iiii 
 
204 
 
 THK STOIlY OK AN K.NTIIIIHIAST. 
 
 roproacht'd her, whnii she woiiM liuiKliii'K'ly i"''*"''*. "♦•'•' 
 IMix! let me havo my hwiUnn iw.nv ; I shall soon Ioho 
 it, iind you will have fiinviuli of my «'"''''^y h' '^'''^ ''>'•" 
 Then biie would niu off to HU-j,'.'st a new amusement, 
 give an order, or discuss some (luestion of impoitaneo 
 with Edith, who \sas invaluable to her in thoso busy 
 
 days. 
 
 The Christmas-week ball was the erowniuK event ol 
 nil the other festivities. X la-'^e inimber of invitations 
 were sent out. The county familics.eamo from lonj; dis- 
 tances, and all the best peoi-U^ from the neighboring 
 towns served to swell the gay throng. 
 
 The handsome ball-room was beautifully decorated, 
 and the musicians down from London were concealed by 
 a screen of flowers and spreading palms. The typical 
 holly and mistletoe Inuig in festoons and wreaths, and 
 entwined the graceful marble columns that separated 
 the ball-room from the conservatory. Within that 
 green and blossoming retreat, colored lamps shed a soft, 
 rosy glow, and the fountain sparkled and splashed over 
 the bed of ferns and velvety mosses. It was a delight 
 fid place for a promenade after dancring, and the little 
 sequestered nooks, with pretty rusti(! seats and screening 
 vines, seemed planned on purpose for a quiet flirtation. 
 
 Lord Hardmoor looked ineffably happy, as he stood 
 with Dorethea at his side receiving his guests ; while 
 lyirs. Coleman Leeds, surrounded by a group of gentle- 
 men, was superbly beautiful in a gold-colored satin gown 
 covered with white lace, her lovely neck and arms encir- 
 cled with diamonds, which were no brighter than the 
 vivacious glances of her dark eyes; and Dorothea was 
 simply l)e witching in her .soft white India silk and 
 pearls, her eyes as blue as sapphires ; and her yellow 
 
I AST. 
 
 TIIK HTKANOK STOBV OK A t^lirVVllK. 
 
 2% 
 
 i]y rctoit, "Oh, 
 
 hIiuII MOdll Idhh 
 
 fly l>y iiutl l>y." 
 lew luimsi'iuont, 
 1 (if iiniiortiincn 
 !• ill tliost! busy 
 
 )\vniiiy event of 
 V of iiivitiitions 
 HI from lonjj ilis- 
 tho neighboring 
 
 i fully decorated, 
 ■ere eotuiealed by 
 us, Tlie typical 
 ind wreaths, and 
 s that separated 
 y. Within that 
 [imps shed a soft, 
 lid splashed over 
 [t was a d»'light 
 ig, and the Mttlo 
 ats and screening 
 , quiet flirtation, 
 ppy, as he stood 
 lis guests ; while 
 group of gentle- 
 olored satin gown 
 k and arms encir- 
 lirighter than the 
 iiid Dorethea was 
 3 India silk and 
 ; and her yellow 
 
 hair, piled iiigh on li. i Ki'f^ft'ful Jietiwl, ]ooke<l like masHOS 
 of spun gnld. 
 
 1 could not force myself nwny from the sight of h^r, 
 she was so winsome aJul sweet. I lingereil near until 
 the last guest had arrived, and she was free; then I 
 claimed her for a waltz, and away we lloated among 
 the gay crowd, as happy as souls can ever be out of 
 jiavadise. 
 
 Later in the evening, I saw Lord ilardmoor enter the 
 conservatniy willi Mrs. Coleman Leeds leaning on his 
 arm. Ilis face was beaming with hapinnesH, but withal 
 there was a look of serious tirmness tliat told jilainly he 
 had reached a crisis in his life, which must bo passed 
 then and there. 
 
 I did not mean to be unduly curious, but a peculiar 
 attraction ke|)t me near the conservatory where I could 
 see them when they returned to the ball-room. It 
 seemed to nie that they were absent niiicli longer than 
 was necessiiry, even for a declaration of love. When 
 they finally aiipeared. I knew that Lady Ilardmoor's 
 vii(!aiit place would soon be tilled, and, in spite of myself, 
 I felt a thrill of reimgnance at the thought. 
 
 Lord Hardmooi's usually tlorid face Avas quite pale, 
 :;iid his lijis trembled nervously, yet his «'yes were beam- 
 ing with hapi)iness, and the look he bent on his com- 
 panion was full of passionate devotion. 1 did not like 
 Mis. Coleman Leeds' expression at that moment. It 
 was haughty and triumphant, like one wlio is satislicd 
 with the success of an important scheme. As she 
 passed Count von Hardenburg, with Dorethea on his 
 arm, she shot an expressive glance from under her white 
 lids, which was more eloquent th in words. 
 
 For some time, I stood Ufar the door watching 
 
 ^* >j ^mi' f^ »p-t mm! r »' ^ r'-p ' ' '' ^ 9am Kv rx f *''i»^fnm % t « i v 
 
296 THE STOUV OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Dorethea who was waltzing with the Count. How hand- 
 some he was, and how well they looked together ! \\ ith 
 what an air of gentle devotion he bent over her; how 
 bright and sweet her face was, upraised to his like a 
 fair flov/er turning to the sun. 
 
 I was jealous, undeniably jealous for the first time. 
 I could endure the sight no longer, so I slipped into the 
 conservatory, which was quite empty, and ensconced 
 myself in one of the nooks hidden by its drapery of 
 vines, where the music and the murmur of voices, min- 
 gled with the cool splash of the fountain, soothed and 
 quieted the foolish unrest of my heart ; and I fell to 
 thinking of my old life, of Rome, of Paul and Camille, 
 and the angelic face of La Santa came vividly before 
 
 me. I 
 
 Already these congenial, happy days were but a 
 memory. My ambition was dying out. I was a fash- 
 ionable idler, spending my time in frivolous folly. I 
 had once been so earnest and stu.lious, so miserly of my 
 time ; now it was slipping away and leaving no trace ot 
 its flight. What was it to be in the coming years .'' a 
 little fleeting pleasure, and then the night when no man 
 
 can work. , , , l ,-i 
 
 As always, the dark-brooding spirit had entered un- 
 bidden in the midst of music and mirth, and bade me 
 pause and consider if it were well to eat of this Dead-sea 
 fruit that would turn to ashes on my lips, feuddenly 
 through the darkness of my soul, shone a gveat light. 
 Why not marry Dorethea and return to my old lite 
 which would be brighter and sweeter for her presence? 
 For a moment I felt profoundly grateful to Mrs. Cole- 
 man Leeds for having won Lord Hardmoor s love. 
 With a new wife and other children, probably, to hll his 
 
 SI 
 
i M^ 6 i » ;4 " ■4 Wi*H ' i|i» > i ^r i M iii iifi wii M aw ^ K -) 
 
 m ^i imm ^ 't^ M <m n fi^^ <pw»#M 
 
 I \ m ' ■ 
 
 ■ ■ » i U ». M .» 
 
 IUS1A8T. 
 
 :;ount. How hand- 
 id together ! With 
 lent over her ; how 
 lised to his like a 
 
 for the first time. 
 3 I slipped into the 
 )ty, and ensconced 
 by its drapery of 
 rmur of voices, min- 
 mtain, soothed and 
 eart; and I fell to 
 f Paul and Camille, 
 came vividly before 
 
 days were but a 
 out. I was a fash- 
 1 frivolous folly. I 
 LIS, so miserly of my 
 1 leaving no trace of 
 ,he coming years ? a 
 i night when no man 
 
 irit had entered un- 
 mirth, and bade me 
 
 eat of this Dead-sea 
 my lips. Suddenly 
 
 shone a great light. 
 
 turn to my old life, 
 
 ter for her presence ? 
 
 rateful to ^Mrs. Cole- 
 
 ■d Hardmoor's love. 
 
 n, probably, to fill his 
 
 Tin? STUANC.K STOllV OV A IMCTUKH. 
 
 297 
 
 heart, what was to hinder Dorethca from following me 
 wherever I wished to go. Hitherto her objection to 
 leaving England had been her father, but now it would 
 be different; he would not need her, and she would be 
 deprived, by these new ties, of his exclusive affection, 
 which would render it easier for her to leave him. 
 
 Thinking of all this with great satisfaction, I sat 
 there quite hidden from sight, while numbers of people 
 passed and repassed; and scraps of uninteresting con- 
 versation fell unheeded on my ear, until the low, impres- 
 sive voice of Count von Hardenburg attracted ray 
 attention. He was saying to his companion, whom I 
 knew to be Mrs. Coleman Leeds, " So it is all settled, 
 and you have landed him securely." 
 
 "Don't be brutal. I did not angle for him as you 
 intimate. It was not necessary. He appreciates me 
 more than you do." 
 
 "There, ray friend, you are mistaken. No one can 
 appreciate you as I do. You forget that through me 
 you first became the fashion. You were quite unknown 
 until I stamped you a genius. When you reproach me 
 you are ungrateful." 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! I owe you for nothing but' heartaches ; 
 others would have discovered my good qualities, if you 
 had not." 
 
 " But others would not be as unselfish as I am. I am 
 willing to give you to my friend, that you may have an 
 assured position, title, wealth, and honor." 
 
 " What hinders you from giving me all these ? " 
 
 "Now, dear child, be reasonable. You know very 
 well that I have neither wealth nor an estate ; and, with- 
 out these, a title is a barren honor. I am living every 
 day beyond my income, and my small fortune is about 
 
 »IMJUJJI*MI«1W» 
 
 Jt». *!WiW l il i WJ**- ' .^^^juWl i A l' ^-tJW. I »^a il w.ftJJJi. ' ^ ' ..t. i m^ »^ » i^P* 
 
 
208 
 
 TFtH STOKY OF AN ENTHlTSrASf. 
 
 exhtinsted. Hoav, then, could we exist ? You have ex- 
 pensive tastes, and so have T. It is far better for you 
 to marry a rieh man, and I — well, if I ever marry, I 
 must seek for wealth too," 
 
 " Oh, yes. I understand you perfectly ; and you wish 
 to get me settled respectably, and out of your way, 
 before you feel free to urge your suit with her. But 
 your plans are useless. She loves her young enthusiast 
 too well. You can't hope to fill his place in her girlish 
 heart. Oh, what a sin! You desire youth, purity, and 
 beauty ; and it does not matter if I am sacrificed. After 
 loving you as I have, do you think this old man can 
 ever take your place in my heart ? It is most cruel of 
 you to force me to do this." 
 
 "My dear friend, don't be sentimental. You must 
 confess that I have been very generous in every proof 
 of affection. You are no longer a girl ; you are a woman 
 of thirty-five. Is it not ? In a few years your beauty 
 will be on the wane, and your power will diminish with 
 it ; but as Lady Hardmoor you will always have the 
 influence that wealth and title confer, and in the end 
 you will think it much more valuable than mere senti- 
 mental affection." 
 
 « Oh, how coolly you can reason now ! Once love con- 
 trolled' the universe for you. It was the one desirable 
 thing in existence. Now it is only a foolish sentiment." 
 " For the love of Heaven, don't upbraid me ! God 
 knows how I have toiled to bring this about; and now, 
 when you should be happy and grateful, you accuse me 
 of cruelty to you. If you really care so much for me, 
 which is in no way evident, pray, continue to do so. 
 Your marriage need not change our relations. We can 
 still be excellent friends." 
 
 tr ^m ■ ■ nm a ' jW ff ' T : tf jp 
 
 - .4S l' U^f)^V -\ 
 
' P »i>« "<y ' .'> *" n w ■■■M»^Mi|Pi ; Biff'* " ' 
 
 UAST. 
 
 You have ex- 
 
 ir \)etter for you 
 
 I ever many, I 
 
 y ; and you wish 
 it of your way, 
 with her. But 
 young enthusiast 
 ice in her girlish 
 outh, purity, and 
 sacrificed. After 
 bis old man can 
 is most cruel of 
 
 ntal. You must 
 is in every proof 
 you are a woman 
 yrears your beauty 
 ill diminish with 
 always have the 
 , and in the end 
 ; than mere senti- 
 
 ! Once love con- 
 the one desirable 
 oolish sentiment." 
 pbraid me ! God 
 3 about ; and now, 
 ul, you accuse me 
 
 so much for me, 
 ontinue to do so. 
 •elations. We can 
 
 THE STRANOE RTOHY OF A PICTUUE. 
 
 2l»9 
 
 "Never!" she replied, in a low, intense voice, wliich 
 was full of scorn and passion, " I shall come to despise 
 you, to hate you as you deserve. You are false to me, 
 and false to your friend — and I am no better. Bah ! I 
 liate myself. I wonder the earth does not open and 
 swallow us both out of the light of day, away from the 
 honest eyes of our dupes." 
 
 "Hush, hush! don't be so tragic. Don't use such 
 strong expressions. Home one may overhear us. It 
 seems to me rather late for you to be taken with these 
 spasms of conscience. You have been as eager in this 
 hunt as I have. Should you have liked it if you had 
 not brought down your game ? " 
 
 "I should have hated you less," she muttered, as some 
 one entered and approached them. 
 
 In an instant both were transformed. Mrs. Coleman 
 Leeds shook out the rich folds of her dress, and laugh- 
 ingly declared that she was quite rested, and could 
 dance the remainder of the night. 
 
 "I think that is our waltz now," said Count von 
 Hardenburg; and they hurried away, talking lightly, 
 wliile I sat there guilty and disgusted with myself for 
 remaining an unwilling witness to their startling con- 
 fidences, and filled with horror and rage at the 
 cruel deception of which Lord Hardmoor was the 
 victim. 
 
 I felt like one in a nightmare, and shook myself to be 
 sure that I was awake. Then I ventured out by a side 
 door, and hurried to my room, where I could collect my 
 thoughts, and regain the necessary composure before I 
 returned to the ball-room. 
 
 A half-hour later, as I descended the stairs, the crowd 
 was surging toward the supper-room ; and, seeing Miss 
 
 I 
 
 ■ m i i i iiui i wm — WWxrtJiliMi 
 
 liSMmtmitrnmHUim 
 
 I 
 
 mMmm 
 
iJOO 
 
 TIIK STOltY OV AK KXTHITSIAST. 
 
 Olavorhouse without an escort, I offered her my arm, 
 anil we followed the others. 
 
 After I retired to my room, T eonld neither sleep nor 
 rest. I was tortnved by the thonght of my mifortunate 
 position. What ought I to doV To tell Lord Harcl- 
 Lor the truth, I well knew, would -^ -^^ J« - 
 good, hut would make him my enemy or lite. He was 
 fn that insane state of infatuation when .t would be 
 impossible to convince him of the unwortlnness of his 
 idol; and it would be eciually difficult to persuade h,m 
 of the dishonorable character of Count von Hardenburg. 
 They had been intimate so long, and the clever Cxerman 
 had gained such an influence over the inferior mind of 
 his too credulous victim, that nothing short of a miracle 
 would shake his confidence. 
 
 Then, again, to allow him - Dorethea's father -to be 
 so grossly deceived by this intriguing woman and her 
 base accomplice seemed horrible to think of What 
 could I do ? What was best ? I could consult no one. 
 I must decide for myself. 
 
 In this distressing dilemma the morning passed away. 
 I had promised Dorethea to walk with her, and it was 
 time to leave my room, but I could not bring myself to 
 meet that man and woman t^e to face. So I wrote a 
 little note to Dorethea, asking her to excuse me, as I 
 was suffering with a violent headache Shortly after 
 I saw her with Miss Claverhouse and Von Hardenburg 
 walking down the avenue, in the direction of the 
 
 ""'m^s." Coleman Leeds was probably in her room, and 
 Lord Hardmoor might be alone in his study, where he 
 usually spent some time in the morning. Feeling that 
 it was impossible to endure my unhappy situation, I 
 
JSIAST. 
 
 sred her my arm, 
 
 neither sleep nor 
 
 if my unfortunate 
 
 tell Lord Hard- 
 
 not only do no 
 
 for life. He was 
 tvhen it would be 
 iwortliiness of his 
 b to persuade him 
 t von Hardenburg. 
 the clever German 
 e inferior mind of 
 
 short of a miracle 
 
 ,ea's father — to be 
 ig woman an<l her 
 ) think of. What 
 ttld consult no one. 
 
 )rning passed away, 
 ith her, and it was 
 not bring myself to 
 face. So I wrote a 
 to excuse me, as I 
 Lche. Shortly after 
 nd Von Hardenburg 
 > direction of the 
 
 y in her room, and 
 his study, where he 
 rning. Feeling that 
 inhappy situation, I 
 
 THK STRANGE STORY OP A PICTURE. 
 
 801 
 
 determined to go to hiin and tell him the whole truth, 
 let tlie consequences be what they might. 
 
 I found him alone, as I hoped, and, with my usual 
 impetuosity, I plungcMl at once into the subject. 
 
 " Lord Hardmoor," I said, firmly and gently, " I am 
 come on a very unpleasant errand, and I am afraid I 
 shall offend you seriously when I tell you of something 
 that occurred last niglit. I was unfortunate enough to 
 overhear a conversation between Count von Hardenburg 
 and Mrs. Colenum Leeds — " 
 
 " Well," interrujjted his lordship, with a puzzled look, 
 '* what of it ? Was there anytb.ing remarkable in 
 that?" 
 
 " Yes," I replied, coldly. "It certainly was a remark- 
 able conversation to occur between a lady and gentle- 
 man who are your friends and guests." 
 
 " Do you mean to say there was anything objection- 
 able ? " he cried, excitedly, " anything improper ? Speak 
 out; say frankly what you mean. Don't come to me 
 with riddles and insinuations." 
 
 " I don't wish to," I replied, resolutely ; " neither do I 
 wish to repeat the conversation. I hope it will be only 
 necessary for me to tell you that you have been de- 
 I'eived in both the man and the woman. They are 
 unworthy of your friendship; they are a pair of base 
 plotters." 
 
 For a moment I was appalled at the storm I had 
 raised. Lord Hardmoor turned purple with rage, and, 
 starting up, he advanced upon me, as if about to strike 
 me. I looked at him unflinchingly, and repeated my 
 statement coldly and firmly. 
 
 "How dare you say such a thing of — of my friend?" 
 lie gasped ; " and do you know that the woman you call 
 a base plotter is my promised wife ? " 
 
 — JiiiMmi 
 
802 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 "I suspected it, and therefore I wish to save you the 
 shame of marrying her, to discover later what I have 
 accidentally discovered now." 
 
 "Your effrontery is maddening, but your vile slander 
 does not move n.e in the least. The Count is n.y tried 
 and trusted friend ; a man of unquestionable honor. 
 The lady -and let me tell you now to be careful how 
 you give rein to your tongue -is beyond any damaging 
 imputation. The powers of heaven or he 1 could not 
 maice me believe aught against her." He paused a 
 moment to wipe away the sweat that .^toodm drops on 
 his flushed face; and then, with a visible effort, he said 
 more calmly, "You must be laboring under some unfor- 
 tunate mistake, which T will not trouble myself even o 
 seek an explanation of; for I can't think you so utterly 
 base as to invent such . tale, especially against a woman, 
 and the one who i. to take the place of 1 oi^thea s 
 mother. You have wounded me deeply, but I must 
 conceal it; and let me beg of you to have some consid- 
 eration for me. Do not try to preaudice Dorethea 
 against the woman I love." 
 
 " I never meant that Dorethea should hear a breath of 
 this," I cried, angrily. " Do you think I would soil her 
 pure soul with such a shameful story ? " 
 
 "There! you have said enough, birt I will try to for- 
 get it I presume it is not necessary for me to request 
 the utmost politeness from you to my guests while you 
 remain here. You may go now ; I have nothing more to 
 say. When we meet we will forget this unfortunate 
 
 interview." i. i. v„ 
 
 He said this significantly, and I understood what he 
 meant. So, with a cold bow, I silently withdrew, and 
 remained alone in my room until dinner. 
 
U8IAST. 
 
 THE STIIANGE STORY OF A PICTURE. 
 
 808 
 
 li to save you the 
 later what I have 
 
 ; your vile shuuler 
 Couut is my tried 
 iiestionablo honor, 
 tt) be careful how 
 roml any damaging 
 
 or hell could not 
 r." He paused a 
 
 stood in drops on 
 sible effort, he said 
 
 under some unfor- 
 ible myself even to 
 ,hink you so utterly 
 ly against a woman, 
 ilace of Dorothea's 
 leeply, but I must 
 ,0 have some consid- 
 prejudice Dorethea 
 
 uld hear a breath of 
 .nk I would soil her 
 
 lut I will try to for- 
 iry for me to request 
 my guests while you 
 lave nothing more to 
 get this unfortunate 
 
 understood what he 
 [ently withdrew, and 
 inner. 
 
 VITI. 
 
 No sooner liad I left Lord Ilardmoor than I began to 
 regret what I liad done. If I had waited, he miglit have 
 discovered the truth by some other means. As it was, I 
 had made a terrible mistake, I had failed to convince 
 him of the truth of my statement, and liad changed 
 him from a friend into a bitter enemy. I was sure 
 that, although it suited him to pass the matter over in 
 silence, and to treat me with the utmost politeness, 
 in his heart he hated me, and would use the first oppor- 
 tunity to punish me. 
 
 My headache served as an excuse for my silence and 
 abstraction at dinner, where I found myself furtively 
 watching Count von Hardenburg and Mrs. (Joleman 
 Leeds. How differently they appeared to me "now! 
 What had become of the woman's grace and witchery ? 
 To me her beauty had undergone a subtle change ; and 
 I mentally compared her to the woman in Faust's Wal- 
 purgis night, from whose lovely mouth there slipped a 
 red mouse. I did not wish to appear to be studying 
 her, but, in spite of myself, my eyes continually wan- 
 dered to the head of the table, where she sat proud and 
 triumphant, talking and laugliing with more than her 
 usual vivacity; while his lordship took no pains to 
 conceal his admiration, but was so marked in his devo- 
 tion as to attract Dorethea's attention. From time to 
 time the poor girl gave her father an entreating look, 
 while her cheeks flushed painfully, and her whole man- 
 ner betrayed her anxiety and surprise. 
 
 The situation was most disagreeable, and, to add to my 
 annoyance, I surprised Count von Hardenburg watching 
 
30i THE STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 ,n^ as if he thought I Avas in some way the e.use of 
 
 Do'rethea's trouble; ov as if he .liscoveve.! that m n^e a 
 
 socvet enemy had entered the eamp. However, the in- 
 
 .e . t Uy c'une to an en.l, as everything must, whether 
 
 asant or otherwise. Dorothea served the tea u, U. 
 
 U,uving-roou>, as usual ; at.d the Count l.ngered ne.u 
 
 L so Jertiuaeiously that 1 had no opportunity tor any 
 
 eonversatiou of a private nature. 
 
 The next n.orning the weather softened, and he seent 
 was good, and as there was a n.eet at Braxton C;ommon 
 ten miles' away, the hunting party started early .n ou, 
 to be there at the appointed tune. Ihe o ly lad a 
 the Hall who followed the hounds were Mrs. Colunan 
 T.eeds Miss Claverhouse, and Dorothea. 
 
 Lo d HardnK,<n. took the lead, with the dashmg wulow 
 who was u,agnitieent in the saddle, and, as there wer 
 Teveral gentlen.en to eseort Miss Claverhouse, Count 
 von Hardenbnrg, with the most ^f-^f^^:''^^^^ 
 rode up to Dorethea's side, and held his position as 
 elosely as possible all through the day. Again I was 
 thwaited. At first I fancied she was anxious to conhde 
 tniouble to me, but, as the day advaueed^e see.e^ 
 more cheerful, and appeared more 7««";\^«'Y;/ ^. ^'^^ 
 ation If at times her eyes wandered in her athei s 
 .lireetion, they returned to meet the Count's ge"tle reas- 
 suring gize fixed upon her as if there was a secret un- 
 derstanding between them. 
 
 It was a hard day's ride -a long run over a rough 
 eountry and horrible roads, made almost nnpassab e in 
 Xces by the recent thaw; and every one was tired out 
 except Mrs. Coleman Leeds, who was returning, as always 
 triumphant, with the brush fastened --"'^ h- 1-^ and 
 her face as fresh and smiling as when she first set out 
 
-— m Wi i li 
 
 i m H il l / iii nn i iiimi ii 
 
 rSIAST. 
 
 ^iiy the (\i»iHO of 
 red that in me a 
 luwever, the din- 
 iig must, whether 
 >d the tea in the 
 lint lingeiHul near 
 portnnity for any 
 
 lied, and the scent 
 liiaxton Common, 
 •ted early in order 
 The only ladies at 
 L're Mrs. Coleman 
 a. 
 
 the dashing widow, 
 md, as there were 
 laverhonse, Connt 
 al air in the world, 
 Id his position as 
 [lay. Again I was 
 anxious to confide 
 vanced, she seemed 
 jonciled to the situ- 
 red in her father's 
 Count's gentle, reas- 
 !ve was a secret un- 
 
 (T run over a rough 
 Imost imiiassable in 
 ry one v/as tired out 
 returning, as always, 
 around her hat, and 
 en she first set out 
 
 THE STUANCK STOUY OF A I'lCTUItK. 
 
 305 
 
 in the morning. As for his lordship, ho was in his 
 natural element when in f\ill pursuit, with the hue and 
 halloo sounding in his ears ; and he certainly looked ten 
 years younger in the saddle than he did in the drawing- 
 room. 
 
 Miss Claverhouse was quite faggtul, and Dorethea 
 looked like a lovely, pale flower too long exposed to the 
 ardent kisses of the sun. 1 felt her droop and tremble 
 as I lifted her from her saddle, and her eyes were moist 
 iis she whispered, " Why have you been so grave and 
 silent all day, dear Felix ; have 1 offended you ? " 
 
 "No, no, my darling; but I must have a long talk 
 with you to-morrow, alone." 
 
 " To-morrow is Sunday. Very well ; come to the 
 west corridor, directly after service, and you will find 
 me there." 
 
 It rained heavily, and I think few attended church 
 beside Lord Ilardmoor and Dorethea. I waited till 
 long after midday in the west corridor for my darling, 
 and was about giving up all hope of seeing her alone 
 when she came hastily toward me, walking between a 
 double row of ancestors, who smiled or frowned on her 
 from their time-stained canvases. 
 
 Her face was quite pale, and her eyes red from weep- 
 ing, and altogether she looked most unhappy as she 
 tried to smile a welcome. 
 
 " What is it, my darling ? " I asked, as I took her in 
 my arms. 
 
 For a moment she clung to me, weeping silently, then, 
 wiping away her tears, she tried to speak cheerfully. " I 
 know I am wrong, Felix, to fret about a thing which 
 must be right or papa would not do it. I know it will 
 surprise you greatly when I tell you that he is engaged 
 to marry Mrs. Colemau Leeds," 
 
aon 
 
 THK HTOnV OK AN KNTIIUSIAST. 
 
 "T tlunight so," I ropliod, curtly. 
 
 "JIow rould you? How couM any ouo ; and dftir 
 niauui not two yoars dead," she cried, wiMi a torrent of 
 
 tears. 
 
 "My dear child, it is useless to weep. Calm yourself 
 and let UH look at it reasonably." 
 
 " I know it is," she returned, stru>:«l''>K hravely to 
 keep back her tears. " I siispeeted, I feared j)ai>a was 
 interested in her; but I did not think he had offered 
 himself until he told nin this morning. I have just left 
 him, and I am afraid he is not jileased with me. I am 
 sure he suspects that I don't approve — I mean that I 
 think it too soon ff)r him to marr, again. However, he 
 assures me that it will not be fo; s.Mne time; not until 
 after we are settled. Oh, Felix! ?t takes all the poetry 
 from love and marriage. To think of papa's allowing 
 any one to fill mama's place. It is cruel — I can't think 
 it is right to forget so soon " ; and again she burst into 
 
 sobs. 
 
 "Now, my dear child," I said, soothingly, "don't ex- 
 aggerate your trotl'le by a feeling of false sentiment. 
 If it is wrong to fcrgct, and I don't admit that a man 
 forgets his iirst love when he loves again, it is as wrong 
 to forget in six years as it is to forget in a year. You 
 must look at it reasonably. The chief thing to con- 
 sider is whether Mrs. Coleman Leeds is a woman to 
 insure your father's happiness." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. She is very lovely and talented ; 
 but " — here a pause, and a moment's reflection — " but 
 I must not say, even to you, how I feel about it. She 
 ■will be papa's wife, and she must be as perfect to me as 
 she is to him. Count von Hardenburg says she is a 
 yroman of the most generous find noble character ; and 
 
— ■ I ii mm i p ii >^w|i— w— wi** 
 
 ISIAST. 
 
 y Olio ; and dfar 
 ,vith ii lorrt'iit of 
 
 I. C'alin yoursplf 
 
 ^f^liuK bravoly to 
 feared papa was 
 k lu! had offcif'd 
 I liavo just left 
 . with nic. I am 
 — I mean that I 
 lin. However, ho 
 le time; not until 
 kes all the poetry 
 if papa's allowing 
 id — I ean't think 
 ;ain she burst into 
 
 ;hinsly, "don't ox- 
 f false sentiment, 
 admit that a man 
 ;ain, it is as wrong 
 ■t in a year. You 
 iiief thing to con- 
 Is is a woman to 
 
 vely and talented ; 
 reflection — " but 
 'eel about it. She 
 18 perfect to me as 
 )urg says she is a 
 ble character; anc| 
 
 THK 8TKAN0K 8TOUY OP A PICTUUK. 
 
 807 
 
 di'votes herself to the poor and suffering. He says she 
 is very fond of papa, and will make him perfectly 
 
 happy." 
 
 " Then yon have discussed the subject with the 
 (Jouiit ? " I asked, coldly. 
 
 "Certiiinly I have," she replied, widening her blue 
 eyes as she looked at me. " Vou speak us though I 
 sliould not have done so." 
 
 •' What interest has he in the matter ? " 
 
 " Vou forgtit that he is papa's best friend, and also 
 an intimate friend of Mrs. Coleman Leeds. It was once 
 rumored that the Count and she were engaged, but that 
 was not true; however, he admired her greatly, and 
 actually proposed to her, but she refused him." 
 
 " My dear little gossip, how do you know all this ? " 
 I asked, half impatiently. 
 
 " The Count told me so " ; she replied, frankly. " He 
 says that was several years ago, and now ho loves her 
 like a sister." 
 
 " Dorothea," I returned, sternly, "I think you should 
 not be on such confidential terms with the Count. You 
 are too young to discuss his love affairs with him." 
 
 "Why, Felix, you surprise me," she said, a little 
 haughtily. " What harm can there be in discussing any 
 subject with Count von Hardenburg ? You forget how 
 very intimate he has been with us for years, ever since 
 I was a child ; ho is like one of our family.'* 
 " Too much so," I returned. 
 
 "Is it possible you really don't like him?" she ex- 
 claimed, in wide-eyed surprise. " Why, you are the first 
 person I ever knew who disliked the Count." 
 
 I smiled bitterly. " Then I must be a person of 63^- 
 ceptioually bad taste," 
 
 JHflfcA ' 
 
TIIK, HTOIJY OV AN KNTIIlJrtlAHT. 
 
 li:l!| 
 
 " Yes, really yuu imist be," hIu- rt'iilicd, (,'mvcly. " I 
 don't at all undi'r.staud it. He likt's ymi, ami Ih so iiieo 
 to you. 1 hopo you will not Iw tliaa^Mwablo to him, 
 I'Vlix V " 
 
 "No, my darling, for your Hwcift Hiiko 1 will bo very 
 politu and amial)li! when 1 am obliged o meet him." 
 
 » ObliHt'd ! then you will not meet iiim voluntarily ?" 
 
 <' No, my <li'ar, 1 will not." 
 
 "That sliowa that you seriously dislike liim > and, 
 Felix, you eau really have; no good ciaibe. It annoys me 
 greatly; and papa will bo so mueh displeased if he 
 knows it. He will think it another proof of the i)ecul- 
 iarity of your disposition. Dear ni<- ! how diHieult every- 
 thing has suddenly beeonie. How am 1 to manage all 
 these di.seordant elements ? " 
 
 " My dear Dorethoa," I said, as gently as I eould, " it 
 seems that I am the only diseonUmt element among you. 
 Before 1 came, there was perfect union, was there 
 
 not ? " 
 
 "We were all very happy," she replied, w.itU some 
 hesitation. "Oh, Felix, why will you be so unreason- 
 able, so prejudiced ? " 
 
 " I am not unreasonable. T. am only unfortunate in 
 my ta.'ites. I can't like Count von Hardenburg nor the 
 lady your father has chosen for his wife; therefore I 
 must not come in contact with them, ludess it is abso- 
 lutely necessary, for fear my impetuous nature may 
 assert itself, and I may betray my true feelings. You 
 must not blame me, my darling, but I have already 
 offended your father, and I am very uncomfortabU) in 
 the midst of this falseh(X)d and intrigue." 
 
 " Oh, Felix ! you sho*.-k me ; I beg you will not use 
 such harsh terms 5 no one Uere deserves them. You 
 
• -^ ' ■ ■■ xin mtummmmmmmm 
 
 UftlAST. 
 
 ili«'(l, (^nvvi'ly, " I 
 you, iinil is so iiino 
 iigrtrablo to liiiii, 
 
 iko I will be very 
 to iiH'i't him." 
 lim voluiitiirily ?" 
 
 ilisliko him ; and, 
 ibu. It annoys nm 
 displeast'il if he 
 iroof of tli« pecul- 
 liow ditticult L'very- 
 lu I tu manage all 
 
 tly as 1 could, " it 
 icnu'iit among you. 
 union, was there 
 
 eplii'd, with some 
 ju bo so unreason- 
 
 inly unfortunate in 
 ardenburg nor the 
 wife ; therefore I 
 , unless it is abso- 
 tuous nature may 
 true feelings. You 
 ut 1 have already 
 y uncomfortable in 
 ue." 
 
 J you will not use 
 serves tUem. You 
 
 TIIK 8TKAN0K 8TOIIV 0|C A l'H!TtUtK. 
 
 non 
 
 prui isi'd when yoji returned that you would not (inarrel 
 WBtlv iiapa again." 
 
 "And yet I have managed to," I said, iiunddy. 
 
 " Hut how will it end V If yo\i coiitiune to exaHperato 
 him, there will be an oiien rupture, and I shall iiave to 
 sutler one way or another"; and again the blue eyes 
 were full of tears. 
 
 " My love," I said, very earnestly, drawing her dose 
 to nui while I spoke, " it is beeanse I wish to avoid 
 any unpleasant results for you that I am going away 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "What, again! I thought you had come to stay 
 always ! I thought we were not to be parted any more ! 
 I don't understand ! It is all very strange ! " and she 
 turued her troubled face away, to hide the liot tears that 
 would come in spite of every effort to control them. 
 
 " My Dorothea, in a few weeks I shall have the right 
 to take you with mo wherevei- I go; until then, I must 
 leave you. I can't remain here. I must go to Mark 
 land Place, to see if my nest is ready for my bird. It 
 is years since I was there, and I would rather trust to 
 my own taste than to a London decorator. I want to 
 make our home beautiful. Is not that a sufficient ex- 
 cuse for you ? Ik'side 1 have some business to attend to 
 in London, and some pictures to retouch for the spring 
 exhibition. You will be in London as soon as these 
 country visits are over. Let me see, you go first to 
 Hraxton, and then to somewhere else. Oli, my dear, 
 these English customs don't suit me ; one's life is re- 
 duced to fragments by visiting and visits. There can be 
 but little of earnest purpose in such a life.'' 
 
 " It is very pleasant, Felix, a,ll the same. If you were 
 only used to it, you would like it. It is one way of 
 
 1. 
 
 iiiiiiiiifi''»«iiii»ri 
 
810 
 
 THE STORY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 being happy; and why not be happy in that way, as 
 well as another." 
 
 « But you remember what Carlyle says : ' There is in 
 man a higher, than love of happiness. He can do with- 
 out happiness, and instead thereof find blessedness.' " 
 
 « Ah, that is very beautiful, if one looked at life in 
 that serious way. But who ever does ? Among all the 
 people I know, you and Count von Hardenburg are the 
 only ones who take a lofty view of existence ; and it 
 makes me feel very frivolous and worldly when I think 
 it all over. But what can I do ? I can't strike out for 
 myself. Why, even the Count, who is always reading 
 Jean Paul, and Novalis, and talking of Goethe and 
 the higher life, enjoys society and fashionable amuse- 
 ments quite as much as I do. Yet I will confess to 
 you, Felix, that at times I get tired of it, and long for 
 something different, vaguely and dimly ; but it is like 
 groping in the dark." 
 
 " My precious one, the light will come by and by. But 
 I implore you not to seek for it through the teaching of 
 Count von Hardenburg. Avoid him, distrust him, as 
 
 I do." 
 
 She looked at me for a moment with a mingled ex- 
 pression of surprise and sorrow ; then her face hardened 
 preceptibly, and she said, coldly, " Felix, I can't suspect 
 you of so weak and ignoble a feeling as that of jealousy, 
 or I might be able to account for your strange dislike of 
 my best, my dearest friend. Dislike him if you will, 
 but I beg of you not to seek to injure him in my estimar 
 tion. I can assure you it is useless. I esteem him as 
 much as I admire him, and I can't allow you to be so 
 unjust to one of the best of men. Pray do not hurt 
 me by repeating this, or I shall find it hard to forgive 
 you." 
 
USIA8T. 
 
 f in that way, as 
 
 says : ' There is in 
 He can do with- 
 i blessedness.' " 
 
 looked at life in 
 ; ? Among all the 
 [ardenbuvg are the 
 
 existence ; and it 
 fldly when I think 
 jan't strike out for 
 
 is always reading 
 ig of Goethe and 
 fashionable amuse- 
 , I will confess to 
 of it, and long for 
 mly; but it is like 
 
 me by and by. But 
 ugh the teaching of 
 m, distrust him, as 
 
 with a mingled ex- 
 n her face hardened 
 "elix, I can't suspect 
 ; as that of jealousy, 
 iir strange dislike of 
 ,ke him if you will, 
 ■e him in my estimar 
 is. I esteem him as 
 't allow you to be so 
 Pray do not hurt 
 fid it hard to forgive 
 
 THE STRANGE STORY OP A nCTURE. 
 
 311 
 
 " Dorothea, my darling, my love, you can never know 
 how I suffer fov you. We will speak no more of him. 
 I knoiv it is worse tlian useless. You are blind, and will 
 not let me help you to see. I can only wait patiently 
 until I can remove you from his influence, then I trust 
 you will understand me better than to think I am actu- 
 ated by an unworthy motive. Love me and trust me, 
 dearest, and you will live to acknowledge tliat my advice 
 is good, even if you do not follow it." 
 
 " I shall never distrust Count von Hardenburg, if that 
 is what you mean," she replied, firmly and coldly, as she 
 turned to leave me. " But hush," and she made amotion 
 that some one was approaching. 
 
 We had been sitting in an embrasure of a window, 
 and so could not command a view of the corridor. And 
 there, a few paces from us, stood the Count, examining, 
 with a critical eye, a portrait by Reynolds. 
 
 " Have you noticed this ? " he asked, in his courteous, 
 gentle voice. "I think it one of Sir Joshua's best 
 examples. It is full of vigor, and more plastic than 
 most of his works." 
 
 What could I say ? I was sure that he had overheard 
 our conversation, and I hated hypocrisy so intensely that 
 I could scarcely control myself sufficiently to answer 
 his question. But Dorethea's eyes were fixed upon me 
 imploringly, and I forced myself to make a polite and 
 formal reply. Then, with a blundering excuse that I 
 had letters to write, I v/nlked away, almost suffocated 
 with indignation and contempt. 
 
 As I turned into the soxith corridor I glanced back. 
 They were standing before the Reynolds. Dorethea's 
 sweet eyes Avere lifted to the picture, and his were bent 
 upon her with a look of deep tenderness and admiration 
 combined. 
 
 i 
 
J^2 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Good Heavens ! how dare he look at her in tl:at way ? 
 I felt like storming back upon him and crushing him 
 with a blow ; but at that moment Lord Hardmoor a})- 
 peared, with Mrs. Coleman Leeds on his arm, who was 
 looking in the face of her companion, her eyes full of 
 seductive light, while he bent upon her the doting smiles 
 that only an old man in love can lavish upon the object 
 of his adoration. 
 
 This unfortunate encounter overflowed the vials of 
 my wrath, and, with a freezing bow, and a muttered im- 
 precation, I hurried out of the house into the dense 
 chilling mist that enveloped every object in a ghastly 
 clinging vapor. 
 
 IX. 
 
 It was early in May, about the beginning of the Lon- 
 don season. The Koyal Academy exhibition was open, 
 and my pictures, strange to say, — because they were my 
 best, — attracted but little notice. Some secret influence 
 was working against me. I was sure of it; I felt it in 
 the air. Three years before I had been received by 
 society with marked attention; now I found myself 
 quite ignored ; the fashionable world had forgotten me, 
 as well as my work. 
 
 " It does not matter," said Dorethea, with charming 
 indifference. " We do not care in the least about it. 
 We have had our day, and must give place to some new 
 idol. Soon we shall be entirely separated from this 
 'madding crowd,' far from this weary tumult, in our 
 quiet home; settled, sedate country gentry, coming 
 up to London now and then for a glimpse of life, and 
 then returning to our moorland eyrie, quite contented 
 with our peaceful lot." 
 
1US1A8T. 
 
 ,t her in tl:at way ? 
 
 and crushing him 
 jord Hardmoor aj)- 
 
 his arm, wlio was 
 11, her eyes full of 
 5r the doting smiles 
 ih upon the object 
 
 owed the vials of 
 and a muttered ira- 
 jse into the dense 
 bject in a ghastly 
 
 ;inning of the Lon- 
 :hibition was open, 
 cause they were my 
 )me secret influence 
 I of it; I felt it in 
 
 been received by 
 v I found myself 
 
 had forgotten me, 
 
 lea, with charming 
 the least about it. 
 place to some new 
 jparated from this 
 iry tumult, in our 
 ry gentry, coming 
 jlimpse of life, and 
 ie, quite contented 
 
 THE STUANGE STORY OF A I'lOTUKE. 
 
 313 
 
 Mrs. Coleman Leeds, as the affianced of Lord Hard- 
 moor, was more the fashion than ever. Count von 
 Hardenburg revolved around her at a discreet distance, 
 shedding lustre upon her, as well as borrowing it from 
 her anticipated promotion. 
 
 I saw but little of them, as our relations were some- 
 what strained, and I was only in London for a few 
 days now and then. Other interests engaged my atten- 
 tion ; for, much to my gratification as well as surprise, 
 I was charmed with my new home ; my long-neglected 
 estate ; my stretch of moorland, with here and there a 
 clump of fine trees that spread their broad arms over a 
 modest cottage and a fertile bit of soil, cultivated by 
 a rude but honest tenant ; my stables, to which I had 
 added a few fine horses; my lawn; my garden; my 
 small park, well stocked with game ; and, more beau- 
 tiful than all else, the gray old manor-house, where my 
 darling's blue eyes would soon bring light, her voice 
 music, her love bliss unutterable. 
 
 A few months before I could not have believed that I 
 would so soon become interested in the dry details of 
 setting my house in order, — that I could so thoroughly 
 identify mysei* with the home of my ancestors as to 
 feel that it was a part of myself, something to be loved 
 and cared for sacredly, to be guarded and protected 
 from injury and sacrilege. At times I felt a great ten- 
 derness for the place. There my father's boyhood was 
 passed, and his father was born there. For generations 
 it had been the home of the Marklands. For the first 
 time in my life, my English blood asserted itself, and I, 
 the only remaining one, the last of my name, felt that I 
 hitherto had been an exile, a pilgrim, and a stranger 
 upon the face of the earth. What delicious reveries I 
 
 ■ mWktvvM'] laktfftn ihtitai-w 
 
314 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 indulged in ! What glowing mental pictures t printed, 
 sitting in the old stone porch, which was draped and 
 festooned with the verdure of years ! Looking out on 
 the sunlit lawn, I could fancy the pretty figure of Doro- 
 thea flitting about among the flowers. I could see her 
 sweet eyes light up with pleasure at the wild but beauti- 
 ful expanse spread before her, the distiint blue hills, 
 seeming to touch the silvery sky, the great banks of 
 white clouds sailing away from earthly ken into the 
 beyond, grand, solemn, still. 
 
 How pure and honest nature would seem to her after 
 the frivolity of London life ; and how well her gentle 
 soul would accord with the sweet sincerity of such an 
 existence. Why had I had so many misgivings ? Why 
 had I looked with fear and dissatisfaction at my isolation 
 from the world? Away from Rome there could be 
 nothing better than this. Although it lacked an at- 
 mosphere of art, it had its compensations. Here was 
 nature, pure and simple; and art was but her hand- 
 maiden. At times I felt my soul expand into aspira- 
 tions after greater excellence than I had yet reached. 
 " I can paint better here than I have ever painted," I said 
 to myself. "I can see clearer; my mental vision is 
 broadened, intensified, strengthened. I shall do some 
 noble work yet." And I was all impatience for the day 
 when I should find myself settled permanently in my 
 peaceful home, with Dorethea for my only companion, 
 my ideal and sentimental horizon clear and unclouded, 
 and my canvas spread out before me. 
 
 But I have wandered away from London. As I said 
 before, it was early in May, and I had gone up to make 
 the final arrangements for our marriage, which was to 
 take place on the 20th. On the 10th, Dorethea, with a 
 
>iy W^ '^ I WW. ' M W 
 
 SIA8T. 
 
 3tures I printed, 
 
 was ([r.-xped and 
 
 Looking out on 
 
 y figure of Dore- 
 
 I could see her 
 
 B wild but beauti- 
 
 istiint blue lulls, 
 
 e great banks of 
 
 ily ken into the 
 
 seem to her after 
 V well her gentle 
 cerity of such an 
 isgivings ? Why 
 )n at my isolation 
 3 there could be 
 
 it lacked an at- 
 itions. Here was 
 IS but her hand- 
 :pand into aspira- 
 
 had yet reached. 
 ret painted," I said 
 
 mental vision is 
 
 I shall do some 
 ttience for the day 
 ermanently in my 
 T only companion, 
 ar and unclouded, 
 
 ondon. As I said 
 L gone up to make 
 age, which was to 
 , Dorethea, with a 
 
 THE STRANGE STORY OF A PICTURE. 
 
 315 
 
 retinue of bridesmaids, an elegant trousseau, Mrs. 
 Coleman Leeds, and several other friends, went down to 
 Hardnioor Hall to complete the preparations there. 
 
 It was my impression that Lord Hardmoor had gone 
 down with the ladies ; therefore, I was much surprised 
 when, the morning after, I met him on Oxford Street, 
 walking with (!ount von Hardenburg. They were in 
 close conversation, and seemed somewhat excited over 
 the subject they were discussing. 
 
 When his lordship saw me, he stopped abruptly, and 
 said, with some embarrassment, " What ! are you here ? I 
 thought you returned to Markland Place last evening." 
 
 His words surprised me, for he knew that I was to 
 remain in London until the eve of my marriage, when I 
 was to go down to Haddingham by the last train. I re- 
 minded him of the arrangement which he appeared to 
 have forgotten, and then said that I had not supposed 
 that he had remained in town. 
 
 " I intended to go down with the ladies," he replied, 
 "but found at the last moment that some business 
 would detain me for a day or two longer. However," he 
 added, as we were about to part, " I think you had better 
 go down this evening ; I don't see any reason for your 
 staying in London for a week ; beside, you may be of 
 some use to the ladies at the Hall." 
 
 Count von Hardenburg made some remark about the 
 crowd, and general discomfort of town at that season ; 
 to which I replied that I thought I should adhere to 
 my first arrangement, and remain until the 19th. 
 
 And so we parted, and each one went on to his own 
 destination. What a little thing would have changed 
 the whole course of my future ! If I had gone back to 
 my hotel, packed my portmanteau, and taken the down 
 
li 
 
 316 
 
 THE STOllY OF AN KNTIIUSIAST. 
 
 1;': i 
 
 train to Haddingham, I should not now be recordifttf this 
 strange freak of destiny. 
 
 When I met Lord Jiardmoor, I was on my way to a 
 jeweller's in liond Street, who was resetting some old 
 family diamonds into a modern necklace, for a bridal 
 gift to Dorethea. 1 had made the design myself, and 
 was anxious to see it properly executed; therefore I 
 was in the habit of dropping in often to considt with the 
 workman, who was near the end of his skilful and ex- 
 quisite labor. 
 
 After examining and approving the work, I walked 
 across St. James Square, and turned into King Street. 
 It had become a habit with me to haunt Christie's 
 whenever I was in London ; and 1 never found myself 
 in the vicinity without feeling an irresistible desire to 
 look over his collection. 
 
 On that day my old life with its hopes and desires 
 was far behind me, and my mind was filled and absorbed 
 with the near future, that had so much happiness stored 
 up for me. I was about to pass without entering, when 
 some mysterious force — call it destiny, call it habit, call 
 it what you will— impelled me to turn back and walk 
 with wide-open eyes in the broad sunlight of that May 
 morning straight to my doom. 
 
 At the moment, I was in deep thought. Before me 
 was a picture of Dorethea in her bridal gown, that 
 exquisite necklace clasping her white throat, a band of 
 brilliants binding her veil to the dull gold of her hair. 
 Abruptly, another face intruded itself beside that of my 
 love— a dark, tender face, with soft eyes and serenely 
 smiling lips. I looked up, and before me I saw the head 
 with the black berretta. There, suddenly and unexpect- 
 edly, face to face with my new happiness, this old lost 
 
USIAST. 
 
 V be recording this 
 
 I on my way to a 
 esetting some old 
 dace, for a bridal 
 esign myself, and 
 luted ; thurofore I 
 ;o consult with the 
 lis skilful and ex- 
 
 le work, I walked 
 into King Street. 
 haunt Christie's 
 ever found myself 
 resistible desire to 
 
 hopes and desires 
 filled and absorbed 
 ;h happiness stored 
 out entering, when 
 ly, call it habit, call 
 urn back and walk 
 dight of that May 
 
 lought. Before me 
 
 bridal gown, that 
 
 :e throat, a band of 
 
 II gold of her hair, 
 f beside that of my 
 ; eyes and serenely 
 e me I saw the head 
 ienly and unexpect- 
 )ine8s, this old lost 
 
 THK STUANGK STOItY OF A T'lCTUUE. 
 
 317 
 
 aaa^fe aas& r 
 
 happiness confronted me, and looked at mo reproachfully 
 from its soinbro setting. 
 
 For a moment I was startled out of my composure. 
 A man stood near, turniui,' the leaves of a catalogue. Ho 
 eyed me curiously, and lingered near me. I was afraid 
 of betraying my sectret, and, feeling the; necessity of con- 
 trolling myself, I merely glanced at the i)icture, and 
 walked tpiietly away to another part of the room, where 
 I tried with all the strength of my mind to subdue the 
 tumult th.at raged witliin me. My heart seemed to beat 
 audibly, the hot blood rushed to my temples, burning 
 tears to my eyes ; wliile, in spite of every effort, I shook 
 like a leaf in the wind. 
 
 One of the young men employed in the house was ar- 
 ranging some pictures. He knew me well, and from 
 time to time glanced at me as if something tmcommon 
 in my appearance attracted his attention. At length he 
 came near, and said, respectfully, " Perhaps you are not 
 feeling well, Mr. Markland ? Let me bring you a chair." 
 
 "Thank you. It is only a slight vertigo." 
 
 I took the offered chair, for I could not stand. The 
 stranger with the catalogue approached, and appeared 
 to be examining a picture near me. 
 
 " How long has this collection been on exhibition ? " 
 I asked of the young man, when I could command my 
 voice so as to speak calmly. _ 
 
 " For three days, sir, and it has attracted more atten- 
 tion than any lot we have had this season." 
 
 " There are some remarkably fine pictures among them. 
 Is it a private collection ? " 
 
 " It is. It belonged to a rich Polish Jew, who was all 
 his life searching for the best in every sale. It is said that 
 he only bought at auction^ never consulted any one, but 
 

 318 
 
 THE 8T01:Y of AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 t J ■■ 
 
 (Ippomlod solely on his own knowledge of art, and sel- 
 dom made a mistake." 
 
 "One can see that from this collection. It is remark- 
 ably well selected. This Wonverman is a little gem," I 
 said, while I examined a small canvas before nic with 
 well feigned interest. 
 
 " Have yon noticed that head yonder by Mantegna ? 
 It seems to attract the attention of critics and con- 
 noisseurs more than any canvas here. Lord Hardmoor 
 and Count von Hardenburg are much interested in it." 
 "Were they here this morning?" I asked, with a 
 deathly feeling at my heart. 
 
 "They were in about an hour ago, sir, and examined 
 it very closely. I think the Count intends bidding on 
 it. and I suppose he wants to be sure that it is an original. 
 There are so many pictures sold in good faith for orig- 
 inals, which are only copies. But it's not easy to deceive 
 the Count. He knows more about pictures than any man 
 in London." 
 
 " Is there a history with this Mantegna ? " 
 " None that we know of. It is simply marked on the 
 back, ' Andrea Mantegna, 1825.' " 
 
 "Could any one suppose that the date referred to 
 the time that it was ])ainted ? " 
 
 "I should think not," replied the young man, with a 
 smile. "No one would be guilty of such an anachro- 
 nism. It may be the year in which it was bought by 
 the last owner." 
 
 Eighteen hundred and twenty-five, the year of my 
 father's death. Ah, how vividly it all came before me! 
 Lord Hardmoor's stubborn stupidity, and my p.tiful 
 
 pleading, 
 glancing at the catalogue, I saw that the sale was ^o 
 
 
SIA8T. 
 of art, and sel- 
 
 m. It is vemark- 
 
 1 a little gem," I 
 
 before 1110 with 
 
 r by Mantegna? 
 critics and con- 
 Lord Hardnioor 
 interested in it." 
 I asked, with a 
 
 if, and examined 
 iitends bidding on 
 at it is an original, 
 od faith for orig- 
 lot easy to deceive 
 ires than any man 
 
 THE 8TRANOE STOUV OF A PICTURE. 
 
 819 
 
 gna 
 
 9" 
 
 ply marked on the 
 
 I date referred to 
 
 young man, with a 
 such an anachro- 
 it was bought by 
 
 , the year of my 
 1 came before me! 
 y, and my i-itiful 
 
 lat the sale was tp 
 
 tnke place on the 14th ; to be sold without reserve to 
 tlie liighcst bidder. My heart gave a great tlirob of joy. 
 To the highest bidder — only that one condition stood 
 between me .and the treasure of my life ; and no one else 
 knew of its inestimable value ; therefore, no one would 
 give as much as I Avould. I seemed already to have it 
 in my iiossession, when, suddeidy, with a pang of agony, 
 I thought of the engraving in Count von 1 Tardenburg's 
 album, and of his remarks concerning it. Had he recog- 
 nized the original of the drawing, and did he intend to 
 compete Avith me for its purchase ? If so. Lord Hard- 
 moor had told him the history of the picture, and the 
 two were combined together to thwart me in my effort 
 to repospess it. 
 
 There Avas evidently a plot against me. Lord Hard- 
 moor had seen the picture, knew that it was exposed for 
 sale ; in fact, had met me a few moments after examin- 
 ing it critically, and had not told me of it. Then his 
 evident anxiety to get me out of town as speedily as 
 possible — what did that mean ? Why, it was all as 
 clear as day to me. He did not wish me to know that 
 the picture was in London. He did not wish me to get 
 possession of it even when I had the opportunity. All 
 this passed through my mind ^as I went from one picture 
 to another, apparently looking carefully at each one, but 
 really seeing nothing but that face which I feared to 
 more than glance at. 
 
 When I went out the man whom I first noticed stood 
 near it, still much engrossed with his catalogue. 
 
#1" 
 
 TlIK STORY OF AN KlITIlUSlAST. 
 
 My first imimlsc whou T loft Christie's was to hunt 
 up Lonl Hiirdinoor and (h)Uiiin(l an exphmation ; and also 
 to try and discover what were Count von Ilardenlmrs s 
 intentions eonoerning the picture. But by the time I 
 n.ached my dub in I'all INIall, my plan did not appear 
 ,.ither so feasible or so judicious as I had thought it at 
 
 'It that moment, T could not decide on any course of 
 proceeding. My mind was a chaos, my brain a mad 
 whirl I was suddenly thrown from my e(iuihbruim — 
 out of poise, as it were, and confronted with one of the 
 ,uost serious problems of my life, while 1 had neither 
 strength nor clearness of perception to decide on what 
 was best. In a truly pitiable mental condition, I threw 
 myself into a chair, in an alcove of the reading-room, 
 and tried to reduce the terrible confusion in my soul to 
 
 form and order. , t i i i 
 
 A servant laid some letters before me, and I looked 
 them over abstractedly, scarcely underslandmg then- 
 contents, until I came to one, a foreign-looking note, the 
 penmanship of which seemed familiar to me. I opened 
 it with nervous fingers, and read the following : - 
 
 "The Raphael you have been seeking so long is at 
 Christie's. It will be sold on the 14th, to the highest 
 bidder ; accidentally, I have overheard a conversation be- 
 tween the Director of the New London Gallery and a Ger- 
 man connoisseur. The latter has recognized the hand o 
 the great master in the work, and he has been authorized 
 to purchase it for the National Gallery. If you wish to 
 possess the picture, you must be prepared to py a large 
 
li ^' i II I / tmifim'^ 
 
 ■ li fe H IV 
 
 1 US I AST. 
 
 THE STnANCfE RTOIlY OF A riCTUKK. 
 
 a'2i 
 
 istie'a was to hunt 
 planiition; and also 
 ; von Ilardenburg's 
 lUit by the time I 
 Ian did not appear 
 [ had tlunight it at 
 
 do on any conrac of 
 i, my brain a mad 
 I my ('(luiiibrium — 
 ted with one of the 
 vhile I had neither 
 to decide on what 
 ,1 condition, I threw 
 f the reading-room, 
 [usion in my soul to 
 
 re me, and I looked 
 understanding their 
 ign-looking note, the 
 ar to me. I opened 
 5 following : — 
 eeking so long is at 
 14th, to the highest 
 ird a conversation bt - 
 on Gallery and a Ger- 
 icognized the hand of 
 i has been authorized 
 lery. H you wish to 
 epared to pay a large 
 
 sum for it. Do not go to Christie's. Do not Itiil <'ii it 
 yourst'lf. A friend will watch the picture, and you will 
 be infonnc<l of any u'-w nu)vemcnts. If yon hear that 
 the llussian government has an ap'iit at tlie .sale, you 
 will understand that it is a ruse to intimidate your 
 
 opponent." 
 
 Wlio eoidd have written this singular epistle; there 
 was neither name nor date, and the writing was un- 
 known to me, in spite of its somewhat familiar character. 
 
 Who in London besides Lord Ilardmoor knew of my 
 search for the picture ? And what unknown friend had I 
 to warn nu^ of the plot against me ? It was a mystery 
 that I could not fathom. However, it was of some ser- 
 vice to me, as it put me on my guard ami gave me an 
 opportunity to i>ni)are for the struggle. 
 
 The British government was a formidable ojipouent. 
 But I knew that (Unrnt von Harilenburg would be limited 
 in the an\ount to be offered for a picture of doubtful 
 authenticity. Tiu; government had cavilled not long 
 before abo\it paying eighteen thousand poiuids for an 
 undoid)ted Raphael. Therefore, I concluded that no 
 more would be offered for this. 
 
 In looking back at that time, I think I must have 
 been temporarily insane, for but one mad desire iilled 
 my soul, and that was to gain possession of the i)icture, 
 even to the sacrilice of my last shilling, ^ly love for 
 Dorethea paled and waned before that awful passion. I 
 ri'mcmbered Lord Hardmoor's words : " 1 will take her 
 away from you even at the altar." I knew he was 
 capjtble of doing it, and that a sei)aration between n>e 
 and the girl who in a few days was to become my wife, 
 was inevitable. The ruin and desolation of my life, 
 should I persist in carrying out this uuul idea, came 
 
 w &ss mm' ^- ^&' ^^ '-'^'^ ' ^SiS s^ m ' m^ 
 
822 
 
 TIIK HTOUV OK AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 ^ 
 
 -iviiUy before lU'^. Hut it was as nothing. I felt hke 
 one on the v.-i-e of eternal ruin, who nniHt save his soul 
 at tho aaerilice of every worhlly interest. '• It n.nst l)o 
 done, thouK'h I give np all," I repealed, over and over. 
 
 In vain I tried to calm niyscdf in order to plan ont 
 thf' dct-'ils of my battle, with my enemies. For 
 Count von IlardenbnrK T f.-lt the most intense hatred. 
 Toward T.ord llardn. -or. who ha-l been the first eause ol 
 my trouble, I felt only sorrow and contempt. He was 
 Doreahca's father, and 1 must not give rein to my an-.-r 
 in thinking of him. He had bei-n inthieneed by that 
 handsome demon, that treacherous Gernuin fiend, to do 
 me this cruel injury. 
 
 Oh, how much 1 needed a reasonable, cool-headed 
 friend, to whom I could entrust my secret, and to whom 
 I could look for advice. 1 thought of all my ae.p.amt- 
 ances in London. Alas! there was none in whom I 
 could confide in this terrible crisis. And if there was 
 I was obliged to confess that his counsel would be use- 
 less ; for I was sure there was not one sane man in a 
 hundred but would advise me to abandon the course I 
 was bent on following. Cool reason would say, "Do 
 not sacrifice every worldly interest for an idea -a 
 sentiment. Get possession of the picture if you can at 
 a fair price; if not, renounce it, and be satisfied that 
 you have done right." 
 
 This sensible consideration of the matter angered me, 
 and I started up impetuously to do something, when a 
 hand was laid firmly on my shoulder, and a hearty, frank 
 voice exclaimed, "What! have you lost your sight, that 
 vou don't recognize your friends ? " 
 
 "Mr Brent! Is it possible! Where did you coine 
 from so unexpectedly?" I cried, quite overjoyed. 
 
I II I ih III! 
 
 [I US I AST. 
 
 uthiiig. I Mt like 
 > must Siive his soul 
 rest. '• It iniist bo 
 •d, over and ovi-r. 
 1 order to pliiii out 
 iiy cntMuioH. For 
 lost inttfuso liatrt'd. 
 JU tilt) lii'Ht ciiuso of 
 coutt'iuiit. He was 
 vo ri'in to my aiii;fr 
 iiithu'iiccd l)y that 
 Geniiau lioiid, to do 
 
 Kinahle, oool-hcadi'd 
 secret, ;uul to whom 
 ; of all my aeiiuaint- 
 18 none in whom I 
 , And if there was 
 ounsel would be use- 
 ; one sane man in a 
 abandon the course I 
 3on would say, "Do 
 est for an idea — a 
 pieture if you can at 
 nd be satisfied that 
 
 e matter angered me, 
 o something, when a 
 r, and a hearty, frank 
 . lost your sight, that 
 
 Where did you coine 
 id, quite overjoyed. 
 
 TIIR STIiANOK HTOIIV OF A PH'TIMIE. 
 
 828 
 
 " Heaven must have sent you, for 1 was just wishing 
 for a friend." 
 
 " Well, my dear boy, here he is ; now what can he do 
 for you ? " 
 
 " It's a long story. Come in here and sit down," and 
 I drew him into the aleove. " Hut, first, are you in a 
 hiiiry '.' Have you any engagements tor the next 
 li.uir'.'" 
 
 " No, no, nothing. I just came to look you up." 
 
 " Wiiy are you in JiOiidnn so early in the season ? " 
 
 " We eaine to I'aris with Luiiia and Paul. You knew 
 they were to be ma'-ried this sjjring." 
 
 " Certainly I ditl ; but I've forgotten everything lately 
 but my own affairs. And so you came with them? and 
 they are suprenu^ly hajtpy, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Uh, the typical turtle-doves are poor comparisons. 
 I am tired of their billing and cooing; so my wife and I 
 thought we would leave them awhile with their French 
 kin and run over to England." 
 
 " And Kome — dear, delightful Rome. Tlie master and 
 madam, Camille, La Santa, and all ? " 
 
 "Not so fast ; I have only one talking apparatus. Let 
 me see. Yes, all are well and prosperous." 
 
 " Kut about Camille and La Santa ? " 
 
 " Ah, I don't understand the situation there. Ang^- 
 lique goes on her serene way like a star in heaven, while 
 He Jirecourt, if I may use another figure of speech, is 
 tossed like a vessel without ballast between two contrary 
 winds. I believe he loves La Santa, but he spends most 
 of his time with the enchanting Natilika. Ah ! she is 
 adorable." > < - " 
 
 " Natilika ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the Russian princess. She has settled in 
 
 ""',)^*!'siiss;'i 
 
824 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Rome since you left. You never saw her or you would 
 renuMuber her too well. She is an enchnntress. Ms. 
 lirent says she is danyeroudy fascinating. I believe th. 
 dear little woman thinks she might bewitch even an old 
 
 '^^i;!^;:;;d your Russian Circe. I will hear more 
 about her some other time. Now I must ta k a^^^^^ 
 myself. I am fearfully anxious. I ain m a tmtuuns, 
 dilemma. In fact, 1 am half cra.y with worry. 
 " Well, my dear fellow, out with it. 
 " I have found the Raphael ! " 
 
 "The deuce you have! Is that what troubles you ? 
 »No, not the finding it, but the consequences that 
 nuist result. Let me tell you all about it, and then ad- 
 vise me, or, rather, help me to carry o.t my own plans; 
 ;:; I am ifraid youv judgment will no. approve of niy 
 intentions." Then, as briefly as possible, I told him 
 where I had discovered the picture, and my suspicion of 
 Lord Hardmoor's treachery, and the Count's plot to gain 
 
 ^^:Tt:::^t:nd it perfectly," exclaimed M. Brent. 
 "They wish to buy it as a Mantegna and sell it to the 
 government as a Raphael. I'm willing to bet my he 
 that it's a private speculation between his Lordship and 
 the German, and they don't want you to spoil it. 
 
 "But read this," I said, laying the anonymous lettei 
 
 ^'?Siis "is evidently written by some one who is ac- 
 quainted with the history of the picture," he returned^ 
 after glancing over the contents. " And you say no one 
 in England ktows the story excepting Lord Hardmoor. ' 
 « Or some one to whom his Lordship has repeated it, 
 Von Hardenburg, for example." 
 
HUSIAST. 
 
 THK 8TIJANGR STORY OF A PICTUKK. 
 
 32'. 
 
 vv her or you would 
 enchpntress. Mrs. 
 ting. I believe the 
 jcwitch even an ohl 
 
 I will hear more 
 I must talk about 
 : am in a torturing 
 .vitli worry." 
 t." 
 
 hat troubles you ? " 
 e consequences that 
 l)out it, and then ad- 
 y ojt my own plans ; 
 11 no', approve of my 
 possible, I told him 
 and my suspicion of 
 e Count's plot to gain 
 
 xclaimed Mi. Brent, 
 'gna and sell it to the 
 villing to bet my life 
 ■een his Lordship and 
 ou to spoil it." 
 the anonymous letter 
 
 some one who is ac- 
 picture," he returned, 
 " And you say no one 
 ting Lord Hardmoor." 
 •dship has repeated it, 
 
 "Hut what moti/e could he have for putting you on 
 your guard ? " 
 
 " I can't think. It's very mysterious. It seems more 
 like the work of a friend than an enemy." 
 
 " Well, don't let us speculate about the letter. It's of 
 no real importance. The thing to consider is how to 
 get the picture, and circumvent Hardmoor and the Ger- 
 man. No doubt they will offer a good price, but they 
 won't go beyond a certain point ; first, because the pic- 
 ture is not well authenticated, and secondly, because 
 there is danger of the old story being revived. When it 
 is known that Lord Hardmoor once sold the picture as a 
 Mantegna, it will be difficult for him to pronounce it a 
 Eaphael ; and both ho and the Count are clever enough 
 to foresee that it is sure to come out. No sooner do 
 they announce that another Raphael is discovered than 
 every critic and conivaisseur in the country will be cack- 
 ling over it ; and old Michelet will be one of the first to 
 pounce upon them. The old man never forgets a slight 
 put upon him, and it is a bitter grievance that he pro- 
 nounced upon this picture, and an English ignoramus 
 sold it as something else, in defiance of his decision. All 
 these things will work in your favor, if there is no other 
 object than simply wishing to get possession of the pic- 
 ture because it is a Raphael ; a private grudge might do 
 more mischief than anything else. Has Von Harden- 
 burg any motive for wishing to injure you ? " 
 
 Like a flash, the look he had given Dorethea that 
 day in the corridor came before me. The hot blood 
 mounted to my face and left my heart still and cold ; 
 but I replied, calmly, "He knows that I hate him 
 cordially." 
 
 " Well, there is your danger ; you must look out for 
 
326 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 him. Now tell me what you intend to give for the 
 
 picture." 
 
 « All I am worth, if it is necessary." 
 
 " Oh, nonsense ! you don't mean that." 
 
 " I do," I replied, firmly ; " I will bid on it to the full 
 value of my estate." i 
 
 " And how much is that ? " 
 
 « About fifty thousand pounds." 
 
 "My dear boy, don't be absurd. Kemember we are 
 discussing business. You can't mean that you will give 
 fifty thousand pounds for a picture that you may not be 
 able to sell for one thousand." 
 
 «I mean that I will give all I have to get the picture, 
 I reiterated. 
 
 « And beggar yourself for three feet of canvas ? My 
 dear fellow, you are certainly crazy, and I must decline 
 having anything more to say on the subject." 
 
 "Very well, then," I returned, hotly, "since you will 
 not act the part of a friend, I shall employ a broker to 
 bid on it. I think it best not to appear in the matter 
 
 myself." 
 
 *' I am sorry, my dear Markland, to have to refuse ; 
 but, really, I can't assist in doing you such an injury. I 
 don't blame you for wanting to get possession of the pic- 
 ture at a reasonable sum, but to impoverish yourself — to 
 go about it in this mad way I can't, I really can't. Think 
 H over calmly until to-morrow. Come, run with us do\s n 
 to Margate. You had better be out of London until the 
 sale. Your only chance is in not letting them know that 
 you have seen the picture. Your bids will take them by 
 surprise, and they will back down the sooner." 
 
 "I must go to my lawyer's at once, to arrange about 
 the money," I said, rising hurriedly. « I shall be obliged 
 
rsiAST. 
 to give for the 
 
 I on it to the full 
 
 Leixiember we are 
 ;hat you will give 
 it you may not be 
 
 get the picture," 
 
 of canvas ? My 
 nd I must decline 
 bject." 
 
 yr, " since you will 
 mploy a broker to 
 pear in the matter 
 
 have to refuse; 
 such an injury. I 
 ssession of the pic- 
 erish yourself — to 
 sally can't. Think 
 !, run with us Aovi n 
 f London until the 
 ng them know that 
 s will take them by 
 J sooner." 
 
 se, to arrange about 
 « I shall be obliged 
 
 THE STRANGE STORY OP A PICTURE. 
 
 82T 
 
 to sell Markland Place, as I must have the money at 
 liaiid." 
 
 " Now, my dear boy, listen to reason ; I am older than 
 you, and of cooler blood ; I can see the fearful results of 
 tiiis unwise haste ; all your future will be marred by it. 
 God knows, I am your friend, and I want most sincerely 
 to help you if I can. I will attend the sale, and bid on 
 the picture if you will fix some reasonable limit, say 
 twenty thousand pounds, and that is ten thousand more 
 than my judgment approves of. I hope, however, there 
 will be no necessity of paying so much. Go to your 
 man of business, and tell him to be at Christie's on the 
 morning of the sale, Avith twenty thousand pounds, and 
 authorize him to pay wliatever I may offer, up to that 
 amount." 
 
 " And perhaps for a few pounds more, lose the chance 
 of getting it," I exclaimed, impatiently. "No, no, I 
 an't risk losing it in that way." 
 
 " There will be no risk. The picture will not reach 
 that figure. The Papal government offered a Raphael 
 to Russia, only a few months ago, for less ; I know it to 
 be the truth. There are several well authenticated 
 works of that master to be disposed of at this very 
 moment for less than twenty thousand pounds. Why, 
 to a poor fellow like me, the sum seems enormous. 
 Think of it in this way. You have no right to sacrifice 
 your estate, to alienate it from your chUdren if you 
 marry : it is not yours morally ; you hold it in trust 
 for future generations. It would be a wicked thing for 
 you to do ; a bitter wrong to the woman you will marry." 
 
 " Ah, you do not know all," I cried, passionately. " If 
 I buy the picture I shall never marry. Lord Hardmoor 
 has told me that he would take his daughter from me, 
 
 ^s mivxrn i ssumK^^.i'-y ' ttm -r^ 
 
328 THE STOBY OP AK ENTHTtRlAST. 
 
 even at the altar. It will separate us forever I know 
 vhTtts before n^e, 1 have counted the cost. Don't tlnnk 
 That I am going blindly to my ruin. No, no, all my 1 fe, 
 ever s^ce I loved her, I have looked forward to the 
 moment when I should have to choose between tins and 
 Wove. It is my destiny. It is useless to struggle 
 
 ^^Mr'Vrent looked at me with a puzzled, pitying expres- 
 sion. ' I believe he thought me temporarily insane, for 
 he spoke very gently to me, nmch as one ^-^^^ \« ^ ^^^^ 
 child. " Well, well, don't try to struggle ; be reasonable, 
 be moderate, and we will arrange it. Come with me to 
 your lawyer. Leave it to him and me, and we will see 
 . you through. You shall have the picture and some- 
 thing left over to live on. Come, let us hnish this busi- 
 ness, and then I shall carry you off for a couple of days. 
 
 "Very well," I said, "I will do as you wish ; but it i 
 lose the picture I shall never forgive you." 
 
 "You are more likely never to forgive me if you get 
 it." he replied, with a laugh, as we went out. 
 
 I had some difficulty to bring my lawyer to terms. 
 ■ He was old and prudent ; and he, and his father before 
 him, had managed the estate for nearly a hundred years 
 But my previous economy impressed him fayorab y, and 
 he saw that I was dreadfully in earnest, and that if he 
 did not comply with my request, I would go to some one 
 else, who might be more obliging and less scrupulous. 
 
 When the negotiations with the lawyer were com- 
 pleted, Mr. Brent insisted that I should meet him and 
 his wife at the evening train for Margate. Caring httle 
 how I passed the time until the 14th, and agreeing 
 with my friend that I had better be out of London, 1 
 promised to accompany him. 
 
. im. J> iiri ,i. m,»^ii . \' , jrv- '. -«a^^^ .' r ^ 'l^ 
 
 nsiAST. 
 
 forever. I know 
 :',ost. Don't think 
 sfo, no, all my life, 
 hI forward to the 
 I between this and 
 iseless to struggle 
 
 led, pitying expres- 
 porarily insane, for 
 )ne would to a sick 
 trie ; be reasonable. 
 
 Come with me to 
 16, and we will see 
 picture, and some- 
 us tinish this busi- 
 r a couple of days." 
 you wish ; but if I 
 you." 
 
 give me if you get 
 'ent out. 
 
 ly lawyer to terms, 
 id his father before 
 rly a hundred years. 
 . him favorably, and 
 nest, and that if he 
 pould go to some one 
 d less scrupulous. 
 
 lawyer were com- 
 lould meet him and 
 irgate. Caring little 
 
 14th, and agreeing 
 be out of London, I 
 
 THK STUAMGE STOUY OF A I'lCTUUK. 
 
 329 
 
 I took a cab, drove to my hotel, wrote a luisty note to 
 Lord lliirdmoor, telling him tluit 1 should be out of 
 town lor a few days, another to Dorothea, of the same 
 purport ; then, hastily packed a portmanteau, swallov/ed a 
 little dinner reluctantly, — ! had eaten nothing all day, 
 — and so to the station, and from there to iMurgate, like 
 one in a dark confused dream. 
 
 XI. 
 
 We returned from Margate on the morning of the 
 14th. Mr. Brent went directly to Christie's, while I 
 betook myself to the privacy of my lodgings, where I 
 passed the greater part of the day, a prey to the most 
 harrowing anxiety, tortured witli the most dreadful con- 
 tradictions. 
 
 At times I thought of Dorethea, down t Hardmoor 
 Hall, preparing for her wedding. Trustful, happy, full 
 of bright anticipations. What a blow this would be to 
 her young heart ! How would she bear the change in my 
 prospects, even if her father consented to our marriage, 
 which I dared not think of with any degree of hope ? 
 How coidd we live ? How could I provide a suitable 
 home for her ? Markland Place must be sold, if Mr. 
 Brent succeeded in buying the picture. The home that 
 I had prepared for my bride must pass into the hands 
 of strangers before it had been blessed by her sweet 
 presence, and I would have nothing to otfer in its place 
 but a paltry income from what would remain. 
 
 Then again a gleam of hope pierced the clouds that 
 enveloped me. K Dorethea loved me she would share 
 my fate, let it be what it would. With my profession, I 
 could still be independent — not rich, yet not poor. 
 
330 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 And there was Rome, always the refuge of the impecu- 
 nious artist. We could live there a delightful lite on 
 80 little. I would not despair ; the picture once mine 1 
 could settle other difficulties afterward. But suppose 1 
 did not get it. Oh, the torture of knowing the prize so 
 near, and that I might lose it for a few paltry pounds! 
 At times I felt like rushing away to King Street, to be 
 there to bid on it myself if it went beyond the limit 
 that Mr. Brent had decided upon. But that might rum 
 everything. No; I could only wait, pacing tlie floor 
 restlessly, and longing for the end of my terrible sus- 
 
 ^""it^was well on to three o'clock, when I heard foot- 
 steps ascending the stairs and rapidly approaching my 
 door The supreme moment had come. I sank into a 
 chair with only strength enough to say, "Come in, in 
 response to the hurried knock. 
 
 Mr Brent pushed open the door brusquely, an^l en- 
 tered. He was pale and agitated. "It is yours, he 
 said, grasping my hand, "but^at what a sacrifice! 1 
 have done you a fearful wrong." _, 
 
 <' How much ? " I gasped, shaking like a leaf. 
 « Eighteen thousand pounds." 
 
 "Eighteen thousand pounds," I repeated, stupidly; 
 '• are you sure it is mine ? " , , . 
 
 "Sure, yes. Good God, do you understand what a 
 fortune you have thrown away on it?" and he dropped 
 into a chair, and wiped his forehead furiously. " I have 
 been a fool to be dragged into this. By and by you wil 
 hate me for it. But, my dear fellow, J did the best I 
 could. There was the closest competition." 
 
 "You did splendidly, magnificently," I cried. "You 
 have bought the picture, and saved half my fortune." 
 
ii «r fc i'? - ^ i' ii ii i^ ii l i > ,< ^ t i ii' ii ' i 1 1 'ffn i will li il « I n i firfi' i liiAi 'iV i 'A i -ii . ' i w iii i i. 'r-u'W ^ ' i li'igM i 'n i 'H i 
 
 l| l li r | M> i K^ i Ort l i 
 
 T^ 
 
 U8IA8T. 
 
 re of the impecu- 
 delightful life on 
 cture once mine I 
 1. But suppose I 
 wing the prize so 
 e\v paltry pounds ! 
 King Street, to be 
 ; beyond the linnt 
 ;ut that might ruin 
 i, pacing the floor 
 of my terrible sus- 
 
 inrhen I heard foot- 
 ly approaching my 
 me. I sank into a 
 say, " Come in," in 
 
 brusquely, and en- 
 
 "It is yours," he 
 
 fhat a sacrifice ! I 
 
 ; like a leaf, 
 repeated, stupidly, 
 
 understand what a 
 ;?" and he dropped 
 L furiously. " I have 
 
 By and by you will 
 ow, J did the best I 
 etition." 
 
 itly," I cried. " You 
 half my fortune." 
 
 THE 8TBAN0E STOICY Ol<' A PICTUKB. 
 
 331 
 
 « I should have washed my hands of the whole affair," 
 he groaned, " and let some one else ruin you. Oh, I 
 shall never forgive myself ! " 
 
 "At that moment, heavy footsteps approached out- 
 side. Mr. Brent jumped up excitedly, and flung the 
 door wide open. "Here is a man with eighteen thou- 
 sand pounds worth of old paint and canvas, not counting 
 the frame, which is worm-eaten and shabby. Set it 
 down, my good fellow, and here is a shilling for fetching 
 
 it up." 
 
 Mechanically, I drew a half-crown from my pocket 
 and added it to the shilling. The man took it grate- 
 fully, gave us each a puzzled look, and went quietly 
 
 away. 
 
 He had placed the picture on the floor against the 
 wall. The soft eyes looked up at me with that strange, 
 inscrutable gaze. The lips smiled sweetly, but it 
 seemed as if there was an expression of gentle derision 
 in their delicate curves. I fell on my knees before it, 
 and leaned my head on the frame; and again, as in 
 my childhood, my tears rolled down the soft, olive 
 cheek. " My mother ! my father ! " I sobbed. I was 
 crushed, broken, as weak as a child sobbing on the 
 breast of its mother. I forgot that I was twenty-six, 
 and a man who should have scorned such weakness ; 
 and there on my knees, with my head against the frame, 
 I wept as freely as I did that night before I left my old 
 home in the Rue de Grenelle. When at last I looked 
 up, Mr. Brent was gone, and I was alone. 
 
 After my first burst of emotion had subsided, I placed 
 the picture on a chair and set myself sternly before it to 
 try to solve the problem of my future. 
 
 With those eyes fixed on me, I could not regret what 
 
THE STOltY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 I had done. But liow would it be when Dorethea looked 
 at me sadly and reproachfully ? Or worse, wlien I was 
 banished from her presence, to see her no n-.ore on earth. 
 Could I live without her ? my love, my bride. For the 
 sake of this painted face, with its soft, derisive smile, 
 perhaps I should lose a warm, living heart, a sweet, 
 tender love, all the joy and perfection of my life, home, 
 fortune, friends. Who could tell how great the disasters 
 that might follow my one mad desire for the possession 
 of this inanimate .scrap of cloth and sombre color. 
 
 No, oh, no ! It was divine. It glowed with immortal 
 life. It irradiated all the dim corners of my soul. It 
 filled me with a strong desire for something beyond 
 the needs of the heart. I seemed suddenly to soar away 
 above my sordid surroundings into a clearer, purer ether, 
 to be uplifted beyond myself, to see things that I had 
 dimly dreamed of. Oh, why cannot I too be immortal, 
 and live forever in the great throbbing heart of human- 
 ity ! What was earthly happiness compared with this 
 moment of inspiration in the presence of undying genius ? 
 It was not too late to strive for fame. I could live 
 without the pale light of earthly love, but I could not 
 live without my divine ideals. For months I had been 
 dreaming a fond, sensual dream — love, comfort, domestic 
 bliss, wife, children. What were tliey compared to Uie 
 higher life, the glowing inspiration of genius ? I did not 
 need friends or fortune. I covild rf;nounce all, and live 
 apart from the world in the celestial atmosphere of art. 
 
 And Dorethea? Dorethea's smiling blue eyes seemed 
 to look suddenly into mine. Gently persistent, they took 
 the place of the dark eyes of the picture. But the 
 mouth, the curved lips, with their pure, simple lines 
 and tender color, still smiled with soft derision. 
 
■ Bl jii i i i ii ii'. i if ii r i M i ■ f il ial 
 
 iii « i » ii i i>tii 
 
 ■ ■| >» >i > r i f i ai ii 
 
 [U81AST. 
 
 :n Dorethea lookcil 
 worst', wlioii I was 
 r no more ou earth, 
 iiy bride. For the 
 )l't, derisive smile, 
 ig heart, a sweet, 
 u of lay life, home, 
 great the disasters 
 for the possession 
 iombre color, 
 wed with iiuraortal 
 I's of my soul. It 
 something beyond 
 denly to soar away 
 clearer, purer ether, 
 things that I had 
 [ too be immortal, 
 g heart of humau- 
 ompared with this 
 of undying genius ? 
 irae. I could live 
 re, but I could not 
 nonths I had been 
 s, comfort, domestic 
 jy compared to the 
 : genius ? I did not 
 ounce all, and live 
 atmosphere of art. 
 ; blue eyes seemed 
 ersistent, they took 
 picture. But the 
 pure, simple lines 
 t derision. 
 
 THK STUANCK STOUY Ol<' A I'lCTUltK. 
 
 333 
 
 With an impulse of horror that I could not account 
 for, I turned the picture to the wall and went out, lock- 
 ing and double locking it within. 
 
 My landlady was just entering as I opened the street 
 door. "There is something very valuable in my room," 
 I said. " Do not allow any one to go there while I am 
 absent." 
 
 "You need not be uneasy, Mr. Markland. I will 
 watch your apartment myself. No one can enter with- 
 out my knowing it." 
 
 No sooner had I left the house than I began to think 
 of all sorts of accidents that might occur to rob me of 
 my treasure. And I was half inclined to return, but I 
 remembered that I had a duty of a ditticult nature to 
 perform. I must see Lord Hardmoor as soon as possible ; 
 but I could scarcely hope to find him in Berkeley Square 
 before the hour of dinner, and 1 knew him too well to 
 attack him on an empty stomach. Therefore, I must 
 possess my soul in patience until about nine in the even- 
 ing, when I hoped he would be genially influenced by a 
 hearty dinner, washed down with good wine. 
 
 Scarcely knowing how to dispose of my time until 
 then, I strolled toward the park, and was just entering 
 the Victoria gate when I saw Mr. Brent talking to a 
 distinguished-looking man whom I recognized. He was 
 a Russian, and I had met him in Rome some three years 
 before. 
 
 As soon as Mr. Brent saw me, he left the Russian and 
 hastened eagerly toward me. " I'm glad to see that you 
 have recovered yourself sufficiently to come out and 
 walk off your excitement," he said. " But you came 
 near not getting it, and now I wish to Heaven you hadn't. 
 It was a narrow chance. Only for Geldowsky who has 
 
- uB iiwii in itf i i y 
 
 8;u 
 
 TUB 8TOUY OV AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 just left ine, and who is known as a rich llusiian, thoy 
 would have run it up several thousands hv^'hor. There 
 was the greatest curiosity to find out wlioni 1 was reiu-e- 
 seutinsr CJeldowsky was seen talking with mo during 
 the sale, and that confirmed the report, that had already 
 circulated, that I was an agent for the Russian govern- 
 ment. 80 the Count thought he might as well back 
 down. I don't believe Lord Hardmoor or the Gernuin 
 suspect that you got the picture. They inuigine Russia 
 
 got it." ^ , 
 
 " They will soon kuow," I replied. " I must see Lord 
 
 Hardmoor at once." 
 
 « My dear boy, don't go there until you are perfectly 
 cool, or you will get into trouble. He will be furious at 
 not getting the picture, and more furious still at being 
 the cause of your sacrificing half your fortune. For, 
 had it not been for them, I believe you could have bought 
 it for fifty pounds. There was no other competition 
 until it got into the thousands ; then there were a few 
 cautious bids by dealers who began to suspect there was 
 more in the picture than they thought." 
 
 "It is a cruel piece of treachery," I said, bitterly. 
 « Lord Hardmoor knew that it was the strongest wish of 
 my life to get possession of that picture again. He has 
 wronged me beyond all reparation, and I can never for- 
 give him ; I wonder how he will one day account for the 
 trust reposed in him by my father." 
 
 « Well, let us at least give him the benefit of the doubt. 
 Von Hardenburg may have led him astray. Perhaps he 
 does not know that it was the same picture." 
 
 « Yes, he kneio it perfectly well, and lie tried to pre- 
 vent my knowing it ; that is enough to convince me that 
 there was a plot between hira and the Count. He did 
 
i — wn «»ii ii i i i r<i.iHWI | Wi il m- ' i rumn ii 
 
 «M«M 
 
 HITHIAHT. 
 
 rich lluRsian, thoy 
 iida li'j,'lier. There 
 
 whom I was reprc- 
 iig with mo during 
 )rt, that had already 
 the Russian govern- 
 night as well b.ack 
 loor or the Gernuui 
 'hey imagine Russia 
 
 « I must see Lord 
 
 il you are perfectly 
 le will be furious at 
 irious still at being 
 your fortune. For, 
 ou could have bought 
 
 other competition 
 in there were a few 
 to suspect there was 
 ght." 
 
 3ry," I said, bitterly, 
 bhe strongest wish of 
 sture again. He has 
 md I can never for- 
 le day account for the 
 > 
 
 ?. benefit of the doubt. 
 
 1 astray. Perhaps he 
 J picture." 
 
 and he tried to pre- 
 li to convince me that 
 I the Count. He did 
 
 TMK HTIIANOE 8TOKY OF A PK rUUli. 
 
 335 
 
 not wish me to got it, because ho knew that I would 
 boldly proclaim it a Raphael, and that I could support 
 my assertion, aud h.' would therefore appear ridiculous 
 in the estimation of every art critic in Europe." 
 
 We were now walking rapidly up Tall Mall, and I 
 was talking earnestly, when some one in the crowd 
 jostled me slightly. 1 looked up, and in the gathering 
 twilight I saw just passing us Geldowsky the Russian, 
 and with him a strangely familiar figure — a remarkable 
 face, pale and haggard, with a restless gleam in the 
 sombre eyes. " Ah, who was that ? " I cried. " Could it 
 be Polonle ? " I turned and hurried back, but already 
 they were lost in the crowd. Then I knew who had 
 written the anonymous letter. It was Volon». Long 
 before, he had promised to help me in my search. He 
 had survived his sorrows, and he was in London, and in 
 some way had discovered the picture and the plot against 
 me ; and he was still my friend, yet he had passed me 
 like a phantom of the past, hurrying by in the gloom, 
 without a word or sign. _ 
 
 When I reached Berkeley Square, the butler informed 
 me that Lord Hardmoor was still at table, ana that 
 Count von Hardenburg was dining with him. 
 
 "Very well, William, I will go into the library, and as 
 soon as his lordship comes out, tell him I am there, and 
 wish to see him alone. Remember, alone," I said, de- 
 cidedly, as the man opened the door for me. 
 
 I had only waited a few moments, when Lord Hard- 
 moor came in hurriedly; and, as he closed the door, he 
 said, impatiently: "Why, what are you doing here? I 
 thought you were out of town." 
 
 « I returned this morning," I replied, coldly. " I came 
 back to attend to some important business." 
 
880 
 
 THK HTOllY OK AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 " Ah! " ami ho (hiitcd a quifk, iiKiuiiiiig look straight 
 at mo. " May I ask what it was ? " 
 
 I stiulioil his face sihuitly for an instant ; lio was turn- 
 ing porcoptibly i)ah', and his hanils shook nervously as 
 lie tried to light a oigar. Th.-n 1 unswor.Hl, doliboratt'ly : 
 «I canio to buy back the liaphael which was sold to-day 
 at Christie's." 
 
 " The Raphael — Christie's — to day. What the devil 
 do you mean?" ho stammered, while his eyes sought 
 
 the floor. 
 
 "Lord llardmoor," I said, sternly, " there is no need 
 of equivocating or affecting ignorance. You know ex- 
 actly what I mean, and you knew it several days ago, 
 when you met me on Oxford Street and advised mo to 
 go out of town." 
 
 "Knew 'what? Explain yourself. By Heavens, I 
 don't want to listen to any of your riddles."' 
 
 " You knew the IJaphad you sold for almost nothing 
 after my father's death was at Christie's for sale. You 
 had just left there when I met you, and you never told 
 
 me." 
 
 " Indeed ! You seem very well informed concerning 
 my movements. What in hell do you mean by watching 
 me?" he cried, furiously, while his eyes glared with 
 
 rage. 
 
 "By the merest chance, instead of following your dis- 
 interested advice, I turned into King Street, and — from 
 force of habit, 1 suppose — looked in at Christie's, when 
 the first thing my eyes fell upon was that fatal picture, 
 that through you was sacrificed and lost, and which you 
 so well know I have devoted the best energy of my life 
 to recover. Lord Hardmoor, you could have made me 
 your debtor forever by helping me to get it. Instead of 
 
I » l ■ 1 " » 
 
 ,^tl^li0lUmi r-' < I III ii« - i 
 
 Il K lO T i 
 
 .<*!■ 
 
 VV 
 
 l»i » l n « i' i n » 
 
 11 US 1 AST. 
 
 liiing look stmight 
 
 stiint ; ho wna turn- 
 shook iiurvously us 
 iviM'tnl, (U'lilM'ratt-'ly : 
 ii'li was sohl to-day 
 
 i,y. What tho devil 
 ilo his oyes sought 
 
 , " there is no need 
 
 ICC. You know ex- 
 
 t several days ago, 
 
 and advised me to 
 
 f. By Heavens, I 
 itldles.'' 
 
 L for almost nothing 
 
 ;tie's for sale. You 
 
 and you never told 
 
 informed concerning 
 )u mean by watching 
 IS eyes glared with 
 
 f following your dis- 
 g Street, and — from 
 11 at Cliristie's, when 
 is that fatal picture, 
 . lost, and which you 
 st energy of my life 
 could have made me 
 to get it. Instead of 
 
 '1..K HTUANQK liTOUV OV A I'lOTUUli. 
 
 ;U{7 
 
 that, }i>u and your friend formed a plan to deprive me 
 of it, and forced me to Hacritice half of my fortune in 
 order to compete wifli your bids; accidentally I have 
 discovered the plot. It is what I would expect from 
 Count von llanlenburg, but for you, Uie man 1 thought 
 my friend, — you, my former guardian, and, still more, 
 tho father of my promised wife, — to do me such a 
 wrong is doubly cruel." 
 
 I pausoil a moment expecting an answer — some expla- 
 nation, some vindication ; but his hard, metallic eyes 
 never changed their angry glare, anil his lips remained 
 iirmly closed in grim, sarcastic silence. 
 
 After looking at mo steadily for some time with uhis 
 devilish, stony stare that sent the hot blood wV'.amg to 
 my brain, he rose slowly, and walked leif arely to the 
 door. Then, looking back, he said, with an air of 
 haughty dismissal : " Well sir, if you have nothing more 
 to say, I will ring for a servant to show you out. And 
 never presume to darken my doors again. I do not 
 know you." 
 
 His insulting words and manner maddened me ; a 
 hellish Hame seethed through every fibre of my body ; a 
 demon of hate took possession of me, and, with a cry of 
 rage, I sprang upon him. 
 
 What followed I do not clearly remember, but I think 
 I felled him to the ground with one blow. Then I have 
 a vague recollection of Count von Hardenburg taking me 
 l>y the arm and leading me to the door, while he said, in 
 his calm, even tones, " My poor friend, you are insane. 
 For God's sake, go away, or there will be a terrible 
 scene. No one must know of this. Go away quickly, 
 and I will attend to his lordship." 
 Then the door was closed, and I stood outside — out- 
 
338 THE STOllY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 side of love, hope, happiness - outside, in a hell not 
 altogether of my own making. . 
 
 For the time I must have been insane, for I know that 
 I acted like one bereft of reason. Confronted so sud- 
 denly with the awful consequences of my rash act, my 
 brain reeled to and fro. The ghastly vapors of the 
 black London night assumed fantastic shapes; gleams 
 of lurid light flashed before my eyes, and horrible souwds 
 surged through my ears. I shook my clenched hand at 
 the house, and broke out into bitter words of rage and 
 defiance. I was conscious that a number of people were 
 gathering around me, and I heard some one say dis- 
 tinctly, « Poor fellow, he's mad ! " and a mocking voice 
 returned, " Yes he's mad with drink." 
 
 Then some one took me gently by the arm, and led 
 me away from the rude crowd into the black, drifting 
 vapor, into silence and darkness. I did not resist but 
 went with my guide, I know not whither. On and on, 
 through crowded thoroughfares, through narrow streets 
 and winding lanes, in and out, back and forth, hurriedly 
 and breathlessly, driven before these black vapors like a 
 helpless soul through the whirling, ghostly shades ot 
 
 hell. , . . r 
 
 Never while I live will the ghastly impression ot 
 that dreadful night fade from my memory. When the 
 morning dawned, I stood alone on Westminster bridge 
 worn, exhausted, drenched to the skin, haggard and 
 dishevelled, but once more in possession of my reason, 
 and conscious of my terrible position. 
 
 I was alone; but who had drifted with me through 
 the night and black vapor? Who had kept that awfn 
 vigil with me? What firm, gentle arm had supported 
 me through that wild, rushing whirl ? Whose sad voice 
 
 ?s!eS&!ir'^*''**'y*»*w^' ■■ 
 
, 1 iiV r nj 1 ■ i r if|» ,i j gl l ! i \tnr i lfr' i ' . ' In 
 
 il i ' t jii ii ' »rlr( j fa i fj i> ' l rM' « t i l l i' *' ' i i i Mfi i ' i r. . r >i i ii < i»ii 'U i l i i*'>' 
 
 HUSIAST. 
 
 side, in a hell not 
 
 xne, for I know that 
 Confronted so sud- 
 of my rash act, my 
 istly vapors of the 
 3tic shapes; gleams 
 and horrible souwds 
 ay clenched hand at 
 r words of rage and 
 mber of people were 
 I some one say dis- 
 md a mocking voice 
 
 )y the arm, and led 
 
 the black, drifting 
 
 1 did not resist, but 
 whither. On and on, 
 rough narrow streets 
 : and forth, hurriedly 
 3e black vapors like a 
 ig) ghostly shades of 
 
 ;hastly impression of 
 memory. When the 
 1 Westminster bridge 
 le skin, haggard and 
 session of my reason, 
 on. 
 
 ted with me through 
 . had kept that awful 
 le arm had supported 
 Lrl ? Whose sad voice 
 
 THE STRANGE STOItY OF A PICTURE. 
 
 339 
 
 bid me live and not despair ? Whose divine tenderness 
 cooled the fire of hate raging in my soul ? That voice, 
 that face — were they phantoms of the past ? 
 
 With the first faint beam of day, my guide had van- 
 ished. He had left me without a word, a sign. But, in 
 spite of the black shadows that surrounded us, I knew 
 that I had seen him many a time before, and, like a 
 gleam from Paradise among Stygian gloom, a memory 
 pierced the darkness of my soul. A quiet shade, a still, 
 green place ; a beautiful face bending down, a passion- 
 ate love-lit face looking up. And this was the end, 
 the night that followeth the day — to rush with me 
 through the dense, blinding vapor, striving to save my 
 soul from the consuming agony that he had suffered and 
 survived. 
 
 XII. 
 
 When T returned to my lodgings, the first object that 
 met my sight was the unfortunate picture turned with 
 its fa<'.e to the wall as I had left it. I passed it with a 
 shudder, and went straight to my chamber, and, throw- 
 ing myself upon my bed, I sank into a heavy slumber. 
 When I awoke it was high noon. For some time I could 
 not remember what had happened; only the sense of an 
 awful calamity rested upon me. 
 
 But by degrees everything became clear. A letter lay 
 on my dressing-table. It was from Dorethea, full of 
 tender endearments, and pretty girlish fancies, and it 
 was written about the time when I had signed the death- 
 warrant to my happiness by becoming the owner of the 
 pi(!ture. Poor child, how light of heart, how lovmg, 
 how trusting ! And even now the evil tidings were has- 
 
 PHRWSvi'C^!^'-" - 
 
 !M^|!im-."iJaftMmi'"<M''i*'W' 
 
840 
 
 THE STOPvY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 tening toward her. There would be no marriage at the 
 Hall ; no happy wedding journey ; no home-coming to 
 Mavklaud Place. 
 
 A sudden revulsion of feeling came over me. I was 
 enraged at myself ; my own stubborn folly, my own in- 
 sane determination wrought my ruin, and the ruin of 
 the gentle heart that loved me. 1 alone was to blame, 
 and I richly deserved my fate ; but Dorethea, my dar- 
 ling, how bitterly I had wronged her. Contrite, broken- 
 hearted, melted with sorrow, I sat down and poured out 
 my very soul in penitent pleading. I implored her to 
 pardon my rash act. I did not accuse her father, I took 
 all the burden of the blame upon myself. I pleaded by 
 my life-long love for her, by the sorrows of my youth, 
 and my strong, impetuous nature, that she would listen 
 to me, and give me one ray of hope for the future. I 
 know my letter was eloquent with feeling. The passion 
 and despair of ray soul filled evory line. I was pleading 
 for more than life — I was pleading for hoi^e. 
 
 With outward calmness, I despatched my letter, 
 dressed, and made a pretence of breakfasting, and then 
 went out. The first thing I did was to order a heavy 
 oaken box, clamped with iron, and fastened with a lock 
 of the most intricate workmanship ; after which I went 
 to my club, and seated myself at a table, with the morn- 
 ing papers before me. 
 
 There was a mirror in a cabinet opposite me, and I 
 looked at myself critically to see if any signs of my 
 recent struggle were apparent. No ; I looked precisely 
 the same man who sat there ohe day before, save a more 
 settled pallor, a firmer pressure of the lips, and a some- 
 what gloomy eye. I congratulated myself on my com- 
 posure, and felt a degree of satisfaction at my newly 
 
 jjiuM j mMj'.'f i .' f W T 
 
I I M l <^"j« < » *^ i> ll !» i ^ 
 
 IU8IAST. 
 
 10 marriage at the 
 lo home-coming to 
 
 e over me. I was 
 folly, my own iu- 
 n, and the ruin of 
 lone was to blame, 
 Dorethea, my dar- 
 Contrite, broken- 
 3wn and poured out 
 I implored her to 
 ;e her father, I took 
 self. I pleaded by 
 ■rows of my youth, 
 it she would listen 
 for the future. I 
 seliug. The passion 
 ue. I was pleading 
 for hope. 
 
 patched my letter, 
 sakfasting, and then 
 s to order a heavy 
 isteued with a lock 
 after which I went 
 able, with the morn- 
 
 , opposite me, and I 
 if any signs of my 
 i ; I looked precisely 
 
 before, save a more 
 the lips, and a some- 
 
 myself on my com- 
 iactiou at my newly 
 
 THE STRANGE STORY OF A PICTURE. 
 
 3-il 
 
 developed will. Yesterday in my ex< itement I felt and 
 acted like a child. To-day I seomtd centuries older, 
 and so tirm and strong, so resolute to hide my suffering 
 from every eye save God's. He alone should sound the 
 depths of my soul. He alone should know how weary 
 and heavy laden I was. 
 
 I took up the Times, and carelessly glanced over 
 the columns, when ray eye fell upon the following 
 article : — 
 
 " Among the pictures sold yesterday at Christie's was 
 one catalogued, ' Head of a young man, Andrea Man- 
 tegna,' which brought the astonishing price of eighteen 
 thousand pounds. The bidding was confined mostly to 
 two parties, who evidently were under the impression 
 that the picture was of great value, and who, for some 
 unaccountable reason, were determined to possess it at 
 any price. We have not yet learned who the actual 
 purchaser is, but it is rumored that it was sold to an 
 agent of the Russian government. The other competitor, 
 we understand, was a young English artist, who has 
 lately shown signs of mental aberration, and who is 
 laboring under the delusion that this very ordinary 
 picture, probably a copy of Mantegna by somo obscure 
 artist, is a work of the divine Raphael." 
 
 How long I sat there with the journal before me, read- 
 ing and rereading the hateful lines, I do not know. I was 
 stunned, appalled by the malicious cruelty of my ene- 
 mies. " Signs of mental aberration " ! Was it possi- 
 ble that any one could be wicked enough to fabricate 
 such a cruel falsehood ? What had I done ? How had 1 
 acted ? Was there anything in my conduct to support 
 such a statement ? It is true that the night before, 
 under the most terrible provocation, I had forgotten 
 
342 
 
 THK STOKY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 myself, and committed an act that I should regret as 
 long as life lasted; but up to that time I had been as 
 calm and cool as any human being could be under the 
 circumstances. 
 
 Men that I knew well — artists, critics, litterateurs, 
 who had always met me cordially — came in and wentoiit 
 with a cool bow or a pitying glance. I could not move. 
 I sat there paralyzed by this last bitter blow. At length 
 a kindly hand was laid on my shoulder. 
 
 "Come, my dear boy, don't sit there like one dazed." 
 I looked up, and Mr. Brent was standing over me. 
 
 I pointed silently to the article that had worked such 
 mischief. 
 
 " I know it. I've read it. It's a bit of beastly spite. 
 But don't take it too seriously. No one will believe 
 such an absurd story as that. They are furious because 
 you thwarted their plan and got the picture away Itom 
 them." 
 
 " Can you remain here for an hour ? " I asked, in such 
 a strained, broken voice that I myself was startled at its 
 strange sound. " I wish to write a reply to this," strik- 
 ing the paper fiercely, " and you must read it, for I am 
 not sure that I can trust to my own judgment in the 
 matter." 
 
 " Very well ; I can wait. Make it hot and strong. Tell 
 the whole truth, unless you wish to spare the old man." 
 
 " No, no, I will spare no one. I have nothing to hope 
 or fear. They are my bitter enemies, and I will sting 
 them as they have stung me." 
 
 I went to a table, and, seizing pen and paper, I 
 wrote as briefly and forcibly as possible the true story 
 of the head with the black berretta, going back to 
 the time of its purchase by niy father, and citing the 
 
:husiast. 
 
 t I should regret as 
 time I had been as 
 could be under the 
 
 critics, litterateurs, 
 v.vma in and went o\it 
 . I could not move, 
 ter blow. At length 
 ler. 
 
 lerc like one dazod." 
 ding over me. 
 liat had worked such 
 
 bit of beastly spite. 
 No one will believe 
 ' are furious because 
 le picture away Irora 
 
 r ? " I asked, in such 
 If was startled at its 
 reply to this," strik- 
 lust read it, for I am 
 iwn judgment in the 
 
 hot and strong. Tell 
 spare the old man." 
 lave nothing to hope 
 lies, and I will sting 
 
 ', pen and paper, I 
 )ssible the true story 
 etta, going back to 
 ther, and citing the 
 
 THE STRANGE STORY OF A PICTURE. 
 
 843 
 
 names of the different experts who had pronounced it a 
 work of llaphael. And to further prove its authenticity, 
 I stated the fact of the original drawing being in the 
 I'inacoteca in Venice, and said that a year ago an engrav- 
 ing of that drawing was in the possession of Count von 
 Ilardenburg, the well known German connoisseur, who 
 would doubtless produce it if called iipon. 1 then in- 
 formed the public, tersely and clearly, that Count von 
 Hardenburg aiul Lord Hardmoor had seen the picture 
 several times since it had been exposed at Christie's, and 
 had compared it critically with the engraving I referred 
 to, and that they would doubtless support me in my 
 statement, which I could prove by several witnesses. I 
 then added that it Avas true that Lord Hardmoor, who 
 formerly was not as well educated in art at he is now, 
 made the grave mistake of selling the picture in Paris, 
 in 1825, as an Andrea Mantegna, in defiance of the 
 opinion of the greatest expert in the world, M. Miclielet 
 of Paris ; that the picture had then been sacrificed, and 
 that it had been my life-long intention to purchase it if 
 the opportunity ever offered ; that I trusted the writer 
 of the article, when the truth was known to him, would 
 do me the justice to acknowledge that the fact of my 
 having paid eighteen thousand pounds for a work of 
 Raphael was no indication of mental aberration. 
 
 To this I signed my name in full, and handed it to Mr. 
 Hrent to look over. 
 
 " Admirable, excellent, clear and cutting, with no hint 
 of animosity about it," he cried, after he read it. "My 
 dear fellow, you Avill get the best of them in the end. 
 Hut cheer up, for Heaven's sake. You look ill and 
 fagged. I'm afraid you are already regretting your bar- 
 gain of yesterday." 
 
 SSSWBBBWIRW^ 
 
 ■MMMMMMHaiiHii 
 
344 
 
 THK STOUY OF AN KNTHU81A8T. 
 
 " I shall uever regret having bo\ight back the picture, 
 but I must always regret the conseqiieuces. 1 have 
 quarrelled with Lord Hardmoor beyond any hope of 
 reconciliation." 
 
 " I fancied as much. He is a stubborn old brute and 
 hates to be thwarted. But perhaps the young lady is 
 more lenient than her father. If she loves you, she 
 won't give you up so easily." 
 
 " She worships her father. She will never forgive my 
 mad act. Oh, Mr. Brent, I did worse than buy the pic- 
 ture against his wishes. He insulted me, and — I forgot 
 myself. I — oh, I hate to say it — I was insane for 
 the moment, and — I believe 1 struck him." 
 
 « Ah, that was bad ! My dear boy, I'm sorry for that. 
 I wish you had kept cool. I wish to Heaven you had. 
 Dear me ! I uever should have allowed you to go there 
 
 last night." ' , 
 
 " The interview would have taken place some time, and 
 it would have happened all the same. I could not en- 
 dure his brutal insolence," I answered, gloomily. " 1 
 tliink from the first he meant to use my buying the 
 picture as a means to separate me from his daughter. 
 He is completely under the control of Count von Harden- 
 
 burg " — 
 
 "And Mrs. Coleman Leeds," interrupted Mr. Brent. 
 " I have heard all about his infatuation. Of course he 
 don't know her true history." 
 
 " Do you ? " I asked, with but faint interest. 
 
 "I know more than I wish I did," he replied, with a 
 sad smile. " She ruined a very dear friend of mine before 
 she knew Von Hardenburg. Poor Leeds picked her up 
 somewhere, and squandered most of his fortune on her, 
 and then she gave him the cold shoulder for the German 
 Count." 
 
..I * i* n jijwh»i t »< am i w ii i <Nw i iimii H"' I 
 
 wfMto#iMP»M>i!jt it i M i , '^iMa ni i^ i n 
 
 ITHU81A8T. 
 
 ight back the picture, 
 jiiseqiieiices. 1 have 
 beyond any hope of 
 
 bubborn old brute and 
 ips the young lady is 
 f slie loves you, she 
 
 will never forgive my 
 orse than buy the pic- 
 ted nie, and — I forgot 
 b — I was insane for 
 uck him." 
 
 loy, I'm sorry for that. 
 li to Heaven you had. 
 lowed you to go there 
 
 n place some time, and 
 same. I could not en- 
 jwered, gloomily. " 1 
 bo use my buying the 
 ne from his daughter. 
 I of Count von Harden- 
 
 nterrupted Mr. Brent, 
 buation. Of course he 
 
 faint interest, 
 lid," he replied, with a 
 ar friend of mine before 
 )r Leeds picked her up 
 of his fortune on her, 
 iioulder for the German 
 
 THE STUANnK STOUY OP A I'ICTUUB. 
 
 846 
 
 " What ! Was not he her husband ? " 
 " I don't like to say anything against a woman, but I 
 believe there was a hitch somewhere — no marriage cer- 
 tificate or something of the kind. However, he is dead, 
 and the noble fellow left her the remnant of his fortune, 
 with his forgiveness, although he hadn't seen her for 
 years. By Jove ! It puzzles me how in the deuce such 
 women work their way into the best society." 
 
 " Poor Dorethea, poor motherless girl — a dove among 
 these vultures," I said, despairingly. 
 
 " If she is the right kind of a dove, she will fly to you 
 in spite of all. Look at it in that way, and take heart. 
 Come, now, address your paper and post it. And then 
 I want you to arrange your affairs, take your Raphael, 
 and come with us to Paris. We will get old Michelet to 
 bombard them across the channel." 
 
 " I can't leave London for a few days," I said, .decidedly. 
 « I must wait for a letter from Haddinghara, and I don't 
 dare expect one before to-movrow evening. Poor girl, 
 what a trial for her ! How can she decide for me against 
 her father ? It is impossible — she will never see me 
 again — and in four days from this, she would have been 
 my wife. Good God ! What a cruel wrong I have done 
 
 her ! " , 
 
 "Yes, but it's done, wrong or right. We wont 
 discuss that now, and you must have the courage of your 
 opinions. I don't blame you for being cut up. That's 
 only natural, but regretting it won't help it. You must 
 bear it like a man, and action is the best thing. Let us 
 go around to your lodgings and take a look at the picture. 
 I didn't dare to study it at Christie's. Now I know 
 where I saw it, and I was right about its being in Eng- 
 land. Geldowsky told me it was in old Boehm's coUeo- 
 
;\W TllK 8TOKY OF AN ENTllUaiAST. 
 
 ti.,n, and the old Vole bought one of my first pictures, in 
 ct gave, ,ne a sond-off, and I went cmt to us place to 
 sec it hung, and of course I saw the llaphael there. I 
 rail cleat to me now. loan even remember where it 
 was placed in his gallery." ^^ 
 
 << I wish you could have recalled it a year ago, i said, 
 
 '*^<^Yes. I wish to Heaven I could have. You might 
 have bought it quietly from the old Jew, and B^ved yoiir- 
 self all this trouble. But don't let's think of that now^ 
 We can't interfere with the decrees of fa e. Instead of 
 regretting, let us try and arrange matters for the present 
 Jd get away from this noisy, foggy Babylon as soon as 
 possfble. You must have the picture properly packed, 
 and YOU might as well attend to that now. 
 
 "/have already ordered a box. It will be sent this 
 evening. How strange," I said, bitterly, "that, now I 
 have the picture, I can't look at it." 
 
 «My poor friend, it has cost you a great deal beside 
 
 money But you will get over that feeling by and by, 
 
 Td you will value it just in proportion to what youhave 
 
 suffered in order to get it." ,„i.va, 
 
 "Perhaps so," I said, doubtfully, "but I would rather 
 
 "1/;:i' tekTst as you like. Then you must go 
 down to'llichniond with us. I told my wife tobe ready 
 at four. Don't say no, for you must go. 
 
 And I went, not' caring how I passed the time until 
 the next day, when I should know my fate beyond a 
 
 ^" wrote my first agonized petition to Dorethea on the 
 morning of the 15th -on the 16th no answer came 
 On the 17th I penned another heart-breakmg prayer for 
 
 - .-il^^BBWUBW*^^**^^ ■" 
 
"f-T, 
 
 lUaiAST. 
 
 ny first pictures, in 
 out to his place to 
 llapliael tlieve. It 
 remember where it 
 
 , a year ago," I said, 
 
 have. You might 
 rew, and saved your- 
 
 think of that now. 
 of fate. Instead of 
 itters for the present, 
 
 Babylon as soon as 
 ire properly packed, 
 t now." 
 
 It will be sent this 
 itterly, "that, now I 
 
 I a great deal beside 
 b feeling by and by, 
 :tion to what you have 
 
 , « but I would rather 
 
 TllK STUANOE STOUY OK A I'ICTUUK. 
 
 347 
 
 (,iio word of forgiveness, which was returned to me, un- 
 opened, on the 18th. On the 20th, the day that should 
 have dawned upon my happy marriage, I was crossing 
 the channel with tlie lU-ents. 
 
 Among my baggage was a flat oak box, bound heavily 
 with iron and securely locked. The porters and pas- 
 sengers eyed it with curiosity, but I could not look at 
 it without a shudder. 
 
 Then you must go 
 d my wife to be ready 
 
 ist go." 
 
 passed the time until 
 
 ow my fate beyond a 
 
 on to Dorethea on the 
 L6th no answer came, 
 irt-breaking prayer for 
 
 I 
 
 iiiminmji' i 
 
■Ml 
 
PART VI. 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 ijiittiiiMii»MtMifci>Miniii»ilriii« mm 
 
-.■■rtsWHSBME^-'. 
 
TART VI. 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 T. 
 
 RoMK. Again T am in my old apartment in the 
 Tiinata di Monti. Fortunately I fotnid it unoccupied, 
 and I engaged it at oiico, for tliere is no otlier place 
 where I should so much like to live. I have been happy 
 liere, and there are only pleasant memories connected 
 with it, and as the memory is all of happiness I now 
 have, or am ever like to have, I live on it, and it keejjs 
 me from madness and death. 
 
 Can it be possible that only two years have passed 
 since I left Rome, with youth and hope in my heart, and 
 love shining on me like a rosy dawn that promised a 
 glorious noonday ? It is only two years, and I am here 
 again, or rather what there is of me, for I am not what I 
 then was. 
 
 The padrona did not know me, and when I told her 
 who I was she gave a little cry, and said : " Oh, signore, 
 you must have been very ill ; your beautiful hair is 
 almost white. Dio miof that England has ruined you." 
 
 Yes, that England has ruined me. It is there that I 
 have suffered the keenest sorrow of my life, the fiercest 
 struggles, the most cruel defeats. England, I should 
 curse you, if my father's blood did not flow in my veins, 
 if your sun did not shine on Dorethea. 
 
 Tlie exclamation of the padrona di casa shows that I 
 
 8B1 
 
 •iMUliiMM 
 
 — -^ 
 
352 THE STORY OP AN EKTHtTSlAST. 
 
 ain changed ; and she could see only a small r.att of the 
 Xu The long, severe illness which P-f f f ™ 
 after I reached Paris with the Brents worked fearful 
 havoc with my outward man. When I recovered from 
 Tl was feeble, bent, shrunk, and old. I looked hke the 
 ptched cindei- of a human being, completely consumed 
 
 ^SS^^tt^ni:; the Brents' faithful .friendsh^ 
 and constant care, I never could have -^v^ved that 
 awful crisis. I gave myself, crushed, helpless, hopelesB 
 tnto their hands, and for weeks I knew nothing suffe ed 
 nothing, desired nothing. The fever burned until it 
 consum d youth and strength, and then it went out and 
 left me incinerated as it were, the lifeless white ashes of 
 
 "" Unhappily for me there is the closest connection 
 between my^nental and physical organization ; one can- 
 tt suffer without destroying the other. I have know, 
 men Camille for one, who could endure mental torture 
 Thout its leaving an outward trace The flesh d^ no 
 consume, the hair did not whiten, the «y« ^^^^ noUose 
 its brilliancy. But for me to have a «-^ J^^/^f "^ 
 also to have a sick body. To have a blighted, aged 
 heart means also to have a whitened head a dull eye a 
 palsied hand. Therefore the physical change in me 
 must necessarily be greater than in many others. 
 
 While I was thus lying under my consuming fares, 
 Mr Brent -God bless him !- was fighting my enemies 
 with the aid of M. Michelet. The little connoisseur is 
 old and feeble, but he still wields a c-^«j!« /f "' J^ 
 sooner was the Raphael placed on exhibition m Pans 
 than the battle began. The first thing .^/ J^^ 
 article in the Revue des Deux Mondes, written by M. 
 
>w tnwr i^ ji j ;r. ..4;' Wl ^ f ' i »ff .iiW> ^ r ^ B M FW 'J ' - 
 
 ■*j ^H i« ' i ^ W jy i ffwii i q u f yy -t n 'ifm 
 
 HtTSlAST. 
 
 a small tart of the 
 hich prostrated me 
 Jilts worked fearful 
 ;n I recovered from 
 1. I looked like the 
 ompletely consumed 
 
 ' faithful friendship 
 have survived that 
 id, helpless, hopeless, 
 lew nothing, suffered 
 3ver burned until it 
 then it went out, and 
 ifeless white ashes of 
 
 Le closest connection 
 )rganization ; one can- 
 jther. I have known 
 3ndure mental torture 
 tce. The flesh did not 
 , the eye did not lose 
 ive a sick soul means 
 liave a blighted, aged 
 ned head, a dull eye, a 
 liysical change in me 
 n many others. 
 r my consuming fires, 
 as fighting my enemies 
 he little connoisseur is 
 Ids a caustic pen. No 
 on exhibition in Paris 
 irst thing was a long 
 Mondes, written by M. 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 353 
 
 Michelet in his most scorching, scathing style, in which 
 the whole history of the " head with the black berretta " 
 was ckarly and truthfully given, and no one was spared. 
 Lord H-.rdnioor's art pretensions were ruthlessly dis- 
 sected. Count von Hardenburg was mercilessly cut up, 
 and the whole plot to deprive me of the picture at the 
 sale, and the subsequent cruel article in the Times, 
 which was traced directly to Count von Hardenburg, 
 were all exposed in the plainest and most indisputable 
 manner. Scarcely had this paper been copied in the 
 leading English journals when another appeared, 
 written by M. Geldowsky, the Russian, who confirmed 
 M. Michelet's statements in every particular from his 
 own observation and knov,»!»j<*ge. Then Lord Hanlmoor 
 wrote, and Count vovx Harlenburg wrote, and their 
 friend,: wrote, until every journal and periodical in 
 England and on the • aitinent took up the discussion. 
 Engravings of the picture and engravings of the drawing 
 in Venice were published side by side, for U. Michelet 
 spared neither trouble nor expense to defend the posi- 
 tion he hud taken, and to prove that he is the first 
 connoisseur in Europe, and was never known to make a 
 mistake ; and all that was done only served to make 
 Lord Hardmoor more ridiculous, and to place Count von 
 Hardenburg in anything but a favorable light, while the 
 authenticity of the picture is proven beyond question. 
 Til. Michelet is avenged, and my father is cleared of the 
 stigma of folly that has rested upon him for so many 
 years, and I from the cruel charge of mental aberration, 
 for having paid eighteen thousand pounds for it. 
 
 The first time I saw M. Michelet after recovering 
 from my illness, he congratulated me heartily on my 
 good fortune in tho possession of such a treasure, and 
 
 ■ 
 
354 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 i 
 
 declared that I got it cheap, that there was no estimat- 
 ing the value of such an exquisite work of the great 
 master. Oh, my God ! had he known what that picture 
 cost me, he would have spared me the cruel irony of his 
 felicitations. Then, seeing how ill and broken I was, he 
 cried out, indignantly : " The English brute, to cause you 
 so much trouble ! First to try to make you think your 
 father an idiot, and after that to force you to pay 
 eighteen thousand pounds for a picture he robbed you oi, 
 and, as if that was not enough, to crown his viUany by 
 trying to make the world believe you insane. But 
 never mind, my friend, we have punished him ; he is the 
 most ridiculous man in England, and to-day he would 
 gladly give eighteen thousand pounds if he had never 
 seen the head with the black berretta. As for the 
 German, he is not worth talking about. If half I hear 
 of him is true, he will eventually punish his lordship 
 
 enough for us all." 
 
 "He has already been punished enough," I said, 
 wearily. " I have the picture, and its origin is estab- 
 lished ; therefore I am satisfied. If you want to do me 
 a favor, M. Michelet, I beg of you to let the matter drop 
 here. Say what you like of Count von Hardenburg, but 
 spare ;.ord Hardmoor. He was my guardian, and once 
 was very good to me, and " - here I could say no more ; 
 but I mentally added, and he is Dorethea's father. 
 
 "Oh, there is nothing to spare, now. The world 
 knows all the shameful history, and, as you say, there 
 can never be any more doubt about the authenticity of 
 the picture; and, my dear boy, if you feel like parting 
 with it again, I can sell it to-day for more than you paid 
 for it. So, after all, you can take courage and console 
 yourself with the assurance that you have got the best 
 
<<S^!!*WWWff3ip9^^ 
 
 
 HU8IAST. 
 
 ere was n<> estimat- 
 work of the great 
 11 what that picture 
 e cruel irony of his 
 vA broken I was, he 
 1 brute, to cause you 
 ake you think your 
 force you to pay 
 ire he robbed you of, 
 lowu his villauy by 
 ! you insane. But 
 ished him ; he is the 
 ,nd to-day he would 
 ids if he had never 
 srretta. As for the 
 out. If half I hear 
 punish his lordship 
 
 3d enough," I said, 
 1 its origin is estab- 
 f you want to do me 
 io let the matter drop 
 von Hardenburg, but 
 yr guardianr and once 
 I could say no more ; 
 rethea's father, 
 •e, now. The world 
 nd, as you say, there 
 t the authenticity of 
 you feel like parting 
 )r more than you paid 
 courage and console 
 ou have got the best 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 855 
 
 of them, and have not lost anything either ; as I said, I 
 can get more for it than you paid." 
 
 "Thank you. You are very good to take so much 
 trouble ; I have not yet thought of what I shall do with 
 the picture. But if in the future I decide to part with 
 it, I will let you know. I would rather sell it to France 
 than to any other country." 
 
 " You have only to offer it, and I can make the nego- 
 tiations for you." 
 
 As I was leaving, the old man shook my hand kindly, 
 and said, '• Don't think of anything now but of regain- 
 ing your health ; after that, everything will adjust itself 
 satisfactorily." 
 
 M. Michelet's remark about selling the picture 
 awakened a train of thought in my mind, which gave me 
 a gleam of hope, the first for months. If I sold the 
 picture I could keep Markland Place, and establish my 
 financial affairs on their former basis. I was obliged to 
 mortgage my property in order to buy the picture. The 
 sale of it would remove that obligation, and my position 
 would be the same as before the disaster ; and then in 
 time, when every one had outlived the fury and burning 
 indignation, the bitterness and hate, was there not a 
 possibility of my forgiveness ? At least Dorethea might 
 forgive me, if I made what reparation I could. 
 
 It would cost me nothing morally to give up the pic- 
 ture, for, since my first revulsion of feeling on the day 
 that I look d at it in London and turned it to the wall, 
 I had neve ; seen it. Mr. Brent placed it in the box, and 
 gave it into M. Michelet's keeping when we reached 
 
 Paris. 
 
 Without any occupation or interest in life, the long 
 days of summer passed wearily, and autumn came. Mr. 
 
356 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Brent was making studies for a historical pic^ture, and 
 when they were finished he began to talk of returning to 
 
 °One day Mrs. Brent laid a copy of the Court Journal 
 before me, and, pointing to a paragraph, said, "There is 
 something that will interest you." It was an account of 
 the marriage of Lord Hardmoor and Mrs. Coleman 
 Leeds, and the ceremony was described with vulgar 
 minuteness. The noble groom; the lovely bride; the 
 magnificent toilet; the diamonds and bright eyes; the 
 best man. Count von Hardenburg ; the pretty maids, 
 first among them the lovely daughter of the groom ; and 
 so on for half a column. Sick and dizzy, I threw the 
 paper aside, and covered my eyes as though I could shut 
 out the hateful spectacle. 
 
 I thought of Lady Hardmoor, just two years dead, 
 and of Dorethea's grief at the time, and found myself 
 wondering how she could assist at such a heartless dis- 
 play • how she could tolerate the loud, bold woman who 
 had taken her gentle mother's place; and Count von 
 Hardenburg was first in everything. Perhaps he and 
 Dorethea were even then betrothed. At the thought 
 my head whirled, and I grew cold and faint. 
 
 A few evenings after, I walked slowly and feebly into 
 the Champs Elys6es, and, taking a chair, I sat down near 
 the Bond point, where I could watch the crowded prom- 
 enade, and the unbroken line of fashionable equipages. 
 I felt like a tired old man, who is no longer an actor, 
 but only an observer. Troops of daintily dressed, light- 
 hearted children with their coquettish nurses passed by ; 
 young men and maids, with the light of love in their 
 happy eyes ; staid, comfortable married couples, talk- 
 ing and laughing with that mutual ease and confidence 
 
i ' .H i' "Wf. » .Vy. P " 'i 
 
 HUSIAST. 
 
 itorical picture, and 
 talk of returning to 
 
 : the Court Journal 
 iph, said, « There is 
 It was an account of 
 
 and Mrs. Coleman 
 scribed with vulgar 
 e lovely bride; the 
 md blight eyes; the 
 
 ; the pretty maids, 
 iv of the groom ; and 
 1 dizzy, I threw the 
 3 though I could shut 
 
 just two years dead, 
 le, and found myself 
 such a heartless dis- 
 3ud, bold woman who 
 lace ; and Count von 
 ing. Perhaps he and 
 led. At the thought 
 and faint. 
 
 slowly and feebly into 
 I chair, I sat down near 
 bch the crowded prom- 
 fashionablo equipages. 
 
 is no longer an actor, 
 daintily dressed, light- 
 ttish nurses passed by ; 
 light of love in their 
 
 married couples, talk- 
 lal ease and confidence 
 
 NATILIKA, 
 
 367 
 
 which so plainly shows the relation between them. My 
 eyes followed them all dreamily, without much interest 
 or speculation. Now and then a bewitching face sur- 
 rounded by golden hair would flit by, and I would 
 start nervously, look eagerly at it, and then relapse into 
 my former indifference. 
 
 A pair of high-stepping ho''"es attracted my attention 
 as they approached at a swift pace, and behind them, 
 leaning back on the cushions of an elegant landau, I 
 saw Lord Hardmoor, and by his side his wife, — the new 
 Lady Hardmoor, — lovely, radiant, triumphant, in her 
 dark, haughty beauty ; and opposite, with her fair face 
 turned toward me, smiling on Count von Hardenburg, I 
 saw Dorethea, and at the same instant, swift as an inter- 
 secting flash of light, she raised her eyes and saw me. 
 With a cry that I could not have controlled to save my 
 soul from perdition, I sprang toward the carriage, while 
 she, smitten, white, and ghastly, her blue eyes and lips 
 parted, leaned forward, with one long, intense gaze, and 
 than sank back without a word or sign. They passed 
 on and left me standing there, staring wildly after them. 
 The last thing I saw was Count von Hardenburg's hand- 
 some face turned toward me with a mocking smile. 
 Then a sudden madness seized me, and, forgetting every- 
 thing but the desire to see her again, I dashed franti- 
 cally through the crowd, in and out, among the tram- 
 pling feet of horses, the crushing, grinding wheels, the 
 crowd that sprang aside from my Avild flight, the cries, 
 the jeers, the taunts ; I heard them not ; T heeded them 
 not ; on and on I went, spurning every obstacle aside. 
 But in vain; my speed was no match for the swift 
 horses. She was gone, and the strong hand of a gen- 
 darme seized me and dragged 'ae roughly aside, uaying, 
 
368 
 
 THE STORY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 brutally, " What devil is in you, that you clash through 
 a crowd like this ? I have a great mind to lock you up." 
 
 This brought ine to my senses, and, freeing myself 
 from the restraining hand of the man, I muttered some 
 excuse and sank exhausted on a bench near me. 
 
 And there I sat for hours, my head sunk on my 
 breast, my eyes fixed on vacancy, outwardly still and 
 cold ; but inwardly a scorching flame seemed consum- 
 ing me. At last, when the night was well spent, and 
 the noisy din of the vast city was sinking into a 
 drowsy murmur, I got up and crept slowly and wearily 
 back to my apartment, where I threw myself on my 
 bed, but not to sleep. Ah, no ! sleep and forgetfulness 
 were banished from my pillow. I could only remember 
 how near I once had been to happiness, and how far from 
 it I now was. Again the faint spark of hope that 
 glowed in my soul Avas extinguished, and darkness, dense 
 and unutterable, settled down upon me. 
 
 The next morning I told the Brents that I would go 
 with them to Rome, and that, as tar as I Avas concerned, 
 the sooner we left the better. I could not trust myself 
 so near Dorethea. I feared that at any moment I might 
 commit some desperate act which would ruin me utterly. 
 
 li. 
 
 Now that I am back in my old apartment, with my 
 studio arranged as formerly, and my easel in my fa- 
 vorite place, I wonder if I shall be able to paint again ? 
 I am afraid not. I seem to have lost all power of ex- 
 pression. My imagination is dull and sluggish, my 
 thoughts slow and heavy. Where are those swift, bright 
 visions that used to flit through my brain — those glow- 
 
'HU81AST. 
 
 t you dash through 
 nd to lock you up." 
 and, freeing myself 
 an, I muttered some 
 di near me. 
 
 head sunk on my 
 outwardly still and 
 ne seemed consum- 
 was well spent, and 
 ivas sinking into a 
 t slowly and wearily 
 irew myself on my 
 3p and forgetfulness 
 ;ould only remember 
 3ss, and how far from 
 spark of hope that 
 , and darkness, dense 
 me. 
 
 ents that I would go 
 • as I Avas concerned, 
 )uld not trust myself 
 any moment I might 
 [)uld ruin me utterly. 
 
 apartment, with my 
 my easel in my fa- 
 able to paint again ? 
 lost all power of ex- 
 11 and sluggish, my 
 ire those swift, bright 
 r brain — those glow- 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 859 
 
 ing inspirations, those ardent fancies, those celestial 
 dreams ? Alas ! they are gone, and Rome, even Rome, 
 seems no longer the same. 
 
 My warm sunny wall has peeled off and left gray 
 mouldy patches ; the oleander with scarlet blossoms is 
 dead ; the trailing vines hang in withered tufts, ragged, 
 brown, forlorn. Last winter's biting frost killed the 
 waxen blooms of the camellias, and they stand black and 
 shrunk as though they were perishing for the loving 
 care of their old friend, who sleeps away from sunlight 
 and bloom, in a dark bed in the Campo Santa. My merry 
 little maid Tita has burst into young womanhood, and 
 married a shoemaker years older than herself, and sits 
 all day in a dingy court working staidly with her husband, 
 and the padrona goes with a long, sad face, because she 
 misses the music of the fresh young voice so early grown 
 grave and still. 
 
 I sometimes ask myself whether the change is really 
 in my surroundings, or whether it is not in me ? The 
 world cannot suddenly have grown old and melancholy. 
 
 Does not the same yellow sunset burn and glow 
 yonder behind the pines? Are there not the same 
 enchanting nights, when the white moon hangs like 
 a crysLai felobe over gardens and fountains, and the 
 nightingale sings with the same plaintive sweetness ? 
 And does not the lark mount to heaven in the flush of 
 early morn, and the free wind sweep over the face of 
 nature with the same cool, caressing touch ? 
 
 Ah, nature has not changed, but her child has lost his 
 favorite toy, and so he rushes away from his consoling 
 mother, and falls to weeping and complaining. God 
 knows I do not wish to become morbid and melancholy. 
 I would rather take up the burden of life and go on to 
 
860 
 
 THE 8T0UY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 the end bravely and cheerfully, lint I am like a clock 
 run down. Where is the luiiul that will wind me up and 
 set me going again ? AVlure is the motive-power that 
 will give me a new interest in life ? 
 
 Ah, I know ! One ray of hope, one faint gleam, would 
 set the machinery in motion again. I ask for nothing 
 for myself. 1 only ask for the assurance that she will 
 not separate herself from rao forever and irretrievably ; 
 that she will not marry the man I hate so bitterly ; 
 for such an assurance I could bless God and live 
 
 again. . 
 
 I have written to Walter and Edith. I have emptied 
 my very heart into theirs. I have implored them to get 
 me this promise from Dorethea, that I may be able to 
 live and retain my senses ; for sometimes I feel that I 
 have been so strained and tried that my reason is like a 
 tautly drawn cord that may snap at any moment. 
 
 1 hv".wihsA I always loved Dorethea, but I never knew 
 how I loved her until I lost her ; and it is another proof 
 of the waywardness of my nature — that I desire most 
 ■what I cannot have, as is the case with the picture ; 
 once I hungered and longed to see it, as one longs for 
 the face of his love. I searched half the world over for 
 it, I sacrificed all, all for it, and now I cannot look at 
 it. The box stands here before me on a heavy easel, 
 chained securely to the floor, and the key is in my pocket, 
 yet I cannot open it. 1 wish to, but I delay. I feel 
 like one who longs to look at the dead face of his love, 
 and yet dares not for fear of the change he may see 
 there. I may as well confess the truth to myself — I am 
 trfraid to look at it, because I am sure if I see that 
 strange, derisive smile on the lips again I shall do it 
 Bome irreparable injury. I have no confidence in my- 
 
n 
 
 HUSIAST. 
 
 lit I am like a clock 
 vill wind me up and 
 e motive-power that 
 
 faint gleam, would 
 
 I ask for nothing 
 lurance that she will 
 iv and irretrievably ; 
 
 1 hate so bitterly ; 
 less God and live 
 
 ith. I have emptied 
 niplored them to get 
 lat I may be able to 
 uetimes I feel that I 
 it my reason is like a 
 any moment. 
 Ilea, but I never knew 
 id it is another proof 
 — that I desire most 
 se with the picture ; 
 ee it, as one longs for 
 ilf the world over for 
 now I cannot look at 
 me on a heavy easel, 
 e key is in my pocket, 
 , but I delay. I feel 
 dead face of his love, 
 i change he may see 
 L-uth to myself — I am 
 im sure if I see that 
 s again I shall do it 
 no confidence in my- 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 361 
 
 self. I am capable at any moment of wiping out, ruin- 
 ing, annihilating the treasure that has cost me so much. 
 
 This morning Camille came to see me, and I was as 
 much struck with the change in him ay he was at the 
 change in me. Is it unother of my morbid fancies ? It 
 seems to mo that Camille looked as if he had committed a 
 crime. His beautiful eyes met mine guiltily, lie looks 
 harassed aiul wuiil, in some way ignoble, like one who is 
 afraid of being detected in a dishonorable act. 
 
 I was glad to see him, and for a moment the old flame 
 flickered and glowed palely. At the sound of his voice 
 my heart went out to meet his with the old warmth and 
 confidence, but something met me like an iron wall, and 
 threw me back on to myself. There was an imperceptible 
 barrier between us — imperceptible to all but the heart. 
 Camille was friendly, but cold, formal, and reticent, 
 seeming to avoid all confidences. 
 
 What is the trouble? Has Ang61ique disappointed 
 him again ? 
 
 After some desultory con ■ arsation, I inquired about 
 Madam Raymond and her daughter. 
 
 "What, have you not seen them?" he asked, with 
 some surprise. 
 
 " No, not yet. I have felt too ill to make visits. I 
 have seen no one but Paul since I arrived." 
 
 " They are well," he said, with some constraint, " and 
 very happy too, I suspect. Perhaps you have not heard 
 that Madam Eaymond has lately had a snug little com- 
 petency left her by a relative in England." 
 
 " No, I have not heard it. I am very glad for them. 
 It is a great gain to them, but a great loss to art ; for 
 now I suppose La Santa will never pose as a model." 
 
 ~ -• ■• -?j»5 
 
TilK 8TOHY or AN KNTIIUSIAST. 
 
 Camill. flushed hotly. "There will ^ ^^ ;;^^ 
 
 for it, but 8he still considers ,t her duty to sit foi sacieU 
 
 Bubiects whenever she is needed." ,, 
 
 'l thought before this she would ^^^j, "^^^^ ^ ! " ;^. 
 
 1 ventured. "I thought you would follow 1 aul s 
 
 ^"Foh say no more of that, my friend," exclaimed 
 r/ t hnuatieutly. " That is all over. Augohque 
 ^efSv - o^sh^o would have married me Ion, ago^ 
 t! L. l.t« now We shall never marry. She is a 
 
 '""oh'my friend," I returned, sadly and earnertly "is 
 ^J^X^^ sweet yonn« We slip ont 0. your Me 
 
 £^:;trr;n-t^Hea:^^t^:fS 
 
 rl^ tag and patiently. 1 eannot force her agamst 
 "'f-f"! loved you when I left Bo-ne. You 
 -rrs" riS "-r:id I couia forge. , 
 
 ..ivhiseves "My own faulV'l'e cried, excitedly. I 
 S her-I wor,hip,«d her, and Ae might have con- 
 triltd .ny destiny, but she preferred her rehgron, her 
 
'•■i^iip I i.-^i 1^ i iiM,iPBi 
 
 -iy ■z^. - y •'** 
 
 U8IAHT. 
 
 11 be no necessity 
 iv to sit for sacred 
 
 ave other duties," 
 follow rauVs ex- 
 
 friond," exclaimed 
 over. Augelique 
 anied me long ago. 
 r marry. She is a 
 .11 end her days in 
 
 ■ and earnestly, " is 
 ip out of your life ? 
 . loss? l*'or God's 
 ^ake warning from 
 
 ed Camille, coldly, 
 the subject. Ang6- 
 i8 refused decidedly 
 :eaven knows I have 
 ot force her against 
 
 L I left Eome. You 
 
 tion." 
 
 ) God I could forget ! 
 
 has changed, are you 
 » 
 
 face, and he turned 
 I cried, excitedly. " I 
 . she might have con- 
 rred her religion, her 
 
 NATIIilKA. 
 
 868 
 
 dreams, her ideal life. Say no more. I tell you it ia 
 too late. I am in bondage to the devil, and nothing cuu 
 release me now." 
 
 "Oh, my poor friend! We have both lost — you in 
 one way, 1 in another." 
 
 " Lost ! Yes, that is the word," he exclaimed, with a 
 harsh, mocking l:nigh. -'Lost — lost! l?ut don't think 
 I am complaining. 1 am sii<^isfied if Angeliiiue is."' 
 Then he abrujjtly fhnnged the conversation, and soon 
 after went away, promising to come again when ho had 
 more leisure. 
 
 Yesterday, my dear master and madam came to see mo. 
 They were mucli shocked to find me .so ill and (changed. 
 My deiiv motherly friend took me in her arms and wept 
 over me, while M. Ingres wip«'d away a furtive tear. 
 He, as well as the rest of Europe, is heard the history 
 of the head with the black berretta, und, from the curious 
 looks he turned toward the iron-bound box on the easel, 
 I know he was anxious to see it I^ut he did not mention 
 it. Doubtless he has heard from Mr. Brent of my reluc- 
 tance to look at it. I despise myself for this weakness, 
 but I cannot overcome it. Some time I hope I shall 
 be stronger, and able to get the better of this singular 
 impression. 
 
 After the first sadness of our meeting passed, dear 
 madam began to talk in her cheerful way of all that had 
 happened since I left Rome, and the conversation natu- 
 rally turned to Camille and Angelique. 
 
 "We are disappointed, greatly disappointed, in Ca- 
 mille," she said, impatienLly ; "and we think he has 
 treated Angdlique badly." 
 
 "Don't say we, my love," interrupted the master; 
 
 M 
 
 rf:i--">i*JJi-.»----..i'a»f,» rM,.r ii 1 ir>^,^.m-iy'i.^-sj.^-^^^ij:T ■,--<i,'-^uMi 
 
m-i 
 
 TlIK BTOllY Of AN KNTHUHIAST. 
 
 then, turning to mo with a smile, « My wifo and I can 
 never agree ahoat this matter. She insists that Camille 
 has treated An- ■'i.iiu! badly, and 1 insist that Anguli(ine 
 has treated huii mul'v. Has not she kept the i-oor 
 fellow in a state of harrowing anxiety for two years, 
 with i'or impressions, her conscience, and her piety, and 
 at lasl refused him absolutely ? " 
 
 " All, that is your way of putting it, my frioiid," re- 
 tiuMiod madam, severely. " You know Ang^jlique wovdd 
 have married him in the end if he had not made himsolt 
 ridiculous with the Princess NatiUka." 
 
 Again the I'lincess Natilika. 
 
 " Why, ra\ har, you can't say a man is ridiculous for 
 admiring the I rinccss." 
 
 " Yes, ccrl ainly, when he is loved by an ange Hke La 
 
 Santa." 
 
 "That is just it. I have always said she is too 
 angelic. A man wants a more womanly wonmn. Now, 
 tiie Princess just strikes the happy medium." 
 
 " Oh, my friend, you shall not i)raise her in my pres- 
 ence," cried madam, excitedly. Then, turning to me, she 
 said, "My dear Felix, you don't know this woman — this 
 Princess that all the men are crazy about. She is beau- 
 tiful, therefore she is perfect to them ; but to the most 
 of her own sex she is odious." 
 
 " My dear, my love," remonstrated M. Ingres, " don't 
 be too severe." 
 
 " You know my opinion 6i her, and I am not alone in 
 thinking her an adventuress and an intrigayite." 
 
 "What!" I asked, "is slie not respectable? I have 
 heard the Brents speak of her, and I thought she was 
 quite in the fashionable swim last winter." 
 
 " That is true ; she was. She is beautiful and rich. 
 
 w»e«'' 
 
 «■ 
 
 '«-7'- 
 
IU81AST. 
 
 My wif(! and I can 
 iusiats that Camillo 
 siwt that Angoli(in<* 
 h\m kopt the i>fKir 
 ety for two yoai-H, 
 , and hor pioty, and 
 
 it, my frippd," re- 
 )W An^'t51iqne wovdd 
 id not made liimsoll' 
 
 nan is ridiculons for 
 
 by an angc like La 
 
 ys said shft is too 
 anly woumn. Now, 
 uodium." 
 
 ■aiHO her in my pres- 
 11, turning to me, she 
 7 this woman — this 
 about. She is beau- 
 sm ; but to the most 
 
 ^d M. Ingres, " don't 
 
 nd I am not alone in 
 
 intrigante." 
 
 •espectable ? I have 
 
 d I thought she was 
 
 winter." 
 
 3 beautiful and rich. 
 
 ^^^^gjfJT' 
 

 J^K^W 
 
 IMAGE EVALUATION 
 TEST TARGET (MT-3) 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 ■ 50 '""^ 
 
 t" -. 
 
 18 
 
 11-25 11.4 IIIIII.6 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 
 l6 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. M580 
 
 (716)872-4503 
 
CIHM/ICMH 
 
 Microfiche 
 
 Series. 
 
 CIHM/ICMH 
 Collection de 
 microfiches. 
 
 Canadian Institute for Historical Micro- eproductlons / Instltut Canadian de microreproductions historlques 
 
NATILIKA, 
 
 365 
 
 She lives in a princely suite of aiiartmeuts in the Cc^iti 
 Talace, and entertains niagniiicently ; bnt there is some- 
 thing wrong about her, something weird, uuciUiuy. She 
 meddles in politics, religion, and all the free questJcas of 
 the day ; and I have heard it hinted that she is always 
 surrounded with the new liberal party. There is no 
 doubt that she is a susperfc, and probably she is even 
 now under surveillance. Caniille is with her a great 
 deal, and their names are already connected in these 
 idle reports ; any one can see that our friend has changed 
 for the worse, and that he is completely in her power," 
 
 " Will he marry her ? " 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! Marry her ; why, she claims to have an 
 old husband in St. Petersburg — Prince something, an 
 unpronounceable Russian name." 
 
 " But Czorsky, a Russian painter here, says he never 
 heard of him among the nobility," interrupted the mas- 
 ter. " However, that don't matter. If she has no hus- 
 band, so much the better for our friend; there will be 
 no one to call him to account. Bnt, jesting apart, X am 
 grieved for Camille. You remember when you left 
 Rome what strides he was making in his profession. 
 As soon as he met that woman he neglected art, and now 
 I doubt if he is doing anything." 
 
 " How does he live ? " I asked. 
 
 " God only knows, unless his brother makes him an 
 allowance." 
 
 "How fortunate for Angelique that she did not marry 
 him a year ago," said madam. 
 
 " But how unfortunate for him," returned the master. 
 " If she had married him she would have influenced him 
 to lead a better life." 
 
 "Nonsense!" exclaimed madam, with conviction. 
 
l.l«^«^W'i"<fJ,' WP'.IWI ' 
 
 366 
 
 THE STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 "Angolique would have throvvn lierself away and done 
 him no good. He woulr' have yiekled to tliis .siren all 
 the same. I thank God every day that the sweet girl 
 had the strength and purity of soul to cling to her con- 
 victions. Camille will never know what a treasure he 
 has lost." 
 
 III. 
 
 This evening I was sitting here alone, lost in gloomy 
 reflections, when Madam liaymond and Angelique came 
 to visit me. How good of them to seek me out in my 
 solitude ! I wished to see them, but I cannot bring 
 myself to return to any of my old haunts. Besides, I 
 am really very weak and ill, and I lack the energy to 
 throw off this lassitude which seems to be gaining on 
 me. Every day I am reminded of my illness so long 
 ago in England. But now I have no Dorethea to win 
 me back to health. > 
 
 I know how very ill I have been, and what a wreck 
 I am, by the impression I make on my friends when 
 I first meet them. Angel ique's sweet face grew pale 
 and sad while she held my hand and looked at me 
 silently, and Madam Raymond tried to smile as she 
 said, " Oh, we can never, never let you go to England 
 again ! That black, foggy climate does not suit you. 
 You are grown too thin and pale." 
 
 " Yes, England is fatal to me," I said, drawing chairs 
 near the window, where we could see the beautiful 
 sunset while we talked. "I took youth and health 
 and hope there, and I have brought back a miserable 
 ruin of all." 
 
 " But now you are here again, we will help you to 
 
 .-.^W*^'«^att>i4 
 
iST. 
 
 Avay and done 
 I tliis siren all 
 he sweet girl 
 ug to her con- 
 a treasure he 
 
 ist in gloomy 
 igelique came 
 e out in my 
 cannot bring 
 3. Besides, I 
 ;he energy to 
 be gaining on 
 llness so long 
 ethea to win 
 
 ^hat a wreck 
 friends when 
 ZQ grew pale 
 ooked at me 
 smile as she 
 ) to England 
 not suit you, 
 
 awing chairs 
 
 he beautiful 
 
 . and health 
 
 a miserable 
 
 help you to 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 367 
 
 gain back all you have lost," returned Angolique, her 
 eyes still fixed on me with sad surprise. 
 
 I looked from one to the other. ]Madam Raymond 
 appears bright and happy. Her good fortune has come 
 late, but it is none the less welcome ; and Angelique — I 
 expected to see some signs of sorrow and regret in her 
 face, but there were none ; as she sat with the faint 
 reflection of the sunset upon her, she was the incarnation 
 of purity and peace. Looking at her calm, gentle face, I 
 felt abashed and humbled that I, a man, should be 
 weaker in my sorrow than that frail girl, who must 
 feel the keenest pangs of disappointment. Suddenly, I 
 felt a new impulse of strength and hope. If she had 
 conquered, why could not I ? The sanctuary of sorrow 
 where she had found a refuge was a'loo open to me. 
 
 In the solemn twilight we talked long and earnestly, 
 and our conlidences were mutual. Angelique spoke 
 voluntarily of Camille. " My feelings are not changed 
 toward him," she said. "If you remember, long ago, I 
 told you that I could not marry him. I never really felt 
 that I could, although, when he recovered from that 
 dreadful illness, I thought it was my duty. I thought 
 he was spared for me, and that I could help him better 
 if I were with him always. But I know it was not 
 intended that I should be his wife. Mama understands 
 it now," with a tender glance at her mother, "and she 
 is quite satisfied." 
 
 "Yes," said Madam Raymond, "I am glad to know 
 that I shall always have my child, and I can see now 
 that her marriage with M. de Brecourt would have been 
 a serious mistake." 
 
 " You must not think because I cannot marry Camille 
 that I have no interest in him. I love him as I always 
 
 1 ■ ■ 
 
368 
 
 TUli STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 have ; I think of him constantly ; I want to save his soul ; 
 I pray to God always for his liappiness and eternal 
 welfare. I think it is a work I have to do on earth. 
 He is very miserable, although no one knows it. Even 
 the Princess thinks he has the lightest heart among all 
 her friends." 
 
 "Do you know the Princess?" I asked, turning to 
 Madam Raymond. 
 
 " Oh, yes. She has been very kind to us. We were 
 invited to her receptions, and we went with every one 
 else, and Ang^lique has the idea that the I'rincess, aside 
 from all her gayety, is a prey to profound melancholy, 
 and my enthusiastic child thinks that she is another 
 wandering lamb to be restored to the fold. Entre nous, 
 Ang^lique has the spirit of a missionary. Slie wants to 
 make converts of every one she likes." 
 
 " Mama does not mean that I want to convert them to 
 the church," said Angelique, smiling gravely. " I have 
 another religion. I want to interest the Princess iu the 
 higher life. She has great influence, she is a power for 
 good or evil, and there is a close friendship between her 
 and Camille. If she" were less worldly and more spirit- 
 ual, she could lead Camille upward — she could help me 
 to save him." 
 
 Madam Raymond looked at me, and then at her 
 daughter with a sad, pitying look, and said, gravely, 
 " My child, you feel too deeply in this matter, far too 
 deeply. I think the Princess is quite satisfied with the 
 life she is leading, and M. de Br^court also. There is 
 no reason why you should be unhappy about them, or 
 why you should be accountable to their Creator for their 
 salvation. Let us leave them to their own devices and 
 think of some one else." 
 
ilAST. 
 
 io save his soul ; 
 !S3 and eternal 
 to do on eaitli. 
 nows it. Even 
 heart among all 
 
 iked, turning to 
 
 ) us. We were 
 with every one 
 : I'rincess, aside 
 nd melancholy, 
 she is another 
 d. Entre nous, 
 She wants to 
 
 Jonvert them to 
 ively. " I have 
 Princess in the 
 is a power for 
 ip between her 
 id more spirit- 
 could help me 
 
 i then at her 
 said, gravely, 
 matter, far too 
 tisfied with the 
 also. There is 
 about them, or 
 ireator for their 
 m devices and 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 8ft9 
 
 «0h, mama, that would be impossible; whom else 
 have I to think of but Camille ? " 
 
 While she spoke I could only look at her in astonish- 
 ment. What imselfish devotion! What nobility and 
 purity of soul ! Not one pang of jealousy toward the 
 woman who had won her lover from her ; not one word 
 of blame or reproach for him ; only an intense desire for 
 his happiness here and hereafter. Surely she must be 
 free from all human weakness. 
 
 Comparing myself with her I felt the infinite supe- 
 riority of such a soul. If she suffered, no one knew it. 
 She made her sorrow sublime by her self-renunciation. 
 
 Why could I not do the same ? Here was my chance 
 of salvation — to give up all, even happiness, and instead, 
 iind blessedness. Swift as a flash these thoughts passed 
 through my mind, and when she turned to me and said, 
 earnestly, " Mr. Brent has told me about the wonderful 
 picture. Will you show it to me now ? " I could not 
 
 refuse. 
 
 Her earnest eyes were fixed on me, full of gentle 
 sympathy, as ray trembling fingers turned the key and 
 threw back the cover. Why had I so dreaded to look 
 at that picture ? What a sick, morbid soul I must have 
 had, to see anything in that divine work to call up evil 
 passions. The soft evening light brought out the glow- 
 ing tints of the oval face ; the eyes looked on me with 
 a sweet welcome; the exquisite lips curved in their 
 tender, serene smile. It was the old love, the light of 
 youth and happiness that shone on me from that dark 
 canvas, as we stood silently and reverently before it. 
 
 "It is wonderful!" said Ang^lique, at length. "I 
 can understand now why you love this picture. It does 
 not appeal to the senses only. It appeals to the soul." 
 
 ^ 
 
 S 
 
 mesuim 
 
 mtti 
 
.- 
 
 870 
 
 THE 8TORY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 "It Is like a living face looking at you from the 
 frame ; one expects it to move ami speak," cried Madam 
 Raymond. " You will never be alone while you have 
 it." 
 
 For the first time since I owned the picture, I feel that 
 I have found my old friend, that other part of me which 
 I have been so long seeking. 
 
 An incident has just occurred which has some interest 
 for me as well as a little mystery. I am walking daily 
 and regularly, and I find that the exercise is beneficial, 
 although I am still weak, and creep about in this invig- 
 orating autumn weatlier slowly and feebly. I was rest- 
 ing awhile on the I'incio, leaning on the wall and looking 
 down into the square below, when some one approached ;. 
 and, looking up, I saw one of the sacconi, or penitents, 
 in his ghostly white robe, standing near me, and silently 
 regarding me, with strange, wistful eyes, through the 
 aperture in his mask. He did not offer me his box for 
 alms, and, after standing irresolute for a moment, he 
 walked slowly away, and leaned on the wall at a little 
 distance from me. 
 
 I continued my walk, and thought no more of him 
 until I was crossing the square, when I saw that he was 
 close behind me, or another of exactly the same height 
 and movement; tall, and rather slow and stately. These 
 figures are so common in Eome that, after the first 
 shock, one becomes accustomed to seeing them stalking 
 along like ghosts in broad daylight. Therefore I did not 
 attach any importance to this second encounter, and it 
 was not until I reached the Church of Sant' Andrea 
 delle Fratte that I found he was still following me. 
 
 The church was open, and looked quiet and restfuL I 
 
 1 
 
AST. 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 871 
 
 you from the 
 ' cried Madam 
 hile you have 
 
 ure, I feel that 
 t of me which 
 
 I some interest 
 walking daily 
 ) is beneficial, 
 in this iuvig- 
 . I was rest- 
 .11 and looking 
 e approached ;- 
 , or penitents, 
 e, and silently 
 , through the 
 e his box for 
 a moment, he 
 all at a little 
 
 more of him 
 IV that he was 
 i same height 
 ;ately. These 
 fter the first 
 bhem stalking 
 jfore I did not 
 ounter, and it 
 Sant' Andrea 
 iving me. 
 ,nd restfuL I 
 
 entered, as T often do at that hour, and walked slowly 
 about in the gathering gloom. When I went out, the 
 Saccone was near, and went out with me ; wlien I lifted 
 the heavy curtain, he glided through the door, and as he 
 passed close to me I am sure that he whispered my 
 name. It was scarcely more than a sigh, yet my name 
 sounded distinctly in my ear. 
 
 Who can be following me in that disguise, and what 
 motive has he for doing it ? 
 
 • ■ . » »■ 
 
 At last I have received letters from England, from 
 Walter and Edith. Walter writes of the gay doings at 
 the Hall ; of the dinners and entertainments to intro- 
 duce Lady Hardmoor to the country gentry, where she 
 queens it to her heart's satisfaction. He says that she 
 is very popular, and that Lord Hardmoor is in the 
 seventh heaven of happiness. Count von Hardenburg 
 spends most of his time at the Hall, and is devoted to 
 Dorethea, although she is quite changed toward him. 
 It is said that he has proposed and been decidedly re- 
 fused ; tha,t Lady Hardmoor does hot favor the match ; 
 and that she and Dorethea are not as intimate as mother 
 and daughter should be. 
 
 Edith's friendly letter is like dew from heaven on the 
 dry, scorched soil of my heart. She has talked with 
 Dorethea, and even prevailed on hev *.o listen to my 
 letter, for only once, and under the ^.-i imise that she 
 would never speak of me again. " She yept bitterly," 
 says Edith, " and told me that I could say to you that 
 she had forgiven you, but that she could never see you 
 again ; that she had promised her father never even to 
 mention your name, and that she could not be tempted 
 to disobey him. That you were parted from her forever 
 
 IL 
 
;i72 
 
 TIIK STOllV OV AN KNTimsiAsr. 
 
 oil I'liiUi, 1ml, if it would bo of any comfort foi* you to 
 know that, slin would nevor marry Coiiufc von Harden- 
 burg, you could rest assured that aw.h a thing is impos- 
 sible. Sho loves you a.s deeply as ever," adils Edith, 
 with heavenly consolation, "and the poor child is fret- 
 ting silently, and trying to hide it from those arouud her. 
 The sight of you in I'aris, so ill and broken, was a great 
 shock to her, ami sho is thankful to know that you are 
 in Rome and improving in health. You must not be 
 surprised at Dorothea's determination to obey her father. 
 You have disappointed her grievously, and sho has lost 
 confidence in you. She thinks if you had really loved her 
 that you would not have given her up for a picture, and 
 sho fools that your treatment of her father was unpro- 
 voked and unjustifiable. Now, my dear cousin," says 
 Edith in conclusion, "you know that Walter and I 
 really love you and sympathize with you in your trouble, 
 but we cannot speak of you again to Dorothea. I am 
 very fond of her, and we are excellent friends, but if I 
 continue to act as a mediator between you and her, she 
 will distrust me and I shall risk losing her confidence 
 and affection. But I promise you to give you frequent 
 news of Dorethoa, and L will never lose an opportunity 
 to further your cause when I can do so to advantage ; 
 and I can give you this assurance: She loves you, and 
 she will never marry any one else" 
 
 Since reading this letter a new heaven and a new 
 earth is open to me. Again I can live and struggle with 
 the demons of daiknoss and doubt. Oh, my Dorothea, 
 be true to me, and God only knows what happiness may 
 yet be ours. I Avill win your confidence again. You 
 shall trust me again, and know that I am worthy of your 
 love. . . . 
 
^lAsr. 
 
 NATir-tKA. 
 
 n73 
 
 ifort IVr yoii to 
 lit von Hiinlen- 
 
 tliiii{^ in iinpos- 
 ■!•,•' iulils Edith, 
 or child is fret- 
 hoso around her. 
 kou, was a great 
 )w that yon are 
 bu must not be 
 
 obey her father, 
 md she has lost 
 I really loved her 
 )r a pii'ture, and 
 ther was unpro- 
 ar cousin," says 
 t Walter and I 
 I in your trouble, 
 Dorethea. I am 
 friends, but if I 
 rou and her, she 
 g her confidence 
 ive you frequent 
 ! an opportunity 
 30 to advantage ; 
 te loves you, and 
 
 iven and a new 
 md struggle with 
 >h, my Dorethea, 
 it liappiness may 
 ince again. You 
 m worthy of your 
 
 I have begun a liirgi' picture of a Christian ^Sfartyr, — 
 my ttrst religious siil)j<Mt, — and I-a Siuita has promised 
 to bo the model for my young martyr. My nifister, 
 I'aul, and Mr. Hrcnt all approve of my study, and en- 
 courage mo to carry out my plan, which they say is 
 sublime. With (iod's help I intend to make something 
 noble of it. ^fy health is improving; [ am calm and 
 patient, and reconciled to my present life. 
 
 My stucUo is my sanctuary, and my saint is the noble 
 picture that has scourged as well as blessed me. And I 
 am not the only one who worships at this shrine of art. 
 So many have asked to see the wonderful painting that 
 I have been obliged to set apart a day each week for a 
 public reception ; and, now that the Christmas festivities 
 are approaching, and the city full of strangers, my 
 studio is thronged from morning until night, and there 
 can be no surer proof of the origin of the picture than 
 its remarkable influence over every one who sees it. 
 Even those who know but little of art are fascinated 
 with it, and gaze and gaze and return to gaze again. 
 
 To-day I received a letter from the commission of the 
 Pontifical Chalcographic Department, composed of the 
 most eminent professors of St. Luke's Academy, request- 
 ing permission "to make a drawing from the famous 
 picture by Kaphael Sanzio in your possession, in order 
 that it may afterwards be faithfully produced in an 
 engraving, to be published on account of the Chalco- 
 graphic Department itself, a homage due to so magnifi. 
 cent a work, and to its immortal author." 
 
 I have sent a copy of this letter to the London jour- 
 nals ; although I think by this time the British public 
 is pretty well convinced that one of the greatest treas- 
 ures of art was exposed iu a sales-room of its capital for 
 
194 
 
 TIIK HTOUy OF AN KNTHU8IAHT. 
 
 more than a week, and that not one of its artists, critics, 
 or connoisseurs recognized in it the hand of the divine 
 master. Will not that bo a burning shame as long as- 
 England has an art history ? 
 
 • • * 
 
 Again the Saccone. This morning, wliilo a party of 
 Germans was examining the Raphael with guttural ex- 
 clamations of delight, my studio door was pushed open, 
 and he entered slowly. Stalking maji-stically up to the 
 group around the picture, he startled them by suddenly 
 thrusting his box in their faces. One of the ladies, with 
 a shudder and a faint cry, dropped a few baiocchi into 
 it, and he turned silently away and glided out, after 
 giving me an expressive glance from eyes that look 
 hollow and sombre from their ghastly setting. 
 
 Who can it be ? A sudden thought strikes me. Is it 
 Camille ? Can Camille be doing penance in this sin- 
 gular way ? No ; the idea is absurd. Camille has not 
 enough reverence for religion ; and, besides, what has he 
 done to cause him to wear the garb of a penitent. The 
 incident is trivial, yet, for some reason, this majestic 
 ghostly figure disturbs me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Paul and Laura have tormented me all winter to go 
 with them to one of the Princess Natilika's receptions, 
 and I have promised to accompany them this evening. 
 I have had no particular reason for not going, only that 
 I have not been in society this winter ; unless one calls 
 the quiet intellectual evenings at the Villa Medici, or 
 the little musical parties at Madam Raymond's, society. 
 I enjoy, again, quiet visits to my friends j but I have 
 
 iffi'r-^Tf ''T-f f"°"'-'^''^-^"''"^' «..»»^,^»^^....n....i^, rt ^,„ ^,n ,tf,„ 
 
lAHT. 
 
 artists, critics, 
 I of the divine 
 uno as long aar 
 
 liilo a party of 
 til guttural ex- 
 3 pushed open, 
 ically up to the 
 m by suddenly 
 the ladies, with 
 jw haiocchi into 
 idcd out, after 
 ?yos that look 
 ting. 
 
 I'ikes me. Is it 
 ce in this sin- 
 amille has not 
 es, what has he 
 penitent. The 
 I, this majestic 
 
 11 winter to go 
 ka's receptions, 
 m this evening, 
 joing, only that 
 mless one calls 
 '^illa Medici, or 
 nond's, society. 
 :1s i but I have 
 
 T'ji'iMmrrriLMttiinin 
 
 NATir.IKA, 
 
 875 
 
 very little di8j)()sitioii for faHliionablo crowds and mis- 
 cellaneous throngs, such as, I fancy, one meets at tho 
 I'rineess Natilika's. lUit I will confess that I am a 
 little curious to sre the woman every one is talking 
 about, and who exercises iuch a powerful influence over 
 Camille. She is certainly the most famous woman in 
 Homo. What with her beauty, her wealth, her dia- 
 monds, her toilets, and her receptions, together with her 
 secret iiolitieal reunions, her religious vagaries, her 
 charities, her eecientrieities, she is a never-failing subject 
 of wonder, admiration, or conten>pt. 
 
 llespectable people slander her and fear her, and yet 
 they attend her gay routs as much, I fancy, from curi- 
 osity as from love of pleasure. 
 
 Camille must devote himself to her with the closest 
 assiduity, for his former friends scarcely see him. The 
 Villa Medici knows him no more, and his haiulsome face 
 is never seen now bending over the music on Madam 
 Raymond's piano. Angeliepie, sweet angel, watches 
 him from afar, with tender solicitude, and softly 
 wonders if he is happier, and if the Princess is really 
 aspiring toward the higher life. For some reason he 
 seems to avoid me ; and although in his brief meet- 
 ings I have tried to induce him to speak of his new en- 
 chantress, he never mentions her name, nor refers to 
 her in any nuinner. I think he is rather ashamed, 
 knowing that I know so much of his former love 
 episode, to be so soon again the victim of another irreg- 
 ular attachment. Whatever the reason may be, there 
 is no longer any intimacy or confidence between us. 
 The master and Paul mourn over him, and Mr. Brent 
 calls him the lost Pleiad, while I keep my regret locked 
 in my own soul. . . . 
 
 ! 
 
876 
 
 THE STORY OF AN KNTHUSIAST, 
 
 Wlieu we entered the Coiiti Talace the indications of 
 pomp and ceremony rather astonished me, and I looked 
 at Paul inquiringly. 
 
 "I told you she entertained in princely style," he 
 said, smiling at my surprise. " I can assure you it is all 
 quite regal." 
 
 "Not one of the Roman princesses excels her in 
 splendor," remarked Laura. " They say her husband 
 owns a silver mine, and I am sure he must, if he pays 
 all her bills. Why, she throAvs away more on one 
 evening's entertainment than we spend in a year." 
 
 "My love, her husband is not a poor artist, but," 
 he paused, looked at his wife and shrugged his shoul- 
 ders, and then added, "what an excellent thing it would 
 be for Camille if she were a widow." 
 
 "How can you be so mercenary, Paul ? " exclaimed 
 Laura. "But please don't discuss her on her very 
 threshold." 
 
 The stately salon presented a dazzling appearance 
 as we entered. The blaze of waxen candles, jewels, 
 flowers, exquisite toilets, rich uniforms, with here and 
 there a touch of the scarlet aud purple of the church, 
 formed a bewildering mass of color and light. 
 
 Under a crystal chandelier that poured its soft light 
 over her, I caught a glimpse of an enchanting creature in 
 pale blue and silver, with a mass of red-gold hair, and 
 ablaze with diamonds. She was surrounded by a group 
 of young Roman nobles, and Camille stood near her, 
 talking to an elderly woman in black velvet, who held 
 an enormous bouquet of scarlet camellias. 
 
 " There she is," said Laura, softly. " The one in blue 
 and silver is the Princess Natilika, and the old lady is a 
 French countess who lives with her." 
 
 '^^<wm'ibi>wi*it)i>WMnii/ijir>iiHi 
 
AST. 
 
 indications of 
 , and I looked 
 
 ;ely style," he 
 ire you it is all 
 
 excels her in 
 
 ' her husband 
 
 List, if he pays 
 
 more on one 
 
 in a year," 
 
 )r artist, but," 
 
 ;ged his shoul- 
 
 thing it would 
 
 1 ? " exclaimed 
 [■ on her very 
 
 ing appearance 
 andles, jewels, 
 with here and 
 of the church, 
 ght. 
 
 i its soft light 
 ting creatiire in 
 l-gold hair, and 
 ided by a group 
 itood near her, 
 el vet, who held 
 
 3. 
 
 The one in blue 
 he old lady is a 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 8TT 
 
 As I followed in Laura's wake toward the radiant 
 creature, I was seized with a sudden vertigo. The room 
 whirled around me, and the lights made fantastic circles. 
 I saw a hundred Natilika's revolving around one ghastly 
 face, the. face of Camille, whose eyes met mine just as I 
 was trying to bow to the Princess. 
 
 Other guests took my place, and I drew back, leaning 
 heavily against Paul, who was nearest me. 
 " Are you ill ? " he whispered. 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Come in here " ; and he raised a curtain that covered 
 the door of a small room, filled with rare pictures. - 
 " For Heaven's sake, what ails you ? " he asked. 
 " I am ill. The lights, the heat, that woman ! Oh, 
 Paul, have you not recognized her ? " 
 " Who ? what ? " 
 
 " The Princess Natilika. She is the woman we saw 
 with Camille that day in the Pois. She is the woman 
 Avho ruined liim in Paris." 
 
 " Mon Dieu / you are right. I knew I had seen her 
 before, but where I could not remember. Good heavens ! 
 Camille is shameless. He has alloAved me to introduce 
 Laura to his mistress." 
 
 "And Angeliqive," I said. "That innocent girl! he 
 has deceived lier ! " 
 
 " What had we better do '.' "' asked Paul, aghast. 
 " Nothing ; we can do nothing." 
 
 "I will call Camille to an account for his villany," lie 
 said, hotly. 
 
 " No, no, you can't do that ; and for Heaven's sake don't 
 let the ladies know of our discovery. You can manage 
 to keep Laura away from her in the future, and I will 
 give Madam Raymond a hint. Ang61ique must not 
 meet her again." 
 
378 
 
 THE STOBy OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 
 " By Heavens ! she shall leave Rome. Camille must 
 get her away from here quietly." 
 
 " I will speak to Camille. He told me of his affair in 
 Paris, but he never knew I had seen the woman. I can 
 speak to him better than any one else. Leave it to me, 
 dear Paul. I have recovered myself. Now let us go to 
 Laura. I don't think she noticed my surprise and con- 
 fusion." 
 
 The first person I saAv when I returned to the salo7i 
 was Aug61ique talking to the Princess. The girl was 
 holding one of Natilika's gloved hands in both of hers, 
 and her gentle eyes were raised in confiding love to the 
 beautiful face leaning toward her. It was an exquisite 
 group, and the large old lady in black, with the bouquet 
 of flaming camellias, made an effective background. 
 
 Camille had disappeared, and I looked for him in vain. 
 He must have suspected from my face that I knew his 
 secret, and therefore wished to avoid me. 
 
 As soon as I could find an opportunity, I gave my 
 arm to Madam Raymond and led her away from the 
 crowd. " I have something to say to you of a private 
 nature," I said, in explanation. " I want to ask you to 
 try to keep Angelique away from the Princess Nati- 
 lika." 
 
 "Why, my friend, why should I? Is there any 
 reason ? " 
 
 " She is not a suitable acquaintance for a young girl." 
 
 " Do you know anything against her ? or is it only sus- 
 picion and the gossip that one hears ? " 
 
 "I know, dear madam, that Angelique must not be 
 intimate with her. Don't force me to say any more. I 
 don't Avant to denounce the woman if she is trying to be 
 respectable."' 
 
T 
 
 1ST. 
 
 Camille must 
 
 f liis affair in 
 i^oman. I can 
 jave it to me, 
 \v let us go to 
 H'ise and con- 
 to the salon 
 The girl was 
 both of hers, 
 ig love to the 
 3 an exquisite 
 h the bouquet 
 kground. 
 )r him in vain, 
 at I knew his 
 
 ;y, I gave my 
 way from the 
 11 of a private 
 to ask you to 
 Princess Nati- 
 
 Is there any 
 
 a young girl." 
 is it only sus- 
 
 ) must not be 
 ■ any more. I 
 is trying to be 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 m 
 
 "The Princess is not altogether to my liking," said 
 Madam Kaymond, after a moment's thought; "but 
 Ang61ique is fascinated with her. You know how 
 decided my child is in her preferences. I'm afraid 
 I can't induce her to renounce this friendship unless 
 I can convince her that the Princess is unworthy; 
 and even if I could do that, she has such peculiar 
 ideas, she might consider it her duty to try to save 
 her," and Madam Kaymond smiled sadly. 
 
 « I know that Ang^lique is unlike other girls of her 
 age She lives in a higher sphere, and she is so pure in 
 heart that she might touch pitch and not be defiled 
 But I don't like to think of her being in the society of 
 
 that won^an." j • j 
 
 "But is it not dreadful for every one to be so deceived. 
 There is Camille ! he admires her greatly, and thinks her 
 
 ^^?A man can take care of himself," I said, bitterly, "but 
 Angelique must not be allowed to visit her. There are 
 all sorts of rumors about her, and some day there will 
 be a great esclandre, and her intimate friends will be 
 
 compromised." -ia^oh 
 
 ' « Oh, my dear Felix, you alarm me ! What can I do ? 
 "Will not Angelique take a hint from you, and drop 
 
 her quietly?" ^ i mv-> 
 
 "My child is so different from most people. The 
 moment she thinks a person misjudged or wronged, that 
 moment she considers it her duty to espouse his or her 
 cause. She is so fond of the Princess that she will 
 never believe aught against her. Oh, I wish she would 
 
 leave Eome." ., • i •* <.!.» 
 
 " She may be obliged to sooner than we think, it the 
 
 Pontifical government discovers that she is engaged 
 
 : I: 
 
 MMMi«r J t *IW, MUiaSiiSgM 
 
880 
 
 THE STOEY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 
 in political intrigue. There is no doixbt but she is 
 closely watched, and some one may denounce her at any 
 moment." 
 
 While I was speaking, I noticed a slight movement 
 behind the curtains of a window that opened on a wide 
 loffffia. Looking closely, I caught a glimpse of a white 
 figure. The wind fluttered the curtain apart, and T dis- 
 tinctly saw the Saccone, with his gloomy eyes iixed on 
 me. I started forward, when he made a deprecating 
 motion with his hand and glided away. 
 
 Madam Raymond noticed my sudden movement, and 
 said, " Was there not some one near the window ? I 
 thought I had a glimpse of a white figure." 
 
 " There Avas," I replied, " and it is most likely a spy 
 employed by the government. The man had on a pen- 
 itent's robe. What is he doing here ? " 
 
 " Oh, the Saccone. Then you have not heard of the 
 Saccone. They say that one has followed the Princess 
 all winter. Wherever she goes, he is always near her. 
 It is quite romantic. No one can discover who he is, 
 where he comes from, or where he goes. I am told that 
 he annoys the Princess, that she is always nervous when 
 she sees him, and that she has employed some one to 
 watch him. Prince Catoloni told of a little incident 
 that occurred at a masked ball at the Apollo. He was 
 dancing with an exquisite evening star, in blue gauze 
 covered with diamonds, and was crazy to discover Avho 
 she was ; a few moments after, he saw her floating away 
 in the arms of a tall, elegant figure in the robe of a sac- 
 cone. Suddenly, while he watched their graceful evo- 
 lutions, she Avrenched herself away from her partner's 
 arms, and fairly flew to Catoloni, whom she grasped 
 frantically and begged to take her away directly. She was 
 
 ; 
 
AST. 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 381 
 
 it but she is 
 :ieo her at any 
 
 ght movement 
 lied on a wide 
 )se of a white 
 art, and T dis- 
 r eyes iixed on 
 a deprecating 
 
 novement, and 
 e window ? I 
 
 ;t likely a spy 
 had on a pen- 
 heard of the 
 i the Princess 
 vays near her. 
 er who he is, 
 I ara told that 
 1 nervous when 
 i some one to 
 little incident 
 polio. He was 
 in blue gauze 
 discover who 
 r floating away 
 robe of a sac- 
 r graceful evo- 
 \ her partner's 
 tt she grasped 
 i-ectly. She was 
 
 80 agitated that the Prince thought she would faint, so 
 he took her into a box, where he was obliged to use 
 restoratives. When he removed her mask, much to 
 his astonishment he saw that she was the Princess Nati- 
 lika. She explained her alarm by saying that the man 
 must be a thief who introduced himself in that disguise, 
 for he had tried to wrench the diamond necklace from 
 her neck. The Prince immediately acquainted the 
 police with the facts of the case ; but the tall Saccone 
 could not be found. The Princess thinks he is a robber 
 who is after her diamonds, and she seldom wears them 
 when she goes out." 
 
 "My dear madam, you see there is some mystery 
 about the woman, and it is better to avoid her in time. 
 If there is any political trouble, she may involve her 
 friends in her downfall." 
 
 " What do you advise me to do ? " she asked, anxiously. 
 
 " Try to keep Angelique away from her for the pres- 
 ent, and I will see if the Princess cannot be induced to 
 leave Rome. It is just the season for the fashionable 
 exodus to Naples. Perhaps she will decide to go south 
 
 for a while." 
 
 « Oh, I wish she would ; it would save so much annoy- 
 ance. You can't think, my dear friend, how I hate to 
 interfere with any of Angelique's pet plans. I am so 
 often obliged to thwart her, and yet she has her own 
 way in the end. She has quite set her persistent little 
 soul on converting the Princess, who, you know, belongs 
 to the Greek Church. Angelique thinks if she were a 
 Catholic she could reach her more easily." 
 
 I have just had a stormy interview with Camille, 
 He is furious with himself, with me, with every one, 
 
382 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 He acknowledges his fault, and accuses himself bitterly, 
 and the only excuse he offers is his love. His love! 
 think of tliat ! Oh Love ! what follies are committed in 
 thy name. 
 
 " Can you expect me to denounce and ruin the woman 
 I love ? " he cried, fiercely. " I tell you she is changed. 
 She is another being ; she has no longer the cruel temp- 
 tations of poverty. She has given her youth and beauty 
 to an old man for his wealth and name, and she wishes 
 to be respectable. Can I drag her down ? — can I proclaim 
 to the world that she was once disreputable ? I repeat to 
 you that I love her, wildly, madly, as I did in the first 
 flush of my passion. I have forgotten all the past, all the 
 cruelty, all the wrong, all the suffering, and I love her, 
 and shall always love her, and I will go with her to 
 eternal ruin rather than give her up. As for our friends, 
 I did not introduce them, I did not invite them. They 
 came with the rest of the world to share her pleasures and 
 feast at her table. And Angelique, Natilika loves her," 
 — I shuddered at the thought, — " and it is a sign that 
 there is much latent goodness in her when she can love 
 as innocent a being as Angdlique, and she will never 
 harm her ; she is devoted to that saintly creature. How, 
 then, can you call her all evil ? I never encouraged the 
 intimacy between them ; it came about naturally. The 
 Princess knows that I wanted to marry Angelique, and 
 there is not one thought of jealousy in her heart. She 
 loves the girl, and listens to her as reverently as though 
 the Madonna spoke to her. You need not fear ! she will 
 n«ver stain the purity of such a soul, and La Santa has 
 a singular influence over the Princess. Often after they 
 talk together, she is melancholy and distraite, declares 
 that she is weary of the world, and would like to give up 
 
 iiMM4nMwi»*»- 
 
[AST. 
 
 iinself bitterly, 
 ve. Hia love! 
 B committed in 
 
 uin the woman 
 ihe is changed, 
 he cruel temp- 
 Lith and beauty 
 and she wishes 
 - can I proclaim 
 le ? I repeat to 
 did in the first 
 the past, all the 
 ,nd I love her, 
 go with her to 
 for our friends, 
 e them. They 
 sr pleasures and 
 lika loves her," 
 it is a sign that 
 n she can love 
 she will never 
 ireature. How, 
 encouraged the 
 laturally. The 
 Angelique, and 
 ler heart. She 
 jntly as though 
 t fear ! she will 
 I La Santa has 
 )f ten after they 
 strdite, declares 
 . like to give up 
 
 MATILIKA. 
 
 AMI 
 
 everything for a religious life, and she is quite sincere 
 for the time, and her charity is enough to save a soul. 
 She gives to the poor and suffering with both hands." 
 
 " My dear Camille," I said, moved in spite of myself 
 by his passionate defence of the woman who had been 
 his evil genius, " you plead her cause nobly ! I hope she 
 will not deceive you again." 
 
 « It does not matter," he said, stubbornly, " whether 
 she deceives me or not. I deserve my fate, and I am 
 ready for it. I would rather share eternal torment with 
 her than live in Paradise without her. I have cast in my 
 lot with hers, and where she goes I shall go with her." 
 " From all I hear, she may go to Sant' Angelo. Are 
 you ready to go there with her ? " 
 
 «Yes — even to hell," he returned, savagely. 
 « My poor friend, you will live to regret your folly." 
 "No," he said, gloomily, "I will not live to regret it." 
 " I see there is nothing I can say or do for you." 
 " Nothing — only I beg of you not to betray her. Let 
 the world think well of her as long as it will." 
 
 "I shall say nothing," I replied. "But, remember, 
 if harm comes to Angelique, 1 shall hold you accountable. 
 She has neither father nor brother, and I intend to be 
 both to her. However, let me tell you that I think it 
 would be well for the Princess to leave Rome. In that 
 way she can avoid all disagreeable complications." 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," he returned, eagerly. " She 
 has been a little indiscreet in expressing her political 
 views, and I am afraid she is watched. Yes, I agree 
 with you, — she had better leave Rome." 
 
 ■■ 
 
 \ 
 
ty 
 
 884 
 
 TUli STOUy OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 . r V. 
 
 Sevkbal weeks have passed, and Natilika has not left 
 Rome, and, as far as 1 know, there is no change in the 
 relations between her and society. 
 
 It is true, I see but little of my friends, as I am work- 
 ing steadily on my picture, which promises well. 
 
 La Santa has not yet given me the sittings she 
 promised. She has been in religious retirement for the 
 last two weeks, as is the custom here during Lent. I 
 was glad to know of it, as it keeps her away from the 
 Princess. 
 
 I can understand the fascination such a woman as 
 Natilika has for a girl like Angeliquo. She is a romance 
 to her. Her beauty and wealth, and the mystery that 
 surrounds her, make her very interesting and poetical. 
 Besides, there is a charm, a magnetism about her, in her 
 eyes, in her voice, that is quite irresistible. To-day she 
 came to see the Raphael. IMy studio was full of visitors, 
 and among them were some very pretty women ; but 
 they paled into insignificance beside her. Her manners 
 are natural and gracious, and her voice so musical that, 
 listening to it, one even forgets the beauty of her face. 
 Ah, she has the fatal gift ! I'oor Camille ! While look- 
 ing at her, I could almost find it in my heart to excuse 
 him. 
 
 Prince Catoloni, a wealthy young Roman, was with 
 her. He too seems to be under the spell, and she is cer- 
 tainly very gracious to him. While she was laughing and 
 talking, the centre of a bright group, who should suddenly 
 appear in the door but the ghostly penitent ! He stood 
 quite still, with his eyes, that seemed to burn and glow 
 
 .•>* 
 
 JVJir ijlMn 
 
lAST. 
 
 KATILIKA. 
 
 885 
 
 ika has not left 
 o change in the 
 
 i, as I am work- 
 ;es well. 
 16 sittings she 
 ;irenient for the 
 Lhiring Lent. I 
 away from the 
 
 Ix a woman as 
 lie is a romance 
 e mystery that 
 g ami poetical. 
 )out her, in her 
 le. To-day she 
 full of visitors, 
 ;y women ; but 
 Her manners 
 o musical that, 
 ity of her face. 
 3 ! While look- 
 heart to excuse 
 
 Oman, was with 
 , and she is cer- 
 ,as laughing and 
 should suddenly 
 ;ent ! He stood 
 burn and glow 
 
 with lurid fire, fixed on the I'rincess, and 1 could see his 
 chest expand and dilute, the folds of his robe tremble and 
 shiver, and his slender fingers creep together and twist 
 and writhe as though he were in agony. Walking quietly 
 toward him, I was at his side before he noticed me. I 
 could hear his sui)presscd breathing, and see the swollen, 
 knotted veins in his hands. Those hands ! — ah, I knew 
 them ! lending toward him, I whispered, " I'olonae ! " 
 He started, gave me a quick, keen glance, lifted his 
 hands with the palms outward, made a slightly negative 
 motion with his head, and, with a backward step, glided 
 out, letting the portiere fall between us, and no one 
 noticed him. The Princess went on with her light banter. 
 Catoloni hung over her enchanted, while the others 
 laughed heartily at her merry sallies, l^it I felt as 
 though a cold wind had swept over me, and chilled me 
 
 to the marrow. 
 
 • . » • 
 
 I have just returned from my walk, and find a letter 
 from England, from Walte'r — the first for a month. 
 What a welcome sight! how my heart throbs, and with 
 what a wild thrill the blood dashes through my veins 
 when I see one of those letters with her majesty's head 
 in the corner, for then I know I shall hear something of 
 Dorethea, my darling !- ever mine, though this mourn- 
 ful silence lies between us. 
 
 Now I have read my letters, I am unutterably sad. 
 Dorethea is ill, or, rather, ailing. They have had a doctor 
 down from London ; and Edith says, in her cheerful, reas- 
 suring way, that it is nothing serious, only a nervous 
 attack and a slight cold ; and then she adds : "But, con- 
 fidentially, dear Felix, Dorethea is fretting. She is very 
 unhappy with her new mother. They are not congenial, 
 
 i 
 
 ■4a 
 
iT 
 
 3Sfi 
 
 THE STORY OF AN KNTHUHIA8T. 
 
 and the breach widens every day. Walter will tell you 
 of the trouble at the Hall," 
 
 Then I turn eagerly to Walter's letter. What is this '{ 
 "Count von Hardenburg and Lord llardnioor have 
 quarrelled. I know nothing of the cause, nor the partic- 
 ulars," he says. " The house was full of company for 
 the Christmas holidays. We were there for a week. 
 The trouble began with the Claverliouses. It is said 
 that Lady Hardmoor was rude to May Claverhouse, who 
 had received special attention from Count von Harden- 
 burg. You know May is an heiress. Lady Claverhouse 
 resented Lady Hardmoor's rudeness to her daughter, 
 and complained to his lordship. Then there was a terri- 
 ble scene be'tween my uncle and his wife, and afterwards 
 an awful tempest in the study between his lordship and 
 the Count. Their angry voices were distinctly heard 
 outside by the servants, and all manner of shameful 
 things were whispered about. However, the result was 
 that Count von Hardenburg was driven hurriedly to the 
 station, and his baggage sent after him. The next morn- 
 ing the Claverhouses left, and my lady remained in her 
 room for several days ill with a cold. Lord Hardmoor 
 was suddenly called away on important business, and 
 Dorethea was left to entertain the remaining guests. 
 But it was easy to see that she was under a severe 
 mental strain. Her face was very pale, and her eyes 
 had a frightened, sorrowful look, which was pitiful to see. 
 Edith did all she could to help her until the last guest 
 had gone ; then my poor cousin broke down and went to 
 bed. She remained in her room several days, and when 
 her father returned to the Hall, he had the doctor down 
 from London, who pronounced her illness a nervous 
 attack. 
 
 #% 
 
 •rmtesrms.gt' 
 
AT. ^ 
 
 • will tell you 
 
 What is this ? 
 rdiiioov have 
 lor the partic- 
 
 company for 
 ! for a week. 
 8. It is said 
 verhouse, who 
 ; von Harden- 
 y Claverhouse 
 her daughter, 
 re was a terri- 
 ud afterwards 
 1 lordship and 
 3tinctly heard 
 r of shameful 
 ;he result was 
 irriedly to the 
 'he next morn- 
 nained in her 
 )rd Hardinoor 
 business, and 
 aining guests, 
 iider a severe 
 
 and her eyes 
 i pitiful to see. 
 the last guest 
 n and went to 
 ays, and when 
 e doctor down 
 3ss a nervous 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 3H7 
 
 " Of what happened between my uncle and Count von 
 Hardenburg, we really know no more than the riimurs 
 wo hear. Dorcthea has never mentioned the subject; 
 but we notice that she never speaks of the Coui.t. Lord 
 Hardmoor is very gloomy, and her ladyship remains 
 most of the time in her own apartment. She has sud- 
 denly become an invalid, but I think she will recover 
 when she goes to town, which she talks of doing soon. 
 I believe she does not like the country. One of the ru- 
 mors—which, I suppose, I ought not to repeat, as it may 
 not be true— is that my uncle has lost a large amount of 
 money through some unfortunate speculation of the 
 Count's. Whether that be true or not, one thing is cer- 
 tain ; there has been very serious trouble between Lord 
 Hardmoor and Count von Hardenburg, for my uncle is 
 ' greatly changed. You remember how youthful and gay 
 he was last winter; now he seems old, morose, and irri- 
 table, much as he did just after my aunt's death. I 
 think he is greatly disappointed in his domestic rela- 
 tions." 
 
 These letters have given me a great deal to think of, 
 and my feelings are of a mixed character — sorrow and 
 elation, if the two emotions can be combined. I suffer 
 for Dorethea, sweet soul ! she is ill, and she has had 
 another rude shock. But at last she has discovered that 
 I was not unjust to Von Hardenburg. Lord Hardmoor 
 has learned of something horribly dishonorable, to 
 change him so suddenly. Now he will see that I was 
 right, and perhaps he will be more lenient toward me. 
 
 God knows that I do not wish to build upon another's 
 ruin ; still, I am thankful for anything that adds another 
 ray to the pale light of hope that leads me onward. 
 
 \tKL-' ^^Br 
 
!/■ 
 
 THE 8TOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It has been some time Hiiico I wrote anything in my 
 journiil. Sueli startliiif? events liavo transpired, one after 
 another, tliat I have liad but little opportunity for quiet 
 reHection. 
 
 Tlio first of this series of strange ineidents was the 
 sudden departure of Cauiille. Ifo disappeared without 
 R word or sign to any of his friends. K\inior says that 
 he and the I'rincess Natiliita cpuirrelled about Prince 
 Catoloni; but the Princess says he was summoned 
 away by the illness of ins mother. Poth may be correct, 
 he may have quarrelled with the Princess, and his 
 mother's illness may have furnished a pretext for his 
 sudden departure. However it may be, he haa gone, 
 and no one had an interview with him before he left but 
 Angelique. She had just left her retreat, and had seen 
 neither Camille nor the Princess for some weeks. 
 
 Madam Raymond told me that one morning Camille 
 came in hurriedly and greatly excited, and asked 
 permission to see Angelique for a few moments. She 
 sent for her daughter to come to the salon, and then 
 reared to her own room, A half-hour afterward An- 
 gelique came to her, greatly distressed and weeping 
 bitterly. 
 
 "When I asked her the cause of her trouble," said 
 Madam Raymond, "she only answered, 'Poor Camille, 
 poor Camille ! I shall never see him again on earth. I 
 can do i.othing more to help liim ; I can oidy pray for 
 him. Oh, mama, he is going away forever.' 
 
 " ' But why is he going away ? ' 1 urged. 
 
 " ' I can't tell you, mama ; don't ask me. 1 promised 
 
 -iiiiiiiiii.miinii 
 
 ^#k 
 
:a8T. 
 
 NATIUKA. 
 
 SRf» 
 
 nytliing in my 
 [)irt!il, onoaftor 
 unity for quiet 
 
 iilcnts was thu 
 Iioiired without 
 iinior says that 
 [ about I'linco 
 •iiH sununonod 
 may be correct, 
 icesM, and liis 
 »retu\t for his 
 , he has gone, 
 'ore he left but 
 ;, and had seen 
 
 weeks. 
 
 orning Camille 
 'd, and asked 
 moments. She 
 alon, and then 
 
 afterward An- 
 1 and weeping 
 
 trouble," said 
 'Poor Camille, 
 in on earth. I 
 1 only pray for 
 r.' 
 
 e. 1 promised 
 
 him that I W(Mi1<1 keep his secret. If any one asks, you 
 can say that his mother is ill, and that lio has gone to 
 her.' 
 
 "And she would tell me nothing more," addtul Madam 
 Kaymoiiil ; " but I knoio the I'rincess is the cause of his 
 leaving so suddenly, for since his depart\ire Aiigi'liciue 
 has never spoken of her, and slit; seems tu avoid meet- 
 ing her. Oil, I wish she would leave Home ! It is really 
 shameful the way she l)eliaves witli Catuloni, And she is 
 losing gr(mnd every day: Mr. Hreiit said there were 
 very few ladies at her last reception, and tliat her rooms 
 were crowded with men of doubtful reputation — Liberals, 
 free-thinkers, and foreigners of all descriptions. The 
 Trincess Catoloni was very intimate with her at one 
 time, but since her son has taken Camille's jdaco she has 
 quite dropped Natilika, and is never seen at the Conti 
 I'alace." 
 
 And so the talk goes on, Camille has vanished, and 
 the Princess Natilika makes herself more notorious 
 every day by the most open and daring flirtation with 
 the young (juardia Nobili. 
 
 » ♦ 
 
 And now a startling rumor is flying about the city. 
 Catoloni has been arrested on a charge of political conspir- 
 acy. Some ono has denounced him ; who, no one knows 
 outside of the tribunal, but the proof is sufficient to send 
 him to Sant' Angelo. His father, who is a stanch 
 friend of the Pope, and a president, is plunged in deep 
 grief, as well as his mother, who attributes her son's 
 downfall to the Princess Natilika. 
 
 A few evenings after Catoloni's arrest, I was walking 
 on the Pincio, where I saw the Pruicess Natilika, more 
 beautiful than ever, sitting in her landau, lavishing her 
 
390 
 
 THE STOUV OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 bewitching smiles and fatal glances on a group of fash- 
 ionable men, wlio hung around her as though they were 
 unfler the influence of a spell, while at a little distance, 
 among the trees, I saw the tall ligure of the penitent 
 watching her furtively — an avenger ever on her track. 
 It was like a Greek tragedy — love, youth, beauty, and 
 joy in the foreground, and in the background an unseen 
 fury waiting for the moment of doom. Silently, gloomily, 
 the ghostly Nemesis stood there in the shadow, looking 
 out with sombre eyes ; music and mirth, the sunlight, 
 the flashing fountain, the tender green of the budding 
 spring — all in strong contrast to that grim, tragic figure, 
 clutching the folds of his robe with Avrithing fingers. 
 
 When the music was over and the carriage turned to 
 descend the inclined plane to the square below, the Sao- 
 cone raised his clenched hand with a menacing gesture 
 toward the Princess, and then, unuo+^iced by the crowd, 
 he stalked away, and I saw him no more. 
 
 > ■ • • « ' 
 
 I had just finished my dinner, and was about lighting 
 a cigar, when a servant brought me a note. I opened it 
 hastily. It was from Ang^lique : " My dear friend, come 
 to me directly. I need you greatly." 
 
 When I reached the Capo lo Casa I found Angelique 
 in the salon, pacing the floor nervously, and Madam Ray- 
 mond looking from the window with a troubled, anxious 
 face. 
 
 '•' Oh, my friend," cried Aiigelique, as I entered, " I 
 am so grateful to you for coming directly. Something 
 terrible has happened, or, rather, is about to happen." 
 Then, lowering her voice, and glancing around cau- 
 tiously, " The Princess will be arrested to-night for 
 political conspiracy." 
 
T 
 
 I AST. 
 
 group of fash- 
 ough they were 
 
 little distance, 
 of the penitent 
 3r on her track, 
 til, beauty, and 
 ound an unseen 
 ently, gloomily, 
 ihadow, looking 
 1, the sunlight, 
 of the buddiug 
 m, tragic figure, 
 ling fingers, 
 riage turned to 
 below, the Sao- 
 ;nacing gesture 
 i by the crowd, 
 
 } about lighting 
 te. I opened it 
 ;ar friend, come 
 
 3und Angelique 
 nd Madam Kay- 
 oubled, anxious 
 
 i I entered, " I 
 ly. Something 
 ut to happen." 
 ig around cau- 
 sd to-night for 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 891 
 
 "You know what that means here in Rome," ex- 
 claimed Madam Raymond, coming forward, "and An- 
 gelique has the mad idea that she can save her. I beg 
 of you not to listen to her." 
 
 " Mama, you must not say that. I shall try, and if 
 I fail it will break my heart. Poor Princess ! deserted 
 by all and in danger ! It is right that I should try to 
 
 save her." 
 
 " How do you know this ? " I asked, looking from one 
 
 to the other. 
 
 " Quite by accident," replied Madam Raymond. 
 
 "I will tell you how I discovered the plot," inter- 
 rupted Angelique. "Let us speak low. It seems 
 as if the walls had ears, and as if we were surrounded 
 by spies. Mama and I were waiting at Mrs. Brent's 
 for them to return from a drive. You know how Mr. 
 Brent's studio is situated next to the mlo7i, with a win- 
 dow opening out of each on to a small loggia? While we 
 were waiting, mama took up a book, and I stepped out- 
 side and sat down near the studio window. Glancing 
 into the studio, I noticed a man sitting near the door. 
 I supposed he was a model waiting for Mr. Brent. While 
 I sat there quite still, I heard the outer door open, and 
 some one enter who spoke to the man in a language I 
 did not understand. I think it was Russian. They 
 talked for a few moments in a low voice, but I distinctly 
 heard the names Natilika and Catoloni repeated sev- 
 eral times. Then I heard a sound like the unfolding of 
 a paper, and, leaning forward, I looked in. Their backs 
 were toward me, and the person who entered was the 
 Saccone. He held a paper in his hand, and I sa\y the 
 pontifical seal. It was an order of arrest. ' To-niglit,' 
 the Saccone said, in Italian, ' when she comes out to go 
 
 k 
 
392 
 
 THE STOliY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 to the Opera.' Then the other said, '-A watch must 
 be placed at the palace.' 
 
 "I dared not listen any longer, so I slipped back into 
 the salon with mama. Directly we heard the outer 
 door open and close, and when mama looked into the 
 studio it was empty. Now it is all explained. The 
 Saccone who has followed the Princess all winter is a 
 government spy. He has denounced her, and they will 
 arrest her to-night." 
 
 "And my child thinks she can prevent it," cried Madam 
 Raymond, turning appealingly to me. 
 
 " What do you propose to do ? " I asked, looking at 
 Angdlique. 
 
 " I have thought it all out, if mama will consent, aud 
 you will go with me to the Conti Palace. It is very 
 simple, and is sure to succeed. I will dress myself 
 in the black mantle and veil I wear when I visit the 
 hospitals with Sister Agnes, and we will go to the 
 palace and tell the Princess of her danger, and entreat 
 her to leave Rome at once. A train leaves for Naples 
 at 9 o'clock to-night. She must go on that train." 
 
 " But how can she escape if the palace is watched ? " 
 
 " She must put on my mantle and veil and come out 
 with you and mama. Then you must bring her here, 
 and afterwards take her to the station. When once in 
 Naples, she will be safe." 
 
 " Your plan seems feasible," I said, after a moment's 
 thought. "But do you tliink it wise to compromise 
 yourself. You can't tell what trouble you may get in 
 by helping her to escape if we succeed, and if we do not 
 we run some risk even to go to the palate at this 
 time." 
 
 " That is what I liave been telling Jier," cried Madam 
 
 T 
 
 •^tt) 
 
 Mto 
 
 mBKaim- 
 
J8IAST. 
 '•A watch must 
 
 ilipped back into 
 heard the outer 
 looked into the 
 explained. The 
 is all winter is a 
 ler, and they will 
 
 ; it," cried Madam 
 
 asked, looking at 
 
 will consent, aud 
 ilace. It is very 
 'ill dress myself 
 when I visit the 
 will go to the 
 nger, and entreat 
 eaves for Naples 
 that train." 
 ice is watched ? " 
 eil and come out 
 ; bring her here, 
 . When once in 
 
 after a moment's 
 e to compromise 
 J you may get in 
 and if we do not 
 e palabe at this 
 
 er," cried Madam 
 
 N ATI LIRA. 
 
 898 
 
 Raymond. " She must remain there if we get the Vrin- 
 cess away. They will suspect her, and she will go to 
 Sant' Angelo instead of the Princess." 
 
 " You must think of what you are about to do," I said, 
 gravely. " There is danger for us all." 
 
 « Oh, if you fear, if you really think there is danger, 
 I will not lead you into it," she replied, earnestly. 
 
 " My dear Angelique, I do not fear for myself, and I 
 will go anywhere and do anything for you. But it is 
 for the Princess that we must run this risk, and I am 
 afraid she is not worth it." 
 
 " If she is guilty, there is all the more reason for 
 not deserting her. Who will help her if I do not ? " 
 
 «< Angelique, I really have no patience with you; I 
 really can't help you in this ; I can't allow you " — 
 
 « Dear mama, please say no more. If there is danger, 
 I don't want to expose you to it. Stay here, and I will 
 
 go alone." 
 
 " No," I said, firmly. " You must not. Leave your 
 mother here to receive the Princess. I will go with you, 
 and we will see what can be done." 
 
 Madam Raymond was unwilling to allow her daughter 
 to go without her, but when I explained that it was 
 useless to expose herself to suspicion, and thereby 
 lose every chance of helping Angelique if she were 
 detained, she reluctantly consented. 
 
 In a few moments the girl appeared in her black 
 mantle and veil, and we set out together for the Conti 
 
 Palace. 
 
 When we entered the c»urt of the palace, I noticed a 
 man standing near, another was lighting a cigar in the 
 embrasure of a window, and a third was slowly pacing 
 back and forth at the foot of the stairs; as if he were 
 
T 
 
 394 
 
 THK STORY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 waiting for some one. He glanced at us indifferently 
 as we passed and ascended tlie long flight of stairs, brill- 
 iantly lighted and decorated with stately palms and 
 rare plants, growing in bronze vases and urns of mala- 
 chite and carved stone. 
 
 "The Princess is at table," said the stately major- 
 domo, who ushered us into a reception-room. 
 
 " I am sorry to disturb her," said Angelique, writing 
 hurriedly on a card, " but you must give this to your mis- 
 tress instantly." 
 
 The man hesitated, and repeated, « Madam is at table." 
 
 " It does not matter. I must see her. It is of great 
 importance," urged Angelique. 
 
 "Take the card to your mistress at once," I said, in a 
 voice that admitted of no delay. 
 
 He bowed silently, like an automaton, and stalked away 
 with his chin in the air. 
 
 Angelique looked at me. She was quite pale, and her 
 eyes had an intense gleam in them. " Oh, I hope she 
 will come," she whispered. "There is no time to lose." 
 
 In a few moments we heard the trailing of a silken 
 dress over the marble floor of the corridor, and the 
 Princess entered, a vision of grace and beauty in her 
 satin gown and jewels. She was pale, and her lips 
 trembled nervously, but she tried to smile, while she 
 looked from one to the other. 
 
 " My angel ! " she cried, as Angelique went forward to 
 meet her, " I thought I should never see you again. What 
 is it ? Why do you send me such an imperative mes- 
 sage ? " and the Princess embraced the girl with effusion. 
 
 Angelique drew back coldly, and said, in a grave voice, 
 "Princess, I am the bearer of evil tidings. You are 
 in great danger." 
 
T 
 
 IIAST. 
 
 US indifferently 
 b of staii's, brill- 
 ;ely palms and 
 L urns of mala- 
 
 5 stately major- 
 lom. 
 
 gelique, writing 
 this to your mis- 
 lam is at table." 
 It is of great 
 
 ce," I said, in a 
 
 nd stalked away 
 
 te pale, and her 
 Oh, I hope she 
 o time to lose." 
 ling of a silken 
 rridor, and the 
 . beauty in her 
 e, and her lips 
 smile, while she 
 
 went forward to 
 ou again. What 
 imperative mes- 
 irl with effusion, 
 in a grave voice, 
 .lings. You are 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 395 
 
 " Great danger ! " she repeated, with a forced laugh ; 
 " why, what do you mean ! Mr. Markland, what does 
 the child mean ? " she asked, turning to me. " In great 
 danger ? here in my own house, surrounded by friends ! 
 ^ly little love, you must be dreaming ! " 
 
 " Oh, no ! It is all true. They are going to arrest 
 you as an accomplice of Prince Catoloni." 
 
 " Arrest me ! " she almost shrieked. " Oh, who has 
 done this ? It is false ! It is an infamous lie ! " 
 
 " No, no ! It is true. I have accidentally dis- 
 covered it all. It is the penitent who has followed 
 you all winter. He is a spy employed by the gov- 
 ernment, and he has denounced you," returned Ange- 
 lique, breathlessly. 
 
 " Does the girl know what she is saying, monsieur ! " 
 she cried, turning to me fiercely. " It cannot be. It is 
 impossible ! " 
 
 " Madam, the palace is under the surveillance of the 
 police," I replied, coldly. " They are below, waiting to 
 arrest you when you go to the Opera." 
 
 In an instant she was transformed into a fury. 
 " Demon ! fiend ! " she hissed between her clenched 
 teeth. "Has he taken his revenge in this way! may 
 the flames of perdition consume his soul ! Oh, wretch, 
 wretch ! " she repeated, while she writhed and twisted 
 in a spasm of rage. 
 
 I looked at her in astonishment, while Angelique 
 paled with fear. She seemed suddenly to have grown 
 taller. With her small head thrown back, and the me- 
 tallic glow of her hair, the cruel glitter of her black 
 eyes, which were hard and keen, the fierce white teeth 
 pressed into her nether lip, the strained, rigid muscles,, 
 and the long shimmering train of lustrous satin, whicL 
 
39ri 
 
 TMIO STOKY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 glowed with jewelled scales, she looked like a brilliant 
 envenomed serpent about to spring upon its victim. 
 
 Could it be possible that this soft, seductive beauty- 
 could throw off her mask so easily and show the demon 
 that lurked beneath ! 
 
 For a few moments she gave full vent to her fury ; 
 then, recovering herself, she touched a bell, and said 
 haughtily to the servant who appeared, " Tell Madam 
 the Countess to come to me." She seemed to have 
 forgotten that she was not alone, for she threw herself 
 into a chair and sat gazing stonily straight before her. 
 
 Angelique looked at me appealingly ; she wished me 
 to break the painful silence. "Princess," I said, "it 
 is useless to yield to excitement. You must try to 
 calm yourself. You will need all your coolness to 
 escape." 
 
 " Escape ! how can I escape ! " and she started to her 
 feet alert and active in a moment. " Can I escape ? 
 Did any one ever escape from their clutches ? Did any 
 one ever leave Sant' Angelo's who once entered there ? 
 Oh, no. It is like Dante's hell; over it is written, 
 ' Abandon all hope ye who enter here.' " 
 
 "If you will be calm, we may think of a way," I 
 said. 
 
 " But you tell me the palace is watched. How, then, 
 can I escape ? " 
 
 " Princess," said Angelique, going to her, " it is not 
 too late. If you will listen to us, we will try to save 
 you." 
 
 " What must I do ? " she asked, looking despairingly 
 from one to the other. 
 
 " You must leave Eome at once. There is a train for 
 Naples to-night. You must go on it." 
 
 as a m. ' 
 
 iL 
 
:raiA8T. 
 
 d like a brilliant 
 n its victim, 
 seductive beauty- 
 show the demon 
 
 '•ent to her fury ; 
 
 a bell, and said 
 Bd, "Tell Mailam 
 
 seemed to have 
 3he threw herself 
 ight before her. 
 y ; she wished me 
 oess," I said, " it 
 iTou must try to 
 your coolness to 
 
 she started to her 
 " Can I escape ? 
 Litches ? Did any 
 ce entered there ? 
 ^er it is written, 
 
 ink of a way," I 
 
 ched. How, then, 
 
 to her, "it is not 
 } will try to save 
 
 aking despairingly 
 
 'here is a train for 
 
 NATITJKA. 
 
 897 
 
 " Oh,"' with a hard, cruel laugh, " liow you torment 
 me i one moment you tell me that I am caught like a 
 rat in a trap, and the next you say tliat I must go to 
 Naples. Most willingly, most gladly ! only show me the 
 way. Ah, here is the Countess." 
 
 At that moment, the large black-robed woman entered 
 excitedly. ".What is it ? AVliy are we called from the 
 table ? " 
 
 " Good Heavens, madam ! don't think of your dinner 
 now. I am likely to eat my next in Sant' Angelo's. 
 The officers are waiting below to arrest me." 
 
 " Oh, 7non Dieu ! " cried the Countess, sinking inertly 
 into a chair. " I feared it ! I expected it ! " 
 
 " You feared nothing, or Ave would not have been here 
 to be caught," replied the Princess, scornfully. "Our 
 friends say that we must leave Rome at once. Go and 
 tell my maid to pack some things instantly." 
 
 " That is useless. Princess. No one can go with you ; 
 j'ou must go alone," said Angelique. 
 
 " Alone ! — that is impossible ! " 
 
 " It is your only chance, madam," I interrupted, 
 "and you have no time to waste in idle orders. You 
 must leave everything. Your household can follow 
 you." 
 
 "Very well. I put myself in your hands. With 
 Angelique for my guardian angel, I shall be saved," 
 she said, suddenly softening to tears. 
 
 "Trust us, dear Princess. Do quickly as I tell you. 
 Go to your room and put your hair up quite plain, as I 
 do mine, and dress yourself in the simplest black cos- 
 tume you have — one of your maid's will be best; then I 
 will give you my mantle and veil, and you must leave 
 the palace with Mr. Markland, and go with him to 
 
898 
 
 THE 8TOKY OF AN KNTHU81A8T. 
 
 
 mama. After that, the rest will be very eusil} accom- 
 plished." 
 
 " Oh, you angel ! 1 understand you now. You will 
 remain here iu my place, and risk everything," cried 
 the Princess, clasping Angelique's hands and kissing 
 them fervently. 
 
 " Can't you see that it is all very simple. Mr. Mark- 
 land and I have just entered. The men below are wait- 
 ing for you to come down in evening dress to you?; 
 carriage. When you pass out, they will never sus- 
 pect that it is not the same person who entered. It 
 is your only hope; go quickly, dear Princess, and 
 prepare." 
 
 " How can she go to Naples without a maid or bag- 
 gage ? " cried the Countess, aghast. 
 
 " Money will procure all I need ; and you can follow 
 me in the morning," said the Princess, as she left the 
 room with her companion. 
 
 In an incredibly short time she returned, so changed 
 that I scarcely knew her — her golden hair was plainly 
 banded back under a small black bonnet, and she wore 
 a maid's simple black gown. But even in that disguise 
 she was lovely : excitement and danger gave depth and 
 tenderness to her expression; and iior eyes were soft 
 with tears. Angelique slipped off her long mantle and 
 veil, and the Princess donned them. The transforma- 
 tion was complete. I should never have discovered the 
 change, had I not known of it. 
 
 " Come, now," I said, encouragingly ; " let us try to 
 pass the guard below. If we succeed, the danger will 
 be over." 
 
 The Princess was about to leave the room, when she 
 thought of Ang61ique left there alone. With a sudden 
 
1A8T. 
 easil} accom- 
 
 low. You will 
 rything," cried 
 Is aud kissing 
 
 le. Mr. Mark- 
 below are wait- 
 dress to youv 
 irill never sus- 
 10 entered. It 
 Princess, and 
 
 a maid or bag- 
 
 yo\i can follow 
 13 she left the 
 
 ,ed, so changed 
 air was plainly 
 , and she wore 
 1 that disguise 
 jave depth and 
 eyes were soft 
 ng mantle and 
 he transforma- 
 discovered the 
 
 " let us try to 
 he danger will 
 
 oom, when she 
 With a sudden 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 399 
 
 impulse of gratitude she turned back, and, drawing a 
 ring from her tinger, she pressed it into La Santa's hand 
 while she thanked her with broken words and sobs. 
 " Pray for me," she said ; " 1 need your prayers, for I 
 am in the very depths of misery. God will reward you 
 for your goodness. Angclique, adieu, adieu." Aud 
 with a lingering pressure of the hand and a mournful 
 glance from the shadow of the black veil, she followed 
 me into the brilliantly lighted corridor, and down the 
 long flight of marble stairs where the pampered lackeys 
 lounged and stared at the sombre figure gliding by, 
 never dreaming that the simple black robes concealed 
 their brilliant haughty mistress. 
 
 VII. 
 
 As we passed out of the court, the Princess glanced 
 furtively at her carriage, which was waiting for her, the 
 coachman and footman sitting like statues on their high 
 perch. 
 
 The man who paced back and forth at the foot of the 
 stairs when we went up was still there. He glanced at 
 us as if he would say, " Oh, I know you are the people 
 who entered a half-hour ago. It is not you I am wait- 
 ing for." I bowed to him slightly, and he returned my 
 salutation respectfully. 
 
 I was astonished at the Princess' coolness ; for, while 
 ■my heart was beating so loudly that I feared it could be 
 heard, my companion was as calm aud self-contained as 
 though she were walking to her carriage on the arm of 
 one of her admirers. 
 
 Once outside the court, I glanced around hurriedly. 
 The other two men were still at their posts; aud 
 
 ■KM 
 
400 
 
 THK STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 opposite, in tlie sluulow of a door-way, I fancied I 
 caught a glimpse of ii white robe. 
 
 "Not 80 fast," I whispered, as my companion has- 
 tened her steps. " Let us walk leisurely until we are 
 well out of sight ; however, we can breathe freely. I 
 think the danger is over." 
 
 " I shall not be at ease until I am outside of Rome," 
 returned the Princess. " Had we not better take a car- 
 riage and go directly to the station ? " 
 
 " Not for the world. "We may be followed. Let us 
 walk leisurely to the r-ipo lo Casa, and enter Madam 
 Raymond's apartment ; .ind, when we are quite sure it 
 is safe, we will take a carriage to the station. We still 
 have a half-hour," I said, looking at my watch by a 
 street lamp. 
 
 Madam Raymond was waiting for us in great anxiety. 
 Her first words were, " Thank God you are back." 
 Then, as the Princess threw aside the heavy veil, sh3 
 cried, " Where is ray child ? Where is Ang61ique ? " 
 
 " She i. safe, dear madam," replied the Princess. " The 
 Countesb will take care of her, and bring her to you as 
 soon as she can do so safely. I have told her what to 
 do. When she knows that I am safely outside of Rome, 
 she will dismiss my carriage, with the announcement 
 that I am not going out to-night. I don't think the 
 minions of this accursed government will enter my apart- 
 ment. They never do things in that way. They prefer 
 to work privately and secretly ; they will await another 
 opportunity." 
 
 "I will go and fetch her myself," cried Madam Ray- 
 mond, starting up excitedly. " Who knows but what 
 they may arrest her as an accomplice." 
 
 " My dear friend," I urged, most earnestly, " I beg of 
 
 HMWi 
 
SIAST. 
 
 ay, I fancied I 
 
 companion bas- 
 ely until we are 
 reathe freely. I 
 
 itside of Borne," 
 better take a car- 
 
 oUowed. Let us 
 nd enter Madam 
 are quite sure it 
 tatiou. We still 
 ; my watch by a 
 
 in great anxiety, 
 you are back," 
 e heavy veil, sh3 
 i Ang61ique ? " 
 e Princess. " The 
 ring her to you as 
 told her what to 
 r outside of Rome, 
 ;he announcement 
 I don't think the 
 ill enter my apart' 
 vay. They prefer 
 rill await another 
 
 cried Madam Ray- 
 knows but what 
 
 .rnestly, " I beg of 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 401 
 
 you to leave Ang61ique where she is until the Trincess is 
 safely out of Home. I can assure you there is no danger 
 for her. She is too faithful to the alliance, and too 
 devout to be suspected. Your visit to the palace might 
 excite suspicion and spoil everything." 
 
 A half-hour after, we were driving rapidly to the 
 station. Although the Princess was thankful to have 
 escaiied, she was much depressed at the prospect of the 
 solitary journey before her. 
 
 In spite of my knowledge of her true character, I 
 pitied her as she clung trembling to my arm, while I 
 hurriedly took her ticket and conducted her into the 
 dimly lighted station, which was nearly empty. 
 
 "Can madam have a coupe alone?" I asked of the 
 guard who hurried us forward, as the train was about 
 starting. 
 
 " Si, sigiwre. The coupe provided for ladies without 
 an escort is empty," replied the guard as he opened the 
 door. " There are very few passengers to-night." 
 
 She clung to my hand for an instant, gave me a wist- 
 ful glance from her dark eyes, and a fervent " God bless 
 you," and in a moment her mournful ligure was gone 
 from my sight as she glided away in the night and 
 darkness. 
 
 Like a meteor she had flashed across the fashionable 
 horizon, beautiful, brilliant, erratic ; and like a meteor 
 she had vanished, extinguished in gloom and mystery. 
 
 When I returned to the Capo lo Casa, I found Ang6- 
 lique with her mother and Mr. Brent, in the pretty little 
 salon, excitedly talking over the events of the evening. 
 
 Mr. Brent had called on the Princess, as he often did, 
 for, in spite of evil rumors, he admired her greatly, and 
 shared Angfilique's anxiety. He arrived at the palace 
 
 t; 
 
402 
 
 THK BTOUY OK AN KNTIIUHIAHT. 
 
 shortly after she had left iu hor successfnl (Usguise, and 
 finding La Hanta there, he took charge of her and brought 
 her safely to her mother. 
 
 " You are a little heroine, a;* well as a saint," said Mr. 
 Hrent, delightedly. "If you hadn't got her off, she 
 would have lodged in Sant' Angtdo's to-night. I know 
 that bull-dog watching the stairway. Ho never h-ts 
 anything go that he onoe gets hi.s teeth on. Oli, this 
 cursed suspicious government, that imprisons women 
 because they are beautiful and fascinating. Poor, pretty 
 Princess, she was lovely to look at, and I enjoyed talk- 
 ing with her, if she was wicked. She is gone, and we 
 shall never see her like again. Felix, are you sure she 
 got safely off ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ; I saw the train start. It was very quiet in 
 the station, there were few passengers, and no confusion." 
 
 "Well, thank Heaven, she got away," returned Mr. 
 Brent, with a profound sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 " I echo your expression of gratitude, devoutly," ex- 
 claimed Madam Raymond. "We are well rid of her. 
 She has done mischief enough." 
 
 "Oh, mama," pleaded Ang61ique, "don't be too 
 severe. In spite of her faults, there is much good in her. 
 1 shall pray all through Holy Week for her. I shall 
 make her a subject of special prayer. Her soul must 
 
 be saved." 
 
 "Well, my darling," returned her mother, tenderly, 
 " I would rather have you interest yourself in her soul 
 than in her body. There is less danger." 
 
 " I could never have carried out my plan without your 
 help," and Angelique turned to me with a look of grati- 
 tude, that reconciled me to the part I had taken. " Oh, 
 my friend, you have given me many happy hours ! " 
 
 . 
 
 Mto 
 
HIAHT. 
 
 ul disguise, and 
 her and brought 
 
 saint/' said Mr. 
 jot her off, slie 
 -iiif^ht I know 
 Ho novcr k-ts 
 til on. Oil, this 
 aprisons women 
 ig. Poor, pretty 
 I enjoyed talk- 
 is gone, and we 
 ire you sure she 
 
 fus very quiet in 
 id no confusion." 
 r," returned Mr. 
 ion. 
 
 le, devoutly," ex- 
 well rid of her. 
 
 " don't be too 
 
 nuch good in her. 
 
 For her, I shall 
 
 Her soul must 
 
 mother, tenderly, 
 
 rself in her soul 
 
 r." 
 
 )lan without your 
 
 h a look of grati- 
 
 lad taken. "Oh, 
 
 ,ppy hours ! " 
 
 NATIIilKA. 
 
 40.i 
 
 "My dear Ang/dique, I did it for you. Tloase don't 
 thank me; I have no good-will toward the I'rincess. 
 Hhe is a wonian in trouble ; as such. I would try to help 
 her. (Jo.l knows I hope she will never cross my path 
 again," I exclaimed, bitterly. 
 
 "Oh, you are very hard," said Ang^lique, sorrowfully. 
 " I am sure she is i.ot ungrateful. Look at this beauti- 
 ful gift," and she hcl.l out her slender hand, on which 
 sparkled the ring given her by the Princess - a magniH- 
 cent sapphire set with diamonds. 
 
 "To-morrow, I shall go to Sant' Agostino's, and offer 
 it to the Virgin, and pray to her to take the poor I'rin- 
 cess under her special protection." 
 
 " My child, don't do anything so foolish," cried Mr. 
 Brent. " It is a gem of g, jat value. Keep it for your- 
 self." 
 " Oh, I could not do that." 
 
 "No, indeed," interrupted Madam Raymond. "I 
 should not like Ang^lique to accept such a costly gift 
 from the Princess Natilika. It will be much better to 
 bestow it as a votive offering." 
 
 "I am glad you think as I do, mama," returned Ang6- 
 lique. " Poor Princess, I hope the Virgin will protect 
 her to-night. I feel as though she is in great danger," 
 she added, with a far-off, dreamy look. 
 
 " Pray, don't make yourself unhappy over her, my 
 dear Angolique ; she is not worthy of so much anxiety," 
 I said, almost impatiently, as I wished them good- 
 night. 
 
 The next evening, after a hard day's work on my pic- 
 ture, I was leisurely sipping ray after-dinner coffee when 
 Mr. Brent rushed in excitedly, with a copy of the Gior- 
 nale di Roma in his hand. 
 
 i 
 
 ! 
 
 
404 
 
 THE 8TOKV OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 " My dear fellow," he cried, with white, trembling lips, 
 *• here is awful news ! horrible, frightful ! " 
 
 " What is it ? " I could hardly control myself enough 
 to speak, so many fears crowded into my mind. 
 
 "She is dead." ' .■'■"'' 
 
 ■ " Who ?" 
 
 " The Princess Natilika." 
 
 " How ? where ? " I stammered. 
 
 "Hear this!" and Mr. Brent unfolded the journal 
 with trembling hands and read : — 
 
 " ' It is with regret that we are obliged to record one of 
 the most mysterious and startling tragedies that have 
 occurred within the Pontifical States for many years. 
 The particulars of the sad affair, as far as we can learn 
 by telegraph, are as follows : Last night just as the 9 P. 
 M. train for Naples was leaving this city, a gentleman 
 and lady drove swiftly up to the station in a. fiacre. The 
 lady was dressed in black, and closely veiled. After a 
 hurried farewell to her escort, she entered a coupe alone, 
 
 " * The guard closed and locked the door, and the train 
 left immediately. This morning, when the guard opened 
 the door of the coupi^, at Ceprano, the last station on the 
 papal frontier, he was horrified at seeing the lady lying 
 lifeless on the fioor of the carriage. On raising her, he 
 discovered that she had met her death at the hands of 
 an assassin, who had stabbed her to the heart, evidently 
 killing her instantly. There was no disorder, no indica- 
 tion of a struggle, anl no trace of the murderer ; and 
 robbery could not have been the motive, as the lady's 
 purse, which contained a large sum of money, was found 
 safe in her pocket. It is supposed that the assassin 
 entered the coujie before the train left the station and 
 concealed himself under the seat; that he committed the 
 
5IAST, 
 
 ?, trembling lii)s, 
 !" 
 
 il myself enough 
 I mind. 
 
 led the journal 
 
 i to record one of 
 jedies that have 
 for many years, 
 as we can leani 
 t just as the 9 V. 
 ity, a gentleman 
 in a. fiacre. The 
 veiled. After a 
 ed a coupe alone, 
 3or, and the train 
 the guard opened 
 ist station on tlu? 
 ig the lady lying 
 n raising her, he 
 L at the hands of 
 ! heart, evidently 
 sorder, no indica- 
 e murderer; and 
 ve, as the lady's 
 Qoney, was found 
 hat the assassin 
 t the station and 
 he committed the 
 
 T 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 405 
 
 horrible deed while the train was in motion and the 
 lady sleeping, and escaped by the window, which was 
 open. 
 
 " * The only clew to the mystery is the fact that a man 
 in the robe of a Dominican monk took a second-class 
 ticket for Naples, and entered a second-class carriage. 
 When the passengers were examined, the monk was not 
 among them. The identity of the lady has not yet been 
 established. The driver of the yia<re has been discov- 
 ered and examined, but his testimony throws no light 
 on the sad affair. His passengers were unknown to 
 him. They stopped him on the Capo lo Casa, and re- 
 quested him to drive them as quickly as possible to the 
 station. The gentleman paid him and entered the sta- 
 tion with the lady, and he saw no more of them. So far 
 this is all that is known, and the sad tragedy remains 
 enshrouded in profound mystery.' " 
 
 I was looking over Mr. Brent's shoulder as he read, 
 and when the paper fell from his nerveless fingers and 
 he looked at me with mute inquiry, I could only falter 
 out, " Who could have done it ? " 
 
 ■ "Who? Why, that cursed penitent, that fiend, 
 that spy, who has been following her all winter." 
 
 " The Saccone ? " I gasped. " My God ! is it possi- 
 ble ? " Then I recovered myself instantly : no one, not 
 even Mr. Brent, should share my suspicion, and said, " If 
 he were a government spy, what motive had he for fol- 
 lowing her and taking her life ? " 
 
 "The devil! he was no government spy," said Mr. 
 Brent, savagely ; "a discarded lover, more likely, who has 
 got his revenge at last. By Heavens ! a man must have 
 fearful wrongs to avenge, to lay murderous hands on a 
 woman with such a face." 
 
 sem aissmk^'^jmimmiiL. -* 
 
406 
 
 THE STORY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 "Yes," I repeated, stupidly, "fearful wrongs to 
 avenge," 
 
 " By Jove ! he must have had a heart of stone, who 
 wouldn't melt under a look from those eyes. Poor, 
 pretty Natilika ! no wonder she was sad when you left 
 her." 
 
 " What ought I to do ? " I asked, weakly ; " ought I 
 to show myself in the matter ? " 
 
 "No, certainly not. You can do her no good now, 
 and it might cause you no end of trouble. Besides, it's 
 not well to get mixed up with an affair of that kind here, 
 where people are so suspicious. I have been to the 
 Conti Palace. The servants there know nothing. The 
 Countess left this morning to join the Princess in Naples. 
 She will learn the sad news on the way, and to-morrow it 
 will be known publicly that the Princess Natilika was 
 the victim of the mysterious tragedy." 
 
 " And the assassin ! — do you think they will discover 
 him ? " 
 
 " Yes, in all probability. They ferret things out here 
 very easily, thanks to the system of espionage carried 
 on by the goTernment. But I'm thinking of that poor 
 child in the Capo lo Casa ; she will be fretting her heart 
 out over this." 
 
 " Yes, Ang^lique will feel as though she sent her to 
 her death," I replied, absently, for I was not thinking of 
 the Princess, nor of La Santa — only of Polonse, unfor- 
 tunate Polonse. 
 
 . 
 
 VIII. 
 
 A MONTH has passed since the Princess Natilika 
 vanished like a nieteor in gloom and darkness, and Eome 
 
 K ctu 'w ^ ^ i^-" 
 
JIA8T. 
 
 ■ful wrongs to 
 
 rt of stone, who 
 •se eyes. Poor, 
 I when you left 
 
 sakly ; " ought I 
 
 i 
 
 (r no good now, 
 le. Besides, it's 
 f that kind here, 
 ive been to the 
 w nothing. The 
 ■incess in Naples, 
 and to-morrow it 
 ess Natilika was 
 
 hey will discover 
 
 t things out here 
 sspionage carried 
 ing of that poor 
 'retting her heart 
 
 she sent her to 
 IS not thinking of 
 )f Polonse, unfor- 
 
 NATIUKA. 
 
 407 
 
 'rincess Natilika 
 rkness, and Eome 
 
 has not yet done talking of the terrible tragedy, nor of 
 wondering who tlio assassin could be, and what motive 
 he had, and why the Princess left Rome so suddenly, 
 and who the gentleman was that escorted her so 
 secretly to the station and left her to make that fatal 
 journey alone, all of which speculations I, sitting most 
 of the time in my studio working feverishly on my pic- 
 ture, take no part in outwardly, but inwardly I am 
 intensely alive to all that concerns that terrible affair. 
 
 Madam Raymond, Angelique, and Mr. Brent are 
 equally reticent, and no one guesses that we know any 
 more than the public concerning the cause of Natilika's 
 
 last journey. 
 
 Every evening, when I take up the Giornale di Roma, 
 I feel a cold chill pass over me ; and my blood does not 
 flow freely until I have looked over its columns and 
 assured myself that so far the midnight assassin has not 
 been discovered ; and I never go out — morning, noon, 
 or night — that I do not look around me nervously, to 
 see if I can discover the white robe of the penitent, 
 following in my wake, or peering at me from his 
 ghastly sockets. It is true, I see them continually, 
 passing up and down the streets, thrusting their alms- 
 boxes into the faces of the passers, and rattling them 
 fiendishly under the very noses of the unwary. But 
 my penitent is not among them; of that I am sure. 
 Yesterday one entered my studio, and my heart stood 
 still when I caught the first glimpse of him. However, 
 I soon recovered myself when I saw that he was short 
 and stumpy, and his bead-like eyes had none of the 
 sombre gloom that looked at me from the mask of the 
 
 other. 
 I feel as though I was the possessor of a secret that I 
 
 ! I 
 
 1 
 
T 
 
 408 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 
 must guard witli my life. I troiuble if any one men- 
 tions the mysterious Saccone in connection with the 
 crime. Naturally, those avIio knew of the grim, tragic 
 figure that haunted the Princess so long fixed the dark 
 deed upon him. To every one else he is only a figure, 
 a spectre, a shadow, but to me he is a man whom I 
 knew and loved, and who had bitter wrongs to avenge. 
 
 Sometimes I fear 1 may betray my secret in my 
 sleep— that the walls may have ears and hear me 
 breathe his name. I am restless and feverish, and con- 
 stantly in a wearing state of anxiety. And this is not 
 my only trouble. — Dark clouds hover over me, that may 
 descend at any moment. Sad news from England, my 
 Dorethea is far from well. 
 
 Edith writes hopefully, but I can tell, by an undertone 
 of sadness in her letters, that it is more serious than she 
 says. It is more than a year since I hurt my poor dar- 
 ling so cruelly, since I plunged her into disappointment 
 and sorrow; and she kept up bravely at first. The 
 strong, proud nature has held out, but the frail body is 
 giving way ; I know it all. I know her resolute little 
 heart, patient and uncomplaining, so devoted to her 
 father, so determined to obey him even if she suffers 
 martyrdom. 
 
 Lady Hardmoor is in London, enjoying a brilliant 
 season, while his lordship and Dorethea remain at the 
 Hall. A week or two ago, I saw, in the Court Journal, 
 the marriage of Count von Hardenburg and the Honor- 
 able Mary Augusta Claverhouse. Plain but good May has 
 stepped in to set my heart at rest forever on that subject, 
 as well as to replenish the empty purse of the German ; 
 a wise arrangement for him, but a cruel wrong to her. 
 Sometimes I feel like rushing away to England, to 
 
T 
 
 HAST. 
 
 f any one nien- 
 iction with the 
 he grim, tragic 
 
 fixed the dark 
 s only a figure, j 
 a man whom I 
 ugs to avenge. 
 y secret in my ' 
 3 and hear me 
 verish, and con- 
 
 And this is not 
 ,'er me, that may 
 )m England, my 
 
 by an undertone 
 serious than she 
 irt my poor dar- 
 
 disappointment 
 f at first. The 
 he frail body is 
 ler resolute little 
 
 devoted to her 
 in if she suffers 
 
 ying a brilliant 
 ?a remain at the 
 e Court Journal, 
 f and the Honor- 
 but good May has 
 1' on that subject, 
 e of thfi German ; 
 I wrong to her. 
 y to England, to 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 409 
 
 throw myself at Dorethea's feet, never to leave her 
 until she forgives me ; to implore and plead with Lord 
 Hardmoor ; to compel him, by the very strength of my 
 passion and despair, to forget the past and to take me 
 into his favor again. 
 
 But Edith and Walter both assure me that it would 
 be premature and useless. They say that I must first 
 accomplish something; first convince them that I am a 
 rational, capable being. 
 
 For this reason I am working with fearful energy on 
 my picture. It is a grand conception. My master and 
 all my friends encourage me to press forward to the end. 
 They say it will make me famous, that I have never 
 painted before, that I am possessed with a divine fury, a 
 living fire. That may all be true ; but th^y do not know 
 what I am working for. It is not for fame, honor, or 
 wealth. It is for hope — hope. It is to keep alive this 
 small fire, that sometimes burns so feebly that it is well 
 nigh extinguished ; and, without its saving light, I can 
 neither live nor labor. 
 
 I have received a flattering offer from Russia for my 
 Raphael, and still another from France. For Dorethea 
 I will give it up freely, willingly. But I cannot do 
 without the companionship of this wonderful picture 
 until I have her love to take its place. Nothing else will 
 tempt me. On the day when Lord Hardmoor tells me I 
 am forgiven, I will accept the offer of the French govern- 
 ment ; and the picture will pass out of my hands for- 
 
 ever. 
 
 I have just returned from a visit to the Capo lo Casa, 
 where I had a long talk with Angelique. She was 
 alone, her mother being absent on a visit to a friend j 
 
 p gaai ! rfiaBa«aiMS(Mi ii iH g3« 
 
 
T 
 
 410 
 
 THE STOBY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 and our conversation was confidential and sad in tlio 
 extreme. She has just received a letter and a package 
 from Camille. His mother died some weeks ago, and he 
 is in Venice. She read me the letter, and a more hope- 
 less, heart-broken epistle it was never my lot to hear. 
 One thing strikes me as strange. From the beginning 
 to the end of this long letter Camille never mentions 
 Natilika. He must have heard of her saxl fate. All 
 Italy —I may say all Europe — has heard of it ; and yet 
 he never mentions her. 
 
 One passage in the letter touched me deeply, " A man 
 can never be utterly hopeless and abandoned while his 
 mother lives, — while he has her patient heart to flee 
 to — her faithful love, her unfailing confidence. My 
 mother was all that held me to life ; and with her I have 
 lost all. My last frail mooring to time is broken, and 
 I drift, God only knows whither." 
 
 Angdlique wept while she read the sad lines, and my 
 own eyes were not entirely dry. After a few moments 
 she folded the letter, and, leaning her cheek in the palm 
 of her hand where the letter lay, she remained thought- 
 ful and silent for some time. Then she looked at me 
 with a faint smile, and said, " Dear Camille, I understand 
 now why I love him — why I always loved him. My 
 friend, I want to tell you something which I can't let 
 mama know, for fear it might pain her. Papa loved 
 Camille's mother long ago before she married Count de 
 Br^court. He was a poor young painter, and she was 
 the daughter of a rich noble, yet they loved each other 
 devotedly and tenderly. After her death, Camille found 
 a package of papa's letters, and a miniature of.hun,kept 
 faithfully through all these years, and he has sent them 
 to me. Such noble, tender letters, so resigned and par 
 
T 
 
 id sail in the 
 tiul a package 
 ks ago, and he 
 a more hope- 
 y lot to hear, 
 the beginning 
 ever mentions 
 sad fate. All 
 [ of it ; and yet 
 
 36 ply, " A man 
 jned while his 
 t heart to flee 
 jnlidence. My 
 nrith her I have 
 is broken, and 
 
 il lines, and my 
 a few moments 
 sek in the palm 
 lained thojight- 
 ,e looked at me 
 le, I understand 
 oved him. My 
 hich I can't let 
 er. Papa loved 
 irried Count de 
 er, and she was 
 3ved each other 
 1, Camille found 
 ure of. him, kept 
 le has sent them 
 resigned and par 
 
 NATIMKA. 
 
 411 
 
 tient, so like papa. Is it not all very clear now why I 
 felt such an interest, such an impression of being in 
 some way connected with hira, when I first saw him ? 
 The mysterious bond of the soul runs through it all. 
 The heart's history repeats itself. They loved and were 
 parted. We, their children, meet, and straightway we 
 recognize an influence that draws us together. His 
 better nature understands my soul, but the worldly, the 
 base, draws him away, and our inherited love cannot be 
 perfect on earth ; but beyond, in eternity, he will be 
 mine. He must be saved. T must save him for myself. 
 The earth spirit, the evil influ^nt^e is removed from his 
 path, and it is not too late for him to enter the higher 
 life here on earth. If he can struggle through these 
 dark clouds, the.se dense vapors that enshroud his soul, 
 all hereafter will be clear and beautiful. My friend, can 
 you not see that I have a holy mission to perform ? 
 that I must devote my days and nights to prayers and 
 penance for Camille's soul ? He is in danger of sinking 
 in these black waters of doubt and despair, and only 
 prayer can save him. I bless God that I live to pray 
 for him." 
 
 Sweet saint, if God hears the young ravens when they 
 cry, how much more will he listen to you in your pitiful 
 need. 
 
 ■ • • • • 
 
 How dark, how mournful, how tragic ! My master 
 sends for me ; I hasten to the Villa Medici. He and 
 Madam are weeping together over a letter from M. 
 Henri, a former pensonnaire, who is living in Venice. 
 My master gives me the letter with a trembling hand, 
 and I read the following : — 
 
 " I write to you in the deepest sorrow. Our friend, 
 
412 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 our poor Camille, is no more. While I say this the tears 
 blind me. It is so sudden, so dreadful, that I can hardly 
 understand it. He was drowned here in Venice, where 
 his evil destiny led him. For some time he had been in 
 the habit of bathing in the sea at early morning with two 
 of his friends. On this fatal day, he ran swiftly and buoy- 
 antly before them, and, with alight laugh and jest, sprang 
 into the water and disappeared instantly. His friends, 
 seeing that he did not rise to the surface, plunged in after 
 him, but could find no trace of him. A few hours after, 
 the cruel waves threw him dead on the shore. It is im- 
 possible to tell how unhappy I am, I loved him so, and 
 he was worthy of all love. I am desolate, furious 
 against fate, whicli hastens to destroy all that is best, 
 while so much that is worthless and useless is spared. 
 He was so good, so honorable, so generous, so favored by 
 fortune, and, above all, so happy, and endowed with such 
 a distinguished talent and such success in the profession 
 he had chosen. In short, you know and love him, and 
 regret him, as we do." 
 
 I could read no more. I laid the letter down, and 
 walked silently away. 
 
 It is over ; the last act of the Greek tragedy is finished. 
 Nemesis has done her work. The day of doom has 
 sounded, and Camille's soul has gone to meet hers in the 
 cold shad es of death. Almost the last words I ever heard 
 from his lips ring in my ears like a funeral knell. " I 
 will not live to regret." His mother dead, that fatal 
 love gone out in blackness and darkness forever, what 
 was left for him, with none of La Santa's holy faith to 
 cling to, but to run lightly and joyously, in the flush of 
 early morning, down to that sunlit Venetian sea, and 
 seek oblivion in its blue waves ! . . . 
 
 T 
 
AST. 
 
 Y this the tears 
 lat I can hardly 
 
 Venice, where 
 lie had been in 
 )rning with two 
 viftly and buoy- 
 md jest, sprang 
 ^ His friends, 
 )lunged in after 
 'ew hours after, 
 hore. It is im- 
 ired him so, and 
 jsohite, furious 
 all that is best, 
 jeless is spared. 
 8, so favored by 
 owed with such 
 a the profession 
 d love him, and 
 
 stter down, and 
 
 Lgedy is finished. 
 
 Y of doom has 
 aeet hers in the 
 •rds I ever heard 
 neral knell. " I 
 
 dead, that fatal 
 ss forever, what 
 la's holy faith to 
 r, in the flush of 
 enetian sea, and 
 
 T 
 
 NATILIKA. 
 
 418 
 
 Oamille's sad fate is a terril)le blow to Angelique. She 
 never knew how hiiman her love was until death stepped 
 in and claimed the mortal part of him. Now the narrow 
 creed of her religion tortures her — can he be saved, can 
 her tears and prayers avail aught with God, now that he 
 is no longer on earth ? She weeps and prays night and 
 day for him, and her life is one long penance for the 
 salvation of a soul tliat she thinks her earthly love might 
 have saved, where now regret and anguish can avail 
 nothing. 
 
 Not long ago she was looking ovep some engravings of 
 famous pictures, and accidentally came upon that one of 
 Francesca di Itimini and Paolo, taken from Dante's de- 
 scription of the unfortunate lovers whirling through 
 brown air, linked together in eternal misery. The poor 
 girl covered her eyes, and turned away ghastly pale. 
 " Oh, ray God !" she sighed, " are they together there ? 
 How, then, can his soul be saved ? " 
 
 \ 
 
 wtt^f 
 
T 
 
 PART VII. 
 SANCTUARY. 
 
 
T 
 
PART VII. 
 
 BANOTUAKY. 
 
 I. 
 
 It is nearly two yoars since I brought back the wreck 
 of myself to Home. During that time I have somewliat 
 repaired anil furbished up my exterior man, though I 
 still look hopelessly old and vorn. My health is fairly 
 good, only, at times, nvy throbbing heart complains bit- 
 terly that it has so little sustenance to live on, and my 
 weary brain aches with weary thinking and useless ex- 
 pectation. I am always waiting, looking, hoping for 
 letters from England. My life is now centred on two 
 objects — my picture, which is approaching completion, 
 and the letters which I receive from England. 
 
 Walter and Edith are very good, and write to me as 
 often as I can reasonably expect them to. And occa- 
 sionally their letters contain little fragments of encour- 
 agement : " Dorethea spoke of you to-day " ; or, " Doro- 
 thea asked il' your picture will be exhibited in London " ; 
 or, " Dorothea's face brightened when I spoke of you." 
 — Such little sentences are nothing, in themselves, but 
 the tiniest crumbc of hope, yet they keep life in a starv- 
 ing heart. 
 
 Lately, I have had a new inspiration, which has led to 
 my doing a thing that I never thought to do. I have 
 written to Lady Hardmoor. She is the mother of a 
 beautiful boy, and Lord Hardmoor is happy again in his 
 
 417 
 
 « 
 
T 
 
 418 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 domestic relations. Her heart is doubtless softened and 
 purified by the blessed influence of rnotherhood, and she 
 must have regained her old power over her husband. 
 Therefore I have appealed to her to help me. 
 
 Dorethea's health is failing, and every day that we arft 
 parted lessens her chances of recovery. I know that 
 Edith has never told nie the worst ; but, as near as I can 
 judge from what she has said, Dorethea's illness is 
 caused by some affection of the heart. With a calm, 
 happy life, she may live many years ; but, with this con- 
 stant cankering care and weary hopeless waiting, her 
 frail organization cannot bear this strain. They must 
 see that she is slowly and silently dying, and, if her 
 father loves her, how can he sacrifice her to his pride 
 and anger? Long ago I hurubled myself, as much as 
 was consistent with any degree of self-respect, and wrote 
 to him for my darling's sake, earnestly begging him to 
 allow Dorethea to communicate with me, and to give me 
 a little hope for the future. But no reply came, though 
 I waited and looked for it with the consuming anxiety 
 that one doomed to death would hope for a reprieve. 
 
 How the trite saying of drowning men clutching at 
 straws repeats itself over and over in my case, and the 
 last straw is Lady Hardmoor. God grant that she may 
 have the power to soften her husband's obdurate heart. 
 I think my letter will impress her ; she has not a bad 
 heart, and she cannot fail to be moved by the earnest- 
 ness of my appeal. 
 
 I am counting the days that must elapse before I can 
 hope for an answer. In the meantime I am possessed 
 with a spirit of restlessness. I cannot remain within. 
 In this bright, still autumn weather, I walk for miles 
 and miles over the Campagna ; sometimes, after a hard 
 
 m 
 
51 AST. 
 
 jss softened and 
 lerhood, and she 
 r her husband. 
 I me. 
 
 day that we arft 
 T. I know that 
 
 as near as I can 
 ;hea's illness is 
 With a calm, 
 it, with this con- 
 ess waiting, her 
 lin. They must 
 ing, and, if her 
 lier to his pride 
 self, as much as 
 ispect, and wrote 
 
 begging him to 
 !, and to give me 
 jly came, though 
 nsuming anxiety 
 )r a reprieve, 
 nen clutching at 
 ny case, and the 
 mt that she may 
 ; obdurate heart, 
 le has not a bad 
 , by the earuest- 
 
 ipse before I can 
 » I am possessed 
 t remain within. 
 [ walk for miles 
 ues, after a hard 
 
 T 
 
 
 SANCTUARY. 
 
 4in 
 
 day's tramp, I take refuge for the night in some little 
 osteria among the hills, or in the rude hut of a shep- 
 herd, and return to Rome the next day, weary but 
 calm. 
 
 This rapid motion seems the only relief from my too 
 constant anxiety, the only relief from myself. Strange 
 to say, I am losing all relish for the society of my fellow- 
 men. I do not like to go where people are happy. 
 Paul and Laura are a perpetual reproach to me in their 
 quiet domestic bliss ; and, to add to my suffering, they 
 have a sweet little girl, some three months old. Tliey 
 insisted on my naming her, and what should I select 
 but the one name in all the world that I love best, the 
 quaint, old-fashioned name of Dorethea. Now that I 
 have given the child that precious name, I regret it ; for, 
 every time I hear it, it pierces me to the heart, and the 
 little creature has fair hair and blue eyes, and I know 
 when she is older she will remind me still more of my 
 lost love. Sometimes she clutches my finger with her 
 little, soft, warm hand, and smiles in my face ; then my 
 heart almost opens to her, but I close it resolutely — no 
 other love shall ever enter there. The one love of my 
 life fills it, to the exclusion of all others. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Brent have gone to England, to remain 
 a year. My dear master and madam have returned to 
 Paris, and a stranger has succeeded him at the French 
 Academy. Our little circle is greatly narrowed. 
 
 Since Camille's death, La Santa devotes herself more 
 than ever to good works, to prayers and penance. She 
 is a religieuse in all but name. She spends much of her 
 time in retirement, praying for the soul of Camille, and 
 wears as her constant dress the black robe of a sceur de 
 Charite, and she has never posed for an artist since that 
 
 ■."'■< Ii%|4^?" 
 
 - Mem^mmmMM^^i^ 
 
•"■! 
 
 420 
 
 THE STORY OF AN KNTHUSIAST. 
 
 sad letter from Venice, with the exception of the few 
 sittings she has given me for the face of my Christian 
 Martyr. In that face lies all the charm, all the power 
 of the work. There are many iigures, but I know the 
 world will see only that one pure virginal face, lit 
 up with holy love and faith — the soul of a martyr 
 shining through the divine eyes; patient sorrow, heroic 
 endurance, and heavenly courage, in the tender smile 
 
 around the lips. 
 
 Ah ! there have been other Christian martyrs than 
 those who have perished for their faith at the stake and 
 under the fangs of wild beasts, and Angelique is one of 
 them. 
 
 I have made a singular discovery, which quite unnerves 
 me when I think of it. I have been out on one of .-'y 
 long pedestrian journeys across the Cainpagna, anc in 
 noon to-day, feeling weary, and finding the sun qui' ' 
 although it is November, I directed my steps towa . ^ 
 group of ruins, shaded by lofty pines, and surrounded 
 by an under-growth of ilex, acacia, and thick clustering 
 bushes and vines. It was a miniature forest, and the 
 shade was very tempting. 
 
 I sat down on a fragment of a cipolino column and 
 turned my gaze toward the Alban hills. In spite of the 
 bright sunlight around me, the landscape was sombre 
 and mournful. The purple, brown tints of autumn were 
 scattered lavishly over the plain. The mountains were 
 black in the shadows, and the wan sickly light trailed off 
 in lines of gray mist. In the valley a mass of heavy 
 clouds were rolled together, broken by jagged flashes of 
 lightning, and slanting spears of rain, while, beyond, a 
 pale, slender bow spanned the sunny peaks, that shone 
 
USIAST. 
 
 Bptiou of the few 
 5 of iny Ohvistian 
 ,nn, all the power 
 !, bvit I know the 
 
 virginal face, lit 
 soul of a martyr 
 ent sorrow, heroic 
 
 the tender smile 
 
 ;ian martyrs than 
 h at the stake and 
 ngelique is one of 
 
 lich quite unnerves 
 out on one of .i^y 
 ampagna, and rt ' 
 g thesunqui^ * 
 my steps towa \ i 
 es, and surrounded 
 [id thick clustering 
 lire forest, and the 
 
 ipolino column and 
 Is. In spite of the 
 dscapo was sombre 
 uts of autumn were 
 rhe mountains were 
 3kly light trailed off 
 y a mass of heavy 
 by jagged flashes of 
 in, while, beyond, a 
 y peaks, that shone 
 
 SAXCTTTARY. 
 
 421 
 
 like marble pillars, enshrouded at the base in gloom and- 
 mystery. 
 
 Around me all was serene and peaceful ; not a sound 
 broke the noonday silence, save a low wind that rustled 
 the leaves and sear grass at my feet. A chameleon, tnk- 
 ing the brown hue of its surroundings, basked on a fraj,'- 
 ment of stone in a half-torpid condition, and when I 
 touched it gently with my foot it turned its dim cyen 
 upward reproachfully, and trailed slowly and languidly 
 away through the dry grass. It was the only sign of 
 life within my vision ; not a bird, not a fieldfare, not 
 even a belated butterfly, fluttered in the yellow sunlight. 
 
 Gently parting the tangle of vines and dry branches, 
 I penetrated farther among the ruins. They were all 
 that remained of an ancient tomb, that must once -have 
 been a magnificent monument to a dead love, for the 
 floor was paved with exquisite mosaic, and the walls and 
 broken roofs were decorated with beautiful designs of 
 early imperial art, as fresh in color as though the painter 
 had just laid down his brush. There was nothing 
 gloomy or ghostly about the place. Here and there 
 gleams of sunlight pierced the thick foliage, bringing 
 out the gay tints of the painted flowers and birds with 
 wonderful brilliancy. How peaceful, how consoling, how 
 almost cheerful, was this mouldering pagan tomb ! What 
 a blessed refuge from the sorrows of life ! What a calm 
 haven after the tempests of a stormy existence ! 
 
 For a long time I wandered about the spot, or sat 
 dreaming of the dead world beneath me, suggested by 
 the dark openings and mounds of earth thrown up by 
 former excavations. Suddenly the profound silence 
 was broken by a sigh, so deep, so burdened, so sorrow- 
 laden, that it only could have issued from a soul in 
 
422 
 
 THE STORY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 great anguish. 1 looked hurriedly around, thery was no 
 one ; no movement broke the silence, no sound only the 
 soft soughing of the wind. Was it the ghost of dead 
 centuries bemoaning its former glory ? or was it the 
 echo of some old sorrow, as old as time, as old as 
 humanity, that repeated itself over and over, as ages 
 succeeded each other? After a moment of nervous 
 apprehension I heard it again ; and now so heavy as to 
 be almost a groan. I was sitting near a ruined wall cov- 
 ered with a tangle of vines. Rising, I cautiously parted 
 the withered leaves and looked through an aperture 
 where some stones had fallen away ; and there, sitting 
 on a block of marble a few feet from me, I saw the 
 Saceone. His hooded head was bowed in his hands, those 
 unmistakable hands, and his whole attitude was hopeless 
 and dejected. 
 
 1 watched him for some moments ; he never moved 
 nor changed his position, but from time to time I heard 
 those burdened sighs, and through the folds of the white 
 robe I could see him shiver and shrink as though a 
 knotted cord cut into his flesh, while his hands, which 
 were fearfully emaciated, clutched spasmodically at the 
 folds of the hood that covered his temples. 
 
 At length, leaving the spot where I stood, I quietly 
 made the detour of the wall, and came around on the side 
 where I had seen hira sitting, But he was not there ; 
 he had disappeared. There was the block of marble 
 where he sat, and the sear grass, crushed down by his 
 feet to show that my eyes had not deceived me — that it 
 was a human being I had seen, and not a denizen of 
 another world. 
 
 I stood still for a moment, bewildered and disap- 
 pointed, and then, speaking softly, I said. "Polonse!" 
 
 .. 
 
[AST. 
 
 d, theri.> was no 
 sound only the 
 ghost of dead 
 or was it the 
 line, a» old as 
 I over, as ages 
 nt of nervous 
 so heavy as to 
 •uined wall cov- 
 utiously parted 
 [h an aperture 
 d there, sitting 
 me, I saw the 
 his hands, those 
 de was hopeless 
 
 e never moved 
 to time I heard 
 Ids of the white 
 k as though a 
 is hands, which 
 lodically at the 
 ?s. 
 
 stood, I quietly 
 jund on the side 
 was not there ; 
 lock of marble 
 ed down by his 
 'ed me — that it 
 ot a denizen of 
 
 >red and disap- 
 aid. " Polonse ! " 
 
 SANCT0ARY. 
 
 428 
 
 But there was no answer ; only t'le soughing of the wind. 
 Again I said, louder and more distinctly, "Polonse!" and 
 far off a faint echo replied mockingly, "Polonae." 
 
 Where could he have vanished in an instant, in the 
 full light of noonday ? I examined every nook and 
 cranny of the ruins, I peered into every dark opening 
 that seemed to lead nowhere, filled as they were with 
 broken stones and rubbish; but no trace of him could I 
 find. However, of one thing I am certain ; I have seen 
 him, and I have discovered his place of refuge, a ruined 
 tomb among the dead of past ages. 
 
 A suffering child of to-day, burdened with the inheri- 
 tance of all humanity, has turned to the past for peace 
 and oblivion. Here, in the vast silence of dead centuries, 
 he has found a sanctuary for his sorrow. 
 
 Again and again I have returned to that ruined tomb. 
 Some subtle influence draws me thither. But, although 
 I have approached cautiously and silently, I have never 
 since had a glimpse of the penitent. Yet I know he is 
 concealed there ; I feel his presence ; I feel the echo of 
 his burdened sighs ; I see where his weary feet have worn 
 away the turf by frequent pacing back and forth, per- 
 haps in the solemn night, under the pale stars, when 
 sleep refuses to visit his eyelids. Would to God that I 
 could share his vigil, for often, too often, I woo 
 "Nature's sweet restorer" in vain. There is a secret 
 fellowship among the sorrowful, and my unhappy soul 
 would fain find companionship with his. Why does he 
 not reveal himself to me ? He knows that I am his 
 friend, and will never betray him. And why does he lin- 
 ger near the sceue of his — no I will not say it ; none 
 
^i" 
 
 424 
 
 THE STORY OF AN KNTHtrSIAST. 
 
 but God knows the mystery of that awful lughl, and I, 
 his friend, must not accuse him, even in my heart. 
 
 My picture has gone to Paris, and I seem to have lost 
 another interest in life. While I was working on it, I 
 was working for her; and it gave me courage and 
 energy. Now it is gone, good or bad, it leaves a 
 blank in my life, and I have one motive less for 
 
 Will the fame of my Christian Martyr reach to Eng- 
 land ? and will it convince my enemies that I am capable 
 of achieving something worthy ? Will it convince Lord 
 Hardraoor that I can redeem the past -that I can yet 
 make a name that the world will respect ? God knows 
 1 am not ambitious for myself ; and I have not wrought 
 this labor for fame, but only to show Dorethea that I 
 am still trying to press upward -still trying to be 
 worthy of her. 
 
 A letter from England, from Lady Hardmoor; and she 
 bids me to hope. Thank God ! she bids me to hope. 
 
 II. 
 
 How can I sit down calmly before this recipient of 
 my experiences, and write with any degree of intelligence 
 of the unexpected happiness that has come to me since I 
 last turned these pages. 
 
 My brain is in a confusion of delight ; my heart a tu- 
 mult of gratitude and joyful expectation. Suddenly 
 youth and joy have come to me again. In the midst ot 
 darkness a great light has burst upon me, and I am 
 blinded and bewildered, but intensely happy ; happier 
 than I ev r was, than I ever thought I could be. I have 
 

 AST. 
 
 I night, and I, 
 ay heart. 
 
 3m to have lost 
 jrking on it, I 
 e courage and 
 ,d, it leaves a 
 otive less for 
 
 r reach to Eng- 
 lat I am capable 
 t convince Lord 
 ■ that I can yet 
 , ? God knows, 
 ivc not wrought 
 Dorethea that I 
 
 II trying to be 
 
 rdmoor ; and she 
 me to hope. 
 
 this recipient of 
 ee of intelligence 
 me to me since I 
 
 ; my heart a tu- 
 ition. Suddenly 
 
 In the midst of 
 n me, and I am 
 
 happy; happier 
 could be. I have 
 
 SANCTUAUy. 
 
 426 
 
 seen her ; my Dorethea is here — here in Rome ; and I 
 have knelt at her feet, penitent, crushed, broken, and 
 have risen a new man — with one touch of her weak, 
 thin hand, laid in forgiveness on my bowed head. 
 
 I was sitting in my studio, alone, thinking, as I have 
 done constantly, of Lady Hardmoor's letter, — written 
 nearly two months ago, and wondering, as I have a thou- 
 sand times, just what her words meant, wlien there was 
 a knock at my door, and, before I could answer the sum- 
 mons, my ccusin Walter stood before iiu-. 
 
 At first 1 was so overcome that I could only cling to 
 his hand and look at him silently. But after a moment 
 I recovered myself enough to get him to a ehuir and to 
 seat myself before him, ready with an intinitude of ques- 
 tions. He looked bright and happy, so I knew that he 
 was not the bearer of evil tidings. 
 
 " Please let me get my breath," he cried, as I plied 
 him eagerly. " Tliese stairs take the wind out of one. 
 Yes, Edith is with me, and we arrived late last 
 
 evening." 
 
 " But why didn't you let me know you were coming, 
 so I could have had the pleasure of expecting you ? " 
 
 "I did not know myself. It was all arranged very 
 suddenly," he replied, with a pleased smile in his kind 
 
 eyes. , 
 
 "Why was it arranged suddenly ? Oh, Walter, have 
 
 you come to tell me about Dorethea. What is it ? Tell 
 
 me quickly. Pray, don't keep me in suspense." 
 
 "Pooh, pooh! don't get excited! Do you suppose I 
 
 have come all this way to tell you anything, when there 
 
 are the mails ? Dorethea is better." 
 
 "Is better!" I repeated, with a wild thrill of hope. 
 
 «' Oh, Walter, you don't wean that she is with you '.' " 
 
 t 
 
426 
 
 THE STOKY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 "Yes, she is with us. You are so excitable that I 
 feared to tell you suddenly." 
 
 « Where is she ? I must go to her," I cried, spring- 
 ing to my feet. 
 
 "Wait a moment, Felix; listen to me. You can't 
 rush off in this wild way. You must calm yourself. 
 Dorethea is far from well, and she must be spared all 
 sudden shocks. I don't even know whether she has de- 
 cided to see you now." 
 
 " What do you mean ? here, in Rome, and not see me ! 
 Oh, Walter, that is cruel ! " 
 
 " It is an accident — our staying over. We intended 
 only to pass through on our way to Naples. You see, 
 the doctor ordered Dorethea to the south of Italy. 
 Lady Hardmoor's health did not admit of her leaving 
 home, and my uncle must stay and coddle that wonder- 
 ful boy. He is quite childish about him — a son and 
 heir, and all our hopes blighted. Well, his lordship 
 came to us and hinted very strongly that he should like 
 us to take a journey abroad at once. The doctor said 
 Dorethea must not spend the spring in England. That 
 an entire change was necessary, and suggested the south 
 of Italy as a desirable cximate. It was impossible for 
 him to leave Lady H.irdnoor and the boy. Doro- 
 thea was happier with us ihan with any one else. I 
 could easily iind som? one to fill my place for three 
 months ; and the trij) woulrl be an agreeable change. In 
 short, would I take Edith and Dorethea and travel for 
 a while ? I saw no reason to refuse, and in three days 
 we were on our way. As I said, we intended to pass 
 directly through to Naples. But this morning Dorethea 
 was very tired, and expressed a wish to remain over. 
 So I sent for the English doctor to ask his opinion, and 
 
[AST. 
 
 xcitable that I 
 
 I cried, spring- 
 
 ne. You can't 
 
 calm yourself. 
 
 ; be spared all 
 
 iier she has de- 
 
 md not see me ! 
 
 . We intended 
 pies. You see, 
 outh of Italy. 
 
 of her leaving 
 le that wonder- 
 ira — a son and 
 11, his lordship 
 
 he should like 
 rhe doctor said 
 England. That 
 ;ested the south 
 \ impossible for 
 le boy. Dore- 
 ny one else. I 
 
 place for three 
 ible change. In 
 
 and travel for 
 d in three days 
 itended to pass 
 orning Porethea 
 to remain over, 
 [lis opinion, and 
 
 SANCTUARY. 
 
 427 
 
 he advised her to get well rested before she continued 
 her journey." 
 
 "Did she know that you were coming to me? 1 
 asked, with a sinking heart. 
 
 " She has not spoken of you, but I think the desire to 
 see you determined her to remain here for the present." 
 
 " I must go to her," I said again. " Walter, I must 
 see her or die. I will be calm, as still as death ; I will 
 turn myself to stone. I will only look at her. Let me 
 see her, I beg of you." 
 
 " My dear cousin, my dear Felix, I want you to see 
 her in a way that won't injure her. This wretched state 
 of things must be changed. Dorethea's life depends on 
 it. Her illness is caused by secretly fretting over this 
 trouble. Edith knows it, and I know it, although her 
 father will not admit it. The poor deluded man imag- 
 ines that she never thinks of you. But, Felix, I must 
 prepare Dorethea first ; I don't know all the secrets of 
 her heart. I can't tell whether her father gave her per- 
 mission to see you. You know how conscientious she is. 
 She will never disobey him. I will ask her, and if she 
 wishes to see you I will let you know directly." 
 "Where is she?" 
 " Not a stone's-throw from here. At the Europa, in the 
 
 square below." 
 
 "Walter, let me know my fate, quickly. I can t live 
 with her so near me and not see her." 
 
 "You know I will do all I can," replied Walter, 
 kindly. " I am anxious to have you see her, but we 
 must be calm and rational. How could I answer to her 
 father, if I should allow her to receive any sudden shock 
 that might be fatal to her ? " 
 
 "Walter, dear cousin, do you think I am entirely 
 
T 
 
 428 
 
 THE 8T0KY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 irresponsible ? Who loves her as I do ? Could I wish 
 to harm hev ? For her sake, I can repress every out- 
 ward euiotion. I can meet her calmly and quietly. I 
 only ask to kneel at her feet and implore her pardon 
 with my eyes." 
 
 « Well, my dear Felix, I will speak to her, and, if she 
 receives my overtures favorably, I will tell her you are 
 waiting to see her. You may as well come to the hotel 
 \ with me. Edith will be glad to see you." 
 
 Edith was at a little writing-table, busy over letters, 
 when we entered her i)arlor. She received me with 
 every sign of good-will, and looked so bright and happy 
 that I felt hopeful at once. 
 
 " Do you think Dorothea will see Felix ? " asked Wal- 
 ter, anxiously, of his wife. 
 
 «' Certainly, she will see him. Poor child ! it is what 
 she is here for," replied Edith, confidently. 
 
 "Are you sure, my dear?— have you asked her?" in- 
 sisted Walter, with exasperating caution. 
 
 " I have not asked her, but I judge so from her desire 
 to stay over. How can she help seeing him, when he is 
 here?" and she turned a bright, warm smile on me. 
 " Wait a moment, and I will go and find out the state of 
 her poor little sick heart." 
 
 "Yes, you had better go, my dear. I thought of 
 speaking to her myself, of approaching the subject 
 very cautiously, for, you know, she must not be ex- 
 cited." 
 
 "I understand all that perfectly. We women know 
 how to manage such matters instinctively, and you, my 
 dear cousin, brighten up and look more hopeful, or you 
 will shock her with your melancholy visage. The doc- 
 tor says she must see only cheerful faces," and, with a 
 
T 
 
 UA8T. 
 
 • Oould I wish 
 )res3 every out- 
 and quietly. I 
 lore lier purduu 
 
 her, und, if she 
 tell her you are 
 )ine to the hotel 
 
 usy over letters, 
 ceived me with 
 right and happy 
 
 X ? " asked Wal- 
 
 !hild ! it is what 
 tly. 
 
 asked her ? " iii- 
 1. 
 ) from her desire 
 
 him, when he is 
 m smile on me. 
 1 out the state of 
 
 I thought of 
 ing the subject 
 nust not be ex- 
 
 Ne women know 
 ely, and you, my 
 3 hopeful, or you 
 /isage. The doc- 
 3es," and, with a 
 
 BANCTUAKY. 
 
 429 
 
 gay little laugh, she opened a door and entered a connect- 
 ing; rodiii. 
 
 "Edith is very cheery," suid VV niter, fondly, looking 
 after his wife; "and Dorethea loves her dearly. She 
 will get at the bottom of her hciirt, if any one can." 
 
 I heard Walter rambling on, but his voice sounded 
 miles away. I glanced in a mirror opposite, and my 
 white still face looked at me stonily, my hands were 
 cold and rigid, and my heart seemed to have suspended 
 beating 
 
 I saw Edith appear at the door, and I went forward to 
 meet her. She was smiling through her tears. "God 
 bless you," she whispered ; then she added, with a little 
 arch glance, " don't stay too long." 
 
 She stood with her back to the door, and as she spoke 
 she opened it partially, and then closed it quickly as I 
 entered. 
 
 I saw only one object in all the room. A sofa covered 
 with soft white fur, a golden head, a pale face, with eyes 
 that looked strangely large and dark, and two little 
 hands held out eagerly. In an instant I was on my knees 
 beside her, and only two words escaped my lips, " For- 
 give me ! " Then there was a long silence, solemn, sweet, 
 holy, while her light hand lay on my head like a bene- 
 diction from God. 
 
 She was the first to speak. " Poor Felix, poor soul, 
 how you have suffered ! Your hair is quite gray." 
 
 I lifted my eyes mutely to her face. I dared not 
 speak, for fear my intense emotion would break the 
 bounds I had imposed on it. 
 
 Two great tears were slowly rolling down her cheeks. 
 I kissed them away while I held her close to my heart. 
 Then I laid her back on her pillow, and, drawing a chair 
 
THE STORY OF AN KNTHUSIART. 
 
 beside her, 1 took lier hands in niinu und looked silently 
 into her face. 
 
 " Am I much clianged ? " she aaked, with a faint smile. 
 
 "No, darling. Nothing can cliangf you to me." 
 
 She does not look ill, only thinner and nu)re spiritual. 
 She is exquisitely beautiful. Her eyes have a look of 
 lieaven in them, and her soul seems to Hhiic tiirough 
 her delicate, transparent face when she speaks and 
 smiles, and she seems younger, more girlish, than when 
 I left her. There is something almost infantile in her 
 little appealing ways. While I was looking at her, she 
 was also studying me as she stroked my hair with her 
 soft, thiu fingers. At length she said, in a sad mono- 
 tone : — 
 
 " Almost two years ; and when we parted, we thought 
 it was only for a few days. Oh, Felix ! it has seemed 
 an Eternity." 
 
 " Hush, darling ; you will break my heart." 
 
 "It fias broken mine; and now we must part for- 
 ever," she said, softly. 
 
 " Never, never ! " I cried, sava^'ely crushing her in 
 my arms. I was slipping away from my bounds; my 
 emotion was about to break forth like a torrent, but, 
 with a superhuman effort, I recovered myself. 
 
 She gasped slightly, and pressed her hand to her 
 heart. Again I laid her back on her pillow and softly 
 stroked her bright hair. 
 
 "My darling," I said at random, scarcely knowing 
 what I was saying, " tell me about your little brother 
 Do you love him ? " 
 
 "Yes, I think 1 do," she replied, smiling sadly; "but 
 I hardly know. I have seen so little of him. He is 
 very pretty, so plump and rosy, with beautiful daik 
 
 T 
 
 
T 
 
 UAHT. 
 
 , looked silently 
 
 th a faint smile. 
 )u to me." 
 [ more spiritual, 
 have ii look of 
 ) sir, lie til rough 
 ihe speaks and 
 •lish, than when 
 infantile in her 
 iing at her, she 
 y hair with her 
 in a sad mono- 
 
 ted, we thought 
 I it has seemed 
 
 eart." 
 must part for- 
 
 crushing her in 
 
 my bounds; my 
 
 I a torrent, but, 
 
 yself. 
 
 ler hand to her 
 
 iUow and softly 
 
 larcely knowing 
 ir little brother 
 
 ing sadly; "but 
 
 of him. He is 
 
 beautiful daik 
 
 HANCTUARV. 
 
 m 
 
 eyes, like Lady Hardnumr'M." I notieei! she did not 
 say " mania." " I am so glad for dear papa ; he will be 
 such a comfort to him when — " she paused, and then 
 added, " There is only one thing on earth I wish for 
 now, dear Felix." 
 
 "What is it, Dorothea? Is it anything possible for 
 me to do ? " 
 
 •' I fear not. I want you and papa to be friendly ; 
 but I am afraid he will never forgive you." 
 
 " He must, Dorothea, he nnist. He cannot be more 
 obdurate than God, who forgives the penitent sinner. 
 I will go on my knees to him, for your sake ; and I will 
 remain there until I weary him with my insistence. 
 He cannot be so hard." 
 
 " He is not hard, dear ; he is very tender and gentle 
 to me. And oh, Felix, don't you understand that he 
 allowed me to come to Italy! — that he released me 
 from my promise never to see you again ! He knoioa 
 that my heart broke in Paris when I saw you. Oh, I 
 can't, 1 must not speak of it." 
 
 " No, my love, you must not," and I laid my fingers 
 gently on her lips. 
 
 " Now he sees that I can only be cured by you." 
 " My precious love, I will give ray life to you. I will 
 never leave you again, never, never. Dorethea, give me 
 the right now, this very hour, to stay with you always. 
 I can't spare you from my sight for an hour." 
 
 " You are just the same as always ; my poor, impetu- 
 ous Felix," she replied, with a calm smile. " I am satis- 
 fied only to see you ; and, even if I should never see 
 you again, I shoidd die happier for these few moments. 
 But, my love, we must part on earth again, and then, 
 perhaps, in a little while the long, long parting." 
 
 ^f 
 
482 
 
 THE STOlty OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 " Dorethea, you torture me. Death sliall not take you 
 from me. You must live — you shall live. I will stay 
 with you. I will watch you night and day, my love, 
 my devotion, will cure your sick heart. Dorethea, re- 
 member what we have suffered. Do not give fate 
 another chance to defraud us of our happiness. Let 
 Walter arrange everything," I urged, desperately. " It 
 is so easy, so simple, the few words that will give me 
 the right to remain always with you." 
 
 She opened her blue eyes wide, and looked at me with 
 a soft smile. 
 
 "It surprises me even now, and I thought I knew 
 you so well, to see how easily you ignore all barriers, all 
 convenance." 
 
 "What are barriers and convetiance to vis," I cried, 
 " when our happiness, our very life, is at stake ? " 
 
 " But, dear Felix, papa did not say that I could be 
 your wife. He did not refuse to allow me to see you ; 
 but he has not forgiven you, and he will not consent for 
 me to marry you. I could not disobey him on the very 
 brink of the grave." 
 
 " You are not on the brink of the grave, and if you 
 were I would snatch you back. Dorethea, I am in tor- 
 ment ; darling, do not refuse my prayer." 
 
 " Let me try to get well, first. Let us see if you can 
 cure me," she pleaded, softly stroking my baud. 
 
 "But how can I cure you if we must be parted 
 again, if you go away from me ? " 
 
 " I shall not go away from you. I shall stay here, in 
 spite of the doctors," she replied, with a pretty air of 
 wilfulness. "And you shall see me every day, and 
 when I am rested you shall show me this beautiful 
 Rome ; and, if I can be cured, that will cure me. In the 
 
tUSIAST. 
 
 sliall not take you 
 live. I will stay 
 111(1 (lay, my love, 
 art. Dorethea, re- 
 Do not give fate 
 Li- happiness. Let 
 desperately. " It 
 that will give me 
 
 looked at me with 
 
 [ thought! knew 
 ore all barriers, all 
 
 '26 to US," I cried, 
 sat stake?" 
 Ly that I could be 
 iw me to see you ; 
 all not consent for 
 y him on the very 
 
 } grave, and if you 
 
 rethea, I am in tor- 
 
 'er." 
 
 ; us see if you can 
 
 J my hand. 
 
 e must be parted 
 
 shall stay here, in 
 ith a pretty air of 
 ne every day, and 
 
 me this beautiful 
 ill cure me. In the 
 
 SANCTUAUY. 
 
 438 
 
 uieautime, you must write a very kind, gentle letter to 
 papa, and I will write a very sweet one to him; and, if 
 he forgives you and consents, — well, perhaps when I 
 am strong enough to stand up for so long" — her ; she 
 broke off with quite a joyous laugh. 
 
 Again I pressed her to my heart and whispered, " My 
 darling, I am in heaven. You have saved me /rom 
 despair." 
 
 At that moment there was a tap at the door, and the 
 merry voice of Edith, " Come, come ! this is a long visit 
 to an invalid. Do you know that you have been talking 
 incessantly for an hour. I must take Felix away now," 
 she said, smoothing Dorethea's cheek playfully. " I know 
 you are tired. You must take your drops, and a long 
 nap, and if you are very good you shall see him again, 
 
 later." 
 
 Dorethea raised her eyes wistfully to me as I stooped 
 to kiss her, and whispered, " Be patient, dear love ; I 
 feel confident that papa will let us be happy by and 
 
 by." 
 
 I only remained a moment to thank Walter, and to tell 
 him that, with Dorethea's sanction, I was about to write 
 to Lord Hardraoor to ask him again to consent to our 
 marriage. 
 
 "Certainly; go and write to him. Now is the time. 
 He is thoroughly anxious about Dorethea; and his 
 heart is considerably softened by his satisfactory domes- 
 tic relations. Besides, I can assure you that Lady Hard- 
 moor is desirous of having Dorethea married and 
 settled. They do not get on well together. Dorethea 
 and her father are too devoted to each othr;r to suit her 
 ladyship ; and now she does not wish the boy to have a 
 rival in his father's affection. She told me ot your 
 
!l! 
 
 434 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 letter, and I think it was through her influence that the 
 doctor ordered Dorethea to Italy. But be careful, Felix, 
 how you write to my uncle. He is still very bitter 
 about the old affair ; aud you must be conciliating, and 
 all that." 
 
 " I will go down on the knees of my spirit to him. I 
 will humble my pride in the dust. I will cry, ' Peccavi 
 pcccavi, Mea Culpa,' day and night, until he forgives 
 me," I said, as I went away. 
 
 Walter laughed. "The same eager, impulsive soul as 
 ever. God knows, I hope you will succeed." Then, as 
 I was closing the door, he called out, " Be sure to come 
 in time to dine with us." 
 
 I walked across the piazza and up the Spanish steps 
 with a bound ; my heart went before me, aud my feet 
 seemed winged. The sun shines so brightly, and the 
 sky has lost its leaden hue ! My padrona looked at me 
 as I passed her on the stairs, and said, with an intelli- 
 gent smile, " You are getting back your health, signore." 
 She is right; I am getting back everything — love, 
 youth, hope, and, as I live, my Raphael smiles on me 
 with a pleased look in his loving eyes, as if he knew my 
 secret and rejoiced with me. But, dear picture, you must 
 go. To get back my love I must part with you ; but 
 you will always be enshrined in my heart ; I shall 
 always love you faithfully, and you will not go into 
 oblivion, you will not be lost to the world. You will be 
 proudly enthroned in the grandest art-temple in the 
 universe. You will go to France, to the Louvre, and 
 there tb«^ world will worship you as you deserve. 
 
 I believe there are tears in my eyes. How childish 
 happiness aud love will make a man ! 
 
 I have finished my letter to Lord Hardmoor, and in it 
 
 •: 
 
VST. 
 
 leiice that the 
 careful, Felix, 
 11 very bitter 
 iciliating, and 
 
 rit to him. T 
 
 [ cry, ' Peceavi 
 ,il he forgives 
 
 julsive soul as 
 ed." Then, as 
 i sure to come 
 
 Spanish steps 
 e, and my feet 
 ;htly, and the 
 z looked at me 
 fith an intelli- 
 jalth, signore." 
 [■ything — love, 
 smiles on me 
 if he knew my 
 Bture, you must 
 with you ; but 
 heart ; I shall 
 ill not go into 
 1. You will be 
 •temple in the 
 le Louvre, and 
 ieserve. 
 How childish 
 
 Imoor, and in it 
 
 SANCTUAltY. 
 
 486 
 
 : 
 
 I have enclosed one to M. Michelet, accepting the offer 
 of five hundred thousii-i('. francs from the French govern- 
 ment for my Raphael, that his lordship may see that 1 
 am sincere in my desire to make every reparation possi- 
 ble, and to place my financial affairs on their original 
 basis ; and if the Christian Martyr sdls for the pritie my 
 master put upon it, I shall be considerably richer than I 
 was two years ago. Therefore Lord Hardmoor need not 
 fear poverty for his daughter. 
 
 Now I must dress for dinner; what a happy dinner it 
 will be if my darling is well enough to join us at table. 
 
 III. 
 
 What a blissful month this has been. I am sure 
 Heaven has no more happiness to give me than I have 
 enjoyed with Dorethea since the morning she laid her 
 gentle hand on my head in forgiveness. I have passed 
 most of the time with her, and every day she grows 
 stronger and more hopeful. 
 
 Walter and Edith are delighted at her improvement, 
 and every letter that goes to England contains the most 
 favorable reports, while those they receive in return 
 bring us gleams of hope which promise much happiness 
 hereafter. We have not yet received the much desired 
 permission, but we are expecting it daily. However, we 
 are so happy as we are that we almost fear any change. 
 Dorethea is well enough to drive out, and to walk short 
 distances, and she has even toiled up the long stairs to 
 my studio, with much assistance from Walter and 
 myself, and much laughter from Edith, who declares 
 whimsically that she is quite disgusted with us all ; 
 that none of us care whether she is weary or not, and 
 
 ' «S8 ff i-&'«:"-ft- ■»JUg8jSW,^.'g4IJ 
 
-,-il-. 
 
 436 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 that even her husband's arm is never at her service, be- 
 cause this dear exacting little invalid monopolizes all the 
 masculine support around her ; and much more nonsense 
 of the same kind, which seems amusing, because we are 
 happy and ready to laugh at the slightest provocation. 
 
 However, when we reached my studio, and Dorethea 
 saw the wonderful picture which has made so much 
 trouble for us, her face became very solemn, and tlie 
 laughter died on her lips. For a long time she looked 
 at it silently ; then turning suddenly, she hid her face 
 on my shoulder to conceal her tears, while she whis- 
 pered, " I understand it all now, and I am not surprised 
 that you sacrificed so much for it. Oh, Felix, how can 
 you give it up for me even now ? " 
 
 "Easily, my sweet soul, without a pang. I shall not 
 lose it. It will still be mine, ours, and the world's. It 
 would be selfish for me to keep it here within the nar- 
 row walls of this little studio. It belongs to the world, 
 darling, and the world must have it. I am not sure but 
 what I should send it to France, in any case ; so don't 
 imagine that I am making a sacrifice." 
 
 " Ah, Felix, you are so good. You tell me that to set 
 my mind at rest about it ; but I know how much it will 
 cost you to give it up." 
 
 "Hush, you doubting child!" cried Edith; "you 
 should believe Felix implicitly ; a little person in your 
 position has no right to exercise her opinion." 
 
 « I quite agree with Felix," interrupted Walter. 
 " Such a picture ought not to be in a private collection. 
 It belongs to the public, and it should be placed where 
 the public can have the benefit of it. Why, to study it 
 is an education in art. What color ! What life ! It 
 has all the intelligence of a living countenance." 
 
 I 
 
 ill 
 
7SIAST. 
 
 SAMCXUARY. 
 
 487 
 
 it her service, be- 
 onopolizes all the 
 ch more nonsense 
 g, because we are 
 ist provocation, 
 lio, and Doretliea 
 s made so much 
 
 solemn, and the 
 : time she looked 
 
 she hid her face 
 , while she whis- 
 
 am not surprised 
 ih, Felix, how can 
 
 ang. I shall not 
 d the world's. It 
 .•e within the nar- 
 ongs to the world, 
 1 am not sure but 
 ny case ; so don't 
 
 tell me that to set 
 • how much it will 
 
 ■ied Edith; "you 
 ;le person in your 
 pinion." 
 
 terrupted Walter, 
 private collection, 
 d be placed where 
 Why, to study it 
 ! What life! It 
 utenance." 
 
 "Dear, beautiful face," said Dorethea, softly, "you 
 were my rival once, but I forgive you. I cannot be 
 jealous with tliose eyes and that smile before me." 
 
 I have just received a letter from my master, and he 
 is enthusiastic over the astonishing success of the Chris- 
 tian Martyr. He says it is a veritable triumph ; that 
 no other picture is spoken of in Paris; that crowds 
 stand before it from morning until night, singing its 
 praises in all tongues. M. Michelet, although ill and 
 feeble, has put aside his infirmities in order to see it; 
 and has written a most laudatory article for the Paris 
 journals, which has been copied by both the English and 
 German press; and he kindly .adds that he rejoices as 
 though the renown was his, and does he not share the 
 glory, for is it not his scholar and friend Avho has 
 painted the greatest picture of the time, and who, to- 
 day, is more talked of than any other artist in Europe '! 
 But that both he and his dear wife love me too well to 
 envy me. 
 
 Dorethea was quite beside herself with joy, when she 
 read the letter ; La Santa was sitting with her, — they 
 have become very fond of each other, — and my dear girl 
 turned to her so sweetly, and said, with such charming 
 sincerity, "We owe you so much, dear Angelique. If 
 Felix had not had you for the model of his Christian 
 Martyr, it never would have appealed to the heart as it 
 has done. It is your sweet face that has won the 
 world." 
 
 Angelique smiled gently. "You must not give me 
 the praise, dear friend. The picture is full of truth and 
 feeling. It is the outgrowth of great endeavor, strength- 
 ened and purified by sorrow. If it elevates and eiino- 
 
438 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 bles even one soul, I am thankful to have had a small 
 share in it ; but I must insist tliat all tlie glory is due to 
 the genius that could so well express what he saw and 
 felt." 
 
 " Altogether, you will make Felix inordinately vain," 
 cried Edith. " I don't want him to quito lose his men- 
 tal and moral poise, so / shall insist on his going to 
 vesper service Avith me, where he can be restored to a 
 proper degree of gratitude and humility." 
 
 " Gratitude and humility," I repeated. " You are 
 right, Edith. When we have so many good things 
 showered on us suddenly, we are apt to forget to 
 be sutlioiently thankful. It is well that we have such 
 a sensible scjul among us to act as mentor, or other- 
 wise we might find ourselves in a thoroughly chaotic 
 condition." 
 
 "Very well. Will you leave these mutual admirers 
 to praise you behind your back, and come to church 
 with me ? " insisted Edith, looking at me severely, with 
 her head on one side. " Walter has deserted me to go 
 to drive Avith Mr. and Mrs. Fabrien ; confidentially, I 
 think he is quite ipris with that nice gentle Laura; 
 however, I don't blame him, for I am in love with both 
 husband and wife." 
 
 " Oh, what shocking confessions ! Come," I said, tak- 
 ing my hat, " let us go, before you disgrace yourself any 
 farther." 
 
 " Isn't it too bad, Felix ? " cried Dorethea. " Ange- 
 lique won't promise to dine with us this evening. Can't 
 you induce her to come ? " 
 
 " Please don't try, my dear friend," and Ang^lique 
 looked pleadingly at me. " You know I have quite re- 
 nounced the pomps and vanities of this world. I never 
 
tilAST. 
 
 ive had a small 
 le glory is due to 
 rhat he saw and 
 
 ji'dinately vain," 
 to lose his uieii- 
 011 his going to 
 be restored to a 
 
 ited. " Yo\i are 
 any good things 
 pt to forget to 
 at we have such 
 nentor, or other- 
 oroughly chaotiu 
 
 mutual admirers 
 come to church 
 ne severely, with 
 jserted me to go 
 confidentially, I 
 ce gentle Laura; 
 n love with both 
 
 ome," I said, tak- 
 ;race yourself any 
 
 orethea. " Ange- 
 s evening. Cau't 
 
 ," and Ang61ique 
 
 I have quite re- 
 
 s world. I never 
 
 SANCTUARY. 
 
 489 
 
 go into society; I have other pleasures ; and I like best to 
 see my friends filone." 
 
 " But just this once," urged Dorethea. 
 
 "My dear, I have to nurse a sick child to-night. The 
 little sufferer is fond of me, and I would not disappoint 
 him for the world." 
 
 "Well, you are an angel," cried Dorethea, taking both 
 her hands and looking in her face with eyes full of won- 
 der. "To give up everything at your age, and you not 
 ill. I can't understand it." 
 
 " I hope you will never need to, my dear," said Ang6- 
 lique, softly. " God does not teach us all from the same 
 book, nor in the same language. My lesson was diffi- 
 cult to learn, but I know it all now." 
 
 " Is she not original ? " said Edith, speaking of La 
 Santa, as we walked toward Sant' Andrea delle Fratte. 
 " She has the simplicity and tenderness of a child, so 
 innocent and gentle, and yet so firm in her convictions ; 
 and her beauty and grace Avould make her a queen in 
 any society. It is a cruelty to the world, to allow such 
 a flower to blush unseen." 
 
 " She thinks she is fulfilling the highest intention of 
 her Creator." 
 
 " Poor little fanatic ! — she has a wider mission than 
 to nurse sick children. God never intended her to be 
 a sceur de Charite or a nun, or he never would have 
 given her such a fiico. She should go out into the 
 world as an apostle of beauty ; she would make more 
 converts to an idea! life than she ever will to a reli- 
 gious one.'' 
 
 "My dear Edith ! my dear cousin ! The wife of an 
 English clergyman, to believe in the elevation of the 
 world through the religion of beauty I You startle me I 
 
440 
 
 THE 8TOKY OF AH KNTUU8IA8T. 
 
 i 
 
 I am just beginuiug to sound the awful depths of your 
 heresy." 
 
 We were entering the church ; so Edith only smiled 
 mischievously, but offered uo defence of her peculiar 
 opinions. 
 
 This morning I received two letters that fulfil every 
 expectation, and now I begin to feel that my happiness 
 is secure. The first is from M. Michelet, saying tliat he 
 has brouglit his negotiations with the government to a 
 successful issue, and that an agent will be despatched 
 to Kome to make the necessary arrangements for the 
 transfer of the picture. 
 
 The otlier is from Lord Hardmoor, and is a much kinder 
 letter than I expected. He agrees to consider the past 
 as entirely wiped out, and goes so far as to admit that 
 he has not been altogether free from blame himself — 
 but that whatever he did he then thought was for the 
 best, although he has since discovered that he was mis- 
 taken. He speaks very flatteringly of my picture, and 
 considers it a guarantee of my future success, and finally 
 consents to our marriage, on one condition, and that is 
 that we must wait until the actual transfer of the pic- 
 ture takes place, and it is beyond all possibility of my 
 changing my present determination. He wishes the 
 wedding to take place at the English chapel, privately 
 and quietly, and adds that as soon as Dorethea's health 
 will permit, I must bring her back to England. 
 
 The agent from France must be here in a few days, and 
 there will be no delay in transferring the picture ; there- 
 fore, we can count on our marriage taking place within 
 the week. 
 
 Thank God, my happiness seems very near now, for 
 
 m 
 
UUHIABT. 
 
 rful depths of your 
 
 3 Edith only smiled 
 lice of her peculiar 
 
 ?r8 that fulfil every 
 that my happiness 
 
 lelet, saying that he 
 
 he government to a 
 will be despatched 
 
 rangenients for the 
 
 and is a much kinder 
 ;o consider the past 
 ar as to admit that 
 m blame himself — 
 ;hought was for the 
 3d that he was mis- 
 of my picture, and 
 B success, and finally 
 )udition, and that is 
 transfer of the pic- 
 11 possibility of my 
 n. He wishes the 
 isli chapel, privately 
 s Dorethea's health 
 o England, 
 ere in a few days, and 
 g the picture ; there- 
 taking place within 
 
 i very near now, for 
 
 PANCTl'ARY. 
 
 441 
 
 my darling quietly agrees to all my plans. She too re- 
 ceived a letter from her fatlier, by the same mail that 
 brought mine ; full of thankfulness for her retunnng 
 health, and interest in her future welfare. Stil', it is evi- 
 dent that he considers his son the crowning blessing of his 
 life. There is also a pleasant message from Lady Hard- 
 moor, with many good-wishes, which I like to think are 
 sincere, and which 1 consider a good omen for our 
 future. 
 
 " I never thought to be married away from home, and 
 without papa," said Dorethea, after a long revery that 
 followed the reading of her father's letter. "How 
 strange it all seems ! It is like an improbable dream." 
 "But a happy one, I trust, my darling." 
 "Oh, yes, a greater happiness than I ever thought 
 would come to us ; and even now, Felix, I can't make ray- 
 self believe that I am to be always with you, that we are 
 never to be parted again." 
 
 " Try to, darling ; for, unless fate is more cruel than I 
 think, nothing can come between us now." 
 
 "Nothing but death," she said, wildly, seizing my 
 hand, and clinging to it. " Oh, my love, if it should 
 come now — now — how could I bear it ? Once I longed 
 and prayed to be at rest, but the angel of peace would 
 not come to me ; and now, when I want to live, I fear, I 
 tremble, I dread the grave." 
 
 " My love, my precious love ! why these gloomy 
 forebodings, just at the moment when happiness is 
 within our grasp?" I cried, holding her close to ray heart. 
 "You are better, you are alraost well. The doctor says 
 fio, and my heart, my love, you must be. Our God is 
 merciful and pitiful. He will not snatch happiness from 
 us at the first taste. He is not so greedy for the misery 
 
442 
 
 THR 8TOUY OF AX KNTHUHIAHT. 
 
 H ' 
 
 of his croaturoH that he will make lis suffer always. 
 Dorethea, we have both earned a respite, ami it must 
 oome now. Look up, sweet love ! Do not mar this 
 moment with borrowed sorrow. I am happy ; I am 
 hopeful. For a long time it has been night with me. 
 Now the morning has come, and I must rejoice." 
 
 " But the shadow of night is over me, Felix, and I 
 cannot drive it away. I am not secure ; I am not safe. 
 You must not be too confident, my poor love." 
 
 " Dorethea, you are a little nervous and tired to-night. 
 All this good news coming together has l)pen too much 
 for yo»i ; you will feel better to-morrow," I said, hope- 
 fully. Then I tried to talk of other things, of our trip to 
 Naples, of the beautiful days we would pass together on 
 the shores of that enchanting bay, of our return to Eng- 
 land, and o\ir life at Markland Place — the home that 
 had been waiting for tis for two years. 
 
 She listened, and smiled front time to time ; but still 
 she seemed to be lost in a sad revery. which T could not 
 dispel. Edith came in and laughed away her fears, and 
 before I left her she was much brighter. Yet, when I 
 said gooil-night, she clung to me closely, and kissed me 
 with sorrowful fervor. 
 
 Poor, frail darling ! I am afraid she has been more 
 anxious about her father's decision than I thought, and, 
 now the reaction has come, she is a little upset. 
 
 It is past midnight, and two hours since T left her. 
 Would to God it were morning, so that T could know 
 how she has passed the weary night. I cannot sleep. 
 I look out over the vast city, so silent and solemn, I 
 hear the plashing of the fountain and the plaintive song 
 of the nightingale in the dewy garden, and it reminds 
 me of Camille. Poor Camille ! asleep under the Venetian 
 
 ilil 
 
T 
 
 UHIAHT. 
 
 US suftVr always. 
 |)itt', and it must 
 Do not mar this 
 am happy ; I am 
 Ml niglit with me. 
 t rejoice." 
 r ine, Felix, and I 
 re ; I am not safe, 
 ir love." 
 
 [vnd tired to-night, 
 ms l)een too much 
 iw," I said, hope- 
 ings, of our trip to 
 I pass together on 
 :iur return to Eng- 
 — the home that 
 
 to time ; but still 
 which T could not 
 vay her fears, and 
 iter. Yet, when I 
 sly, and kissed me 
 
 e has been more 
 ail I thought, and, 
 ttle upset, 
 s since T left her. 
 that I could know 
 I cannot sleep, 
 it and solemn. I 
 the plaintive song 
 3n, and it reminds 
 mder the Venetian 
 
 HANCTITARY. 
 
 448 
 
 sky. And PoIoujb! yonder, amid tiie shadow of that 
 ruined tomb, keeping his midnight vigil. Oh, life! Oh, 
 destiny ! how mysterious and solei m thou art ! — as mys- 
 terious and solemn as tiie Eternity beyond. My (lod ! if 
 I should not be happy I Is the black shadow already 
 stealing near me ? Is it the lonely hour and Dorothea's 
 sad mood that have affected me ? 1 wisli my darling had 
 not spoken of the shadow that rested on her. I wisli 
 she had not kissed me with such sorrowful fervor. 
 Hut yonder, in remote splendor, I see my serene star 
 above the black cross ! It promises peace after pain. 
 Sweet star, sweet love, good-night. May I dream of 
 heaven and thee ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 From Paul Fahrien, Rome, to Lionel Brent, Margate, 
 Englimd. 
 
 My Dear Friend and Father : — How can I tell you 
 of the sudden desolation and grief that have come upon 
 us. My heart is so full of emotion, and my nerves so 
 shattered, that I can scarcely control myself enough to 
 write intelligibly. Laura is completely prostrated, and 
 unable to more than send you her best love, and she in- 
 sists that I must tell you all from the beginning, or, 
 rather, all that has happened since she last wrote to you 
 about that adorable young girl, the sweet English.^an^eV 
 of our dear friend Felix. 
 
 Laura told you how her health had improved since she 
 came to Kome, and how happy we were together, and 
 how dearly we had learned to love that truly amiable 
 and charming young lady. Our dear Felix had just re- 
 ceived the good news from Paris of tlie wonderful success 
 
444 
 
 TIIK HTOUY OF AN RNTIUTSrAST. 
 
 11 
 
 of Ills |)ioture, " Tlifl Cliristian Martyr." Tlie accounts 
 of its veritable triumph havo doubtloaa reachotl you evou 
 iu England, and also of tho satisfactory sale of his 
 Raphael to tho KrtMudi governuient. 
 
 It seemed at that moment as if destiny, weary of per- 
 secuting him, hail sworn to make amends for all her evil 
 work by heapiiif? every good thing on him at once; for 
 directly upon this satisfactory news from Paris arrives 
 a lettP" from Eugliind, from the father of the young 
 lady, consenting at last that this long delayed marriage 
 should take place. 
 
 I wish I could picture to you our dear Felix, our 
 much-loved friend, when he came to tell me of the 
 happy state of his affairs. His always remarkable face 
 was beaming with a sort of splendor, his dark, beautiful 
 eyes shone like stars, his whole gracious figure seemed 
 to irradiate happiness. His joy transfigured him; he 
 looked again the handsome, brilliant youth, who came 
 so long ago eagerly and brightly into that sombre old 
 studio of our dear master in Paris, 
 
 That evening I saw them together, and a more beauti- 
 ful pair God never created out of the garden of Eden ; 
 so poetical, so gentle, so ideal in their youth, beauty, 
 and love, and both bearing tho refining spiritual stamp 
 of those who have been purified and freed from all dross 
 by the hot fires of the furnace of affliction. 
 
 We spent a delightful hour with them, an hour that 
 will never leave my memory, and when we left our 
 sweet friend, who seemed a little weary, doubtless from 
 over-excitement caused by the good news they had re- 
 ceived, she spoke cheerfully of an excursion we had 
 planned for the next day, and bade us a charming au 
 revoir with friendly words and bright smiles. 
 
 fciitmn 
 
 — m " I i iim ai iw' 
 
TiirsiAsr. 
 
 rtyr." The accounts 
 It'aa reac^hod you evou 
 isf.'ictory salo of his 
 
 [estiiiy, weary of per- 
 iiiouds for all her evil 
 on him at onco; for 
 ra from Taris arrives 
 father of the young 
 ong delayed marriage 
 
 our dear Felix, our 
 e to tell me of t\w 
 ways remarkable face 
 )r, his dark, beautiful 
 racious figure seemed 
 transfigured him; he 
 ant youth, who came 
 into that sombre old 
 
 !r, and a more beauti- 
 the garden of Eden ; 
 their youth, beauty, 
 imng spiritual stamp 
 (1 freed from all dross 
 Hiction. 
 
 1 them, an hour that 
 d when we left our 
 weary, doubtless from 
 ad news they had re- 
 in excursion we had 
 le us a charming au 
 ;ht smiles. 
 
 HANfTfAKV. 
 
 Wfi 
 
 Thf next morning [ was in my stuilio, waiting for the 
 carriage wliich was to pick us up on its way to the hotel, 
 when Mr. Lorrinior entered Ii'irriedly and wild-tyc'd, and 
 in a truly ileplorablo condition. It was lonie moments 
 before ho could speak, and then his words sounded like 
 Bobs : — 
 
 " Oh, my friend ! Oh, (}od ! how can I say it ! She 
 is dead ! Dorothea is dead, and how can we toll Felix ? " 
 
 " Dead ! " I echoed ; " when ? " 
 
 "Now. This moment. I rushed to you to help me 
 with my cousin." 
 
 Mon Dicu! what a shock! I tried to be calm, to 
 think what was best to do. 
 
 "Compose yourself, dear friend, and tell mo how it 
 happened." 
 
 " It was awfully sudden ; in an instant she was gone. 
 You remember she was not so strong last evening ; she 
 seemed a little oppressed, and Felix must have been dis- 
 turbed by it, for at an early hour he sent a message to 
 her maid, to inquire how she had rested through the 
 night. Dorothea was already awake and very bright, 
 asked for her blotting-book, and wrote him a note. Her 
 maid says she was very cheerful, and talked and laughed 
 a great deal while she was being dressed. After break- 
 fast, which was unusually merry, she went to her room 
 to prepare for our drive ; as she left Edith she remarked 
 that she wished to surprise Felix when he came. How 
 little she thought of the significance of her words. 
 
 "My wife was busy addressing letters, when she was 
 startled by a scream from the maid, and, rushing into 
 the room, found the woman supporting Dorothea, who 
 only looked at her and smiled. She never spoke nor 
 moved. They thought she had fainted. They laid her 
 
 mtummm--^ 
 
446 
 
 THK 8T0EY OP AN ENTHIJSIAST. 
 
 lis 
 
 on a sofa and summoned me. I could not think she was 
 dead, until the doctor told us that all was over. But I 
 am only thinking of Felix; he may be there at any 
 moment. How shall we prepare him ? How shall we 
 
 tell him?" 
 
 I was benumbed and stupefied, and altogether unfat tor 
 the awful emergency. I could only repeat Mr. Lorri- 
 nier's words, " How shall we tell him ? " 
 
 "We must find him. AVe must intercept him before 
 he reaches the hotel, and hears it abruptly," cried Mr. 
 Lorrimer. " Come with me to his studio." 
 
 I took my hat and we went out. As we crossed the 
 square and mounted the steps, it seemed as if that great 
 space was hung with black drapery. It is incredible, 
 the sudden and appalling change that a man experiences 
 at such a moment, and I found myself thinking, " If the 
 world has turned dark to me, what will it be to my 
 
 friend?" 
 
 We met him bounding down his stairs, bright and ]oy- 
 ous, like a bridegroom coming forth from his chamber. 
 It is strange that he did not notice our faces directly, 
 but he was so enveloped in his happiness that just at 
 first the cloud around us could not dim his sunlight. 
 He shook hands warmly. He spoke of the beauty of 
 the day. He laughed joyously, glancing at the heavens 
 and over the sunny square, and we were silent, 
 ominously silent. Suddenly, a freezing wind seemed to 
 pass over him, arresting the smile: on his lips and 
 quenching the light in his eyes. He looked slowly 
 from one to the other inquiringly, but not fearfully ; he 
 tried to speak, but his white lips framed no word. He 
 raised his hand, which did not tremble, and pointed 
 across the square toward the hotel. 
 
 
SIAST. 
 
 ot think she was 
 
 ras over. But I 
 
 »e there at any 
 
 How shall we 
 
 ;ogether unfit for 
 speat Mr. Lorri- 
 
 •cept him before 
 iptly," cried Mr. 
 
 0." 
 
 5 we crossed the 
 I as if that great 
 It is incredible, 
 man experiences 
 thinking, " If the 
 rill it be to my 
 
 3, bright and joy- 
 om his chamber, 
 ur faces directly, 
 less that just at 
 lim his sunlight, 
 of the beauty of 
 ig at the heavens 
 we were silent, 
 f wind seemed to 
 on his lips and 
 [e looked slowly 
 not fearfully ; he 
 ,ed no word. He 
 ible, and pointed 
 
 i n ^ J M .ftL ia'M^WIII* 
 
 SANCTUARY. 
 
 Mr. Lorrimer followed the motion with haggard eyes, 
 and said, with a pitiful effort to speak calmly : " She is 
 not sulfering ; she is better. We came to take you to 
 her." 
 
 Without a word he waved us away and strode with 
 strong, swift steps down the long flight to the square 
 below, and to the hotel, so rapidly that we could scarce 
 follow ;' and with such an air of grim determination, like 
 a warrior about to engage in deadly conflict with a hated 
 foe. I think at that moment he was sustained by the 
 thought that she was struggling with her only enemy 
 — sweet, frail creature ! — and that he could rescue her. 
 Yes ; I think he thought that his love could snatch her 
 from death. 
 
 My dear friena and father, I never wish to look upon 
 such a harrowing scene again. Even, now my heart 
 bleeds tc i^hink of it. With the same grim, fierce air he 
 approached the room where tlie stricken flower lay, 
 dressed like a spring blossom in sweet, pale colors. 
 She lay as she had fallen, cut down by the relentless 
 reaper. Mrs. Lorrimer held the soft, cold hands ; and 
 her maid, who had nursed her when a babe, stroked the 
 golden floss on her pretty head. Our poor Felix took 
 in the sad scene in one fierce, sombre glance, and, sternly 
 waving them all away, he fell on his knees beside her, 
 with a long, shuddering, convulsive groan, the first 
 sound that passed his pale lips. 
 
 We could not remain to witness such grief. It was 
 sacred to him and God. We all came out softly and 
 closed the door on him and his dead. In a few moments 
 our dear Laura came flying to comfort Mrs. Lorrimer ; 
 and La Santa, who looked as much like an angel as the 
 dead g irl, came also, with her mother ; and we sat there, 
 
448 
 
 THE STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 a stricken group in that pretty salon, where we had 
 been so merry the evening before; waiting, waiting, 
 and what for? We could not hope that time would 
 bring relief to that awful sorrow. There was no sound 
 from the chamber of death. Some one must intrude 
 upon its dread silence ; and we all shrank from the 
 mournful duty of taking him from her cherished clay. 
 
 After some time La Santa said, softly, "I will go to 
 him. I think I can persuade him to leave her now." 
 She opened the door, glanced into the room, and then 
 looked back with a surprised face, "He is not here!" 
 she said. " He is gone ! " 
 
 It was too true —he was gone; he had left the room 
 while we were waiting, and the lovely dead lay there 
 alone. With his pocket-knife he had severed a thick 
 tress of her bright hair — all that could go with him — 
 and had left her there, smiling like a child in its sleep ; 
 with the fair morning stealing through the curtains, 
 and the busy murmur of life without in the great sunny 
 
 square. 
 
 I had not intended to allow our friend out of my sight 
 until I knew how his trouble affected him. Therefore, 
 it was a great shock to me to find that he was gone, I 
 knew not whither. His first reception of the evil tid- 
 ings surprised me, for I expected a violent burst of 
 emotion, from one so impulsive and passionate. I 
 thought his grief would be wild and furious, and that it 
 would require all our moral strength to cope with it and 
 calm it. And I even feared that, in the first frenzy of 
 the shock, he might attempt some mad act. But his 
 stony silence, his grim, determined spirit, puzzled me. 
 
 "You must find him," said Mr. Lorrimer, uneasily. 
 « I am alarmed at his leaving us in this way." 
 
lUSlAST. 
 
 lo7i, where we had 
 waiting, waiting, 
 3 that time would 
 here was no sound 
 1 one must intrude 
 1 shrank from the 
 iv cherished clay. 
 iftly, "I will go to 
 ;o leave her now." 
 he room, and then 
 'He is not here!" 
 
 had left the room 
 ,rely dead lay there 
 ad severed a thick 
 )uld go with him — 
 , child in its sleep ; 
 rough the curtains, 
 ; in the great sunny 
 
 lend out of my sight 
 3d him. Therefore, 
 hat he was gone, I 
 ion of the evil tid- 
 
 a violent burst of 
 and passionate. I 
 
 furious, and that it 
 I to cope with it and 
 a the first frenzy of 
 J mad act. But his 
 spirit, puzzled me. 
 
 Lorrimer, uneasily, 
 this way." 
 
 SANCTUARY. 
 
 449 
 
 "Go to his apartment," whispered Laura; "perhaps 
 he has gone there to be alone." 
 
 I followed Laura's suggestion, and hastened to his 
 apartment ; but he had not been there. I then searched 
 his favorite haunts, the Medici garden, the Pincio, 
 the Villa Borghese, every place where I thought he 
 might be found. All day I wandered about in this 
 weary search, and after dark I went again to the Trin- 
 ata di Monti. " He has not returned," said the padrona, 
 sadly. 
 
 " Let me know the moment he comes in. I am very 
 anxious." 
 
 The padrona promised ; and from there I turned my 
 steps toward the hotel, where they were keeping a 
 mournful vigil over the dear dead. I hoped he might 
 return there to watch by her side through the long 
 night ; but he never saw her again. The next morning 
 they carried her to that peaceful burial-place near the 
 tomb of Caius Sestius; and there her heart-broken 
 friends left her to sleep forever. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lorrimer are quite overcome with grief ; 
 not only for the sudden and cruel death of that adorable 
 young girl, but also at the disappearance of our poor 
 Felix, who, they feav, has put an end to his sad life. 
 
 Jt is now the third day, and we have not discovered a 
 trace of him. He has disappeared mysteriously and 
 completely. We have private detectives searching for 
 him ; and all the machinery of the government is se- 
 cretly in motion. All has been done that can be done ; 
 and now we can only wait patiently — for what, God 
 only knows. Our hearts are very heavy, and we need 
 you anc" our dear mother greatly during this sad time. 
 I can write no more now ; but the tirst tidings we have 
 
450 
 
 THE STORY OP AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 I shall hasten to send you ; until then we cai: onlj' pray 
 to God for our unhappy friend. 
 
 ,J 
 
 From Paul Fahrien, to Lionel Brent, Margate, Eng- 
 land. 
 
 My Dear Friend and Father: — What I have to 
 write to you now is so strange and mysterious that 
 sometimes I think I have been dreaming and am not yet 
 awake. 
 
 When I despatched my letter to you yesterday, I did 
 not think another would follow it so soon ; but, knoAving 
 how anxious you will be to hear further news of this sad 
 event, I will not prolong your suspense by waiting 
 another day. 
 
 Early this morning, before we were awake, a message 
 came from the Trinata di Monte, that our unhappy friend 
 had returned during the night, and was very ill. I 
 arose, dressed hurriedly, and hastened to him. When I 
 entered his apartment, I found Mr. Lorrimer and the 
 doctor already there, and our poor friend stretched ou 
 his bed in a profound stupor. 
 
 Where had he been ? and how had he returned ? Mr. 
 Lorrimer questioned the padrona, who did not seem to 
 be very communicative. She said that the Signor 
 always carried his own key, and that during the night 
 she was awakened by some one entering, and directly 
 after she heard voices in the studio. 
 
 "Then, some one was with him. Who was with 
 him ? " 
 
 She did not know, she thought it was some of the 
 Signor's friends who had brought him back. For some 
 
 _ 
 
SIA8T. 
 
 we cai: onlj' pray 
 
 I 
 Margate, Eng- 
 
 What I have to 
 mysterious that 
 g and am not yet 
 
 yesterday, I did 
 jn ; but, knoAving 
 • news of this sad 
 ense by waiting 
 
 awake, a message 
 \v unhappy friend 
 was very ill. I 
 to him. When I 
 jorrimer and the 
 lend stretched on 
 
 lie returned ? Mr. 
 did not seem to 
 that the Signor 
 during the night 
 ring, and directly 
 
 Who was with 
 
 was some of the 
 back. For some 
 
 W ll!)ii _ >!i| p ii » y n |ii ii |i i i ^ Biy w ^ii i ii6 |i, fiu i»wii»t>wi >i >*»i| H !P l i>lim>iitpii 
 
 8ANCTUAUV. 
 
 451 
 
 time the Signor talked very loud and seemed much ex- 
 cited, while the person with liim was trying to soothe 
 and quiet him. She did not think she was needed, so 
 she did not enter the apartment, and after a while i^ was 
 very quiet and she went to sleep, and as soon as it was 
 daylight, she sent word to me and to the Signor Lujlese 
 as she had been L»id to do. 
 
 Mr. Lorrimer had entered the room first. He found 
 his cousin undressed in bed, and in the same heavy 
 stupor that I found him in. His clothes were carefully 
 folded and laid on a chair near his bed, but we noticed 
 that tliey were covered with a sort of white dust like 
 powdered marble, such as is seen among the piles of 
 sand thrown out of the different excavations. 
 
 He must have been wandering over the Campagna and 
 stumbled into some of the abandoned excavations ; or, 
 like a poor wounded creature, in his bewilderment he 
 has tried to hide among the ruins, and some one has 
 found him and brought him back. Yet this does not 
 seem reasonable. There is something about it that I 
 cannot understand. 
 
 Had a peasant found him wandering about the coun- 
 try ill, and in a stat(i of mental aberration, and by 
 chance discovered who he was, he would have summoned 
 the padrona, and given the unfortunate man into her 
 care, and claimed some reward for bringing him back. 
 
 But this is not all that is surprising and confusing. 
 While the doctor was still with us, and before we had 
 solved the mystery of our friend's disappearance and 
 strange return, the agent from France was announced. 
 
 Mr. Lorrimer asked me to receive him in the studio, 
 and to explain, as far as was necessary, the present state 
 of affairs. M. BJ-uic, the agent, regretted greatly that 
 
 -J 
 
T 
 
 462 
 
 THE 8TOKY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 m 
 
 the transfer of the picture could not take place at once, aa 
 be was very anxious to return to I'avis as soon as possi- 
 ble. I asked for a few hours to confer with Mr. Lorri- 
 mer, when we would decide what steps to take in case. 
 our friend did not recover consciousness during the day, 
 which M, lilanc politely granted, and, as he was leaving, 
 be expressed a wish to see the picture that he had come 
 to purchase, 
 
 I did not know where to find the key. Uut on search- 
 ing the clothes that Felix wore last, I discovered it in' 
 the inner pocket of his waistcoat. It was some time be- 
 fore I could unfasten the lock, for, as you know, it is 
 very intricate. However, I accomplished it at last, and 
 threw back the cover with a Reeling of relief, when, to 
 my astonishment, I found the box empty. The picture 
 was gone ; clean taken from the frame, and on the back 
 of the box was written with white chalk. 
 
 " The Ba2)hael is in a 2>l(tc<i of safety, and will be re- 
 turned when our unhajjpi/ friend recovers his reason. 
 
 " To-night, in his frenzy he would have destroyed it, 
 had I not prevented him.'" 
 
 You can easily imagine my surprise and consternation. 
 I could not speak for some moments, but stood stupidly 
 staring at the agent. 
 
 " What does this mean ? " he asked, reading the words 
 on the box, while he looked over my shoulder. 
 
 " God knows ! " I replied. 
 
 " Some one has stolen the picture, and Avritten that to 
 prevent immediate action," said M. Blanc. 
 
 " Possibly. But there is a mystery which I must try 
 to fathom." 
 
 "There is always mystery about a robbery of such 
 magnitude." 
 
L .. 
 
 lUSIAST. 
 
 ke place at once, as 
 i as soon as possi- 
 ir with Mr. Lorri- 
 )s to take in case, 
 ss during the day, 
 as he was leaving, 
 that he had come 
 
 y. lint on search- 
 I discovered it in 
 was some time be- 
 s yon know, it is 
 hed it at last, and 
 of relief, when, to 
 pty. The picture 
 i, and on the back 
 ,1k. 
 
 ity, and will be re- 
 wers his reason, 
 have destroyed it, 
 
 and consternation, 
 but stood stupidly 
 
 reading the words 
 ilioulder. 
 
 ud Avritten that to 
 lane, 
 which I must try 
 
 t robbery of such 
 
 SANCTUAUY. 
 
 453 
 
 The agent seemed half puzzled and half angry ; nmch 
 as though he considered himself the victim of a stupen- 
 dous jest. 
 
 I immediately sent for Mr. Lorrimer and the padrona 
 to come to the studio. You know the imdrona is a very 
 respectable woman, and I could not suspect her of com- 
 plicity in the affair. 
 
 When she entered, I asked her quietly if any one had 
 been in the Signor's studio during his absence. 
 
 " No one," she replied, positively. 
 
 " Are you sure ? It is very important for you to re- 
 member." 
 
 " Yes, signove, I am sure ; no one has a key, and no 
 one could enter beside the signor unless I opened the 
 door. But why do you inquire so closely ? Is any 
 thing wrong ? " 
 
 " The Raphael is gone," I replied, looking her steadily 
 in the eyes ; " a thief has entered during Mr. Markland's 
 absence, opened the box, and taken the picture out of 
 the frame." 
 
 " Impossible, signore ! No one could open that box 
 without the key ; and the signor always carried it with 
 him." 
 
 While she spoke, I studied her face closely, and I saw 
 that she was evading the truth. " You know more than 
 you will tell," I said, sternly. "You know who was 
 with the signor last night." 
 
 « Dio mio ! how should I know ? " 
 
 " I will send for an officer, and he will help you to 
 know ; unless you save yourself the disgrace and trouble, 
 by making a clean breast of it." 
 
 "I have never been suspected before," she cried, 
 bursting into tears. "Oh, signore! don't send for an 
 
 1 ^ 
 
454 
 
 THE STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 officer and I will tell you all I know. I was wrong not 
 to tell you at first ; but I thought you would blame me 
 for not sending last night, as soon as the signor re- 
 turned. I swear to you, by the ^[other of God, that I 
 will tell you the whole truth. When I heard tlie loud 
 voices in the studio, I got out of my bed and went 
 softly to the door to listen. It was the signor, and ho 
 was talking very violently in French. I don't under- 
 stand that language well ; and I could not make out all 
 he said ; but, as far as I could hear, he wished to do 
 some harm to the Raphael ; and the [peraon with him 
 was trying to calm and persuade him. The signor was 
 furious, wild, and his friend was always trying to con- 
 trol him. I heard the heavy easel fall on the floor, and 
 there was a great struggle. Then, gradually, all became 
 quiet; and soon after I heard the signor in his room, 
 preparing for bed. I could not sleep any more ; and I 
 was curious to see who was with the signor, as the 
 voice was strange and very sad and gentle. So I 
 watched until nearly dawn ; when, at last, I heard some 
 one come out softly, and descend the stairs. The light on 
 the landing was very feeble, for the oil was nearly burnt 
 out ; but, through the aperture in the door, I could see 
 his white robe plainly. It was a saccone ! and he 
 looked so tall and ghostly that I was afraid, and crept 
 to my bed. And, signore, he must have carried the 
 picture away with him, for he had a large bundle, 
 wrapped in a piece of the dark drapery that hangs in 
 the signor's studio. Now, as God hears me, I have told 
 you the truth ; and you must not blame me about the 
 Raphael. My only fault is that I did not send the mo- 
 ment the signor returned. I would have done so, had he 
 come alone ; but I thought some friend was with him." 
 
U8IA8T. 
 
 I wap wrong not 
 would blame me 
 as the signer re- 
 er of God, that I 
 I heard the loud 
 ay Led and went 
 lie signor, and ho 
 1. I don't under- 
 not make out all 
 he wished to do 
 [peraon with hira 
 The signor was 
 ys trying to con- 
 [ on the floor, and 
 dually, all became 
 gnor in his room, 
 any more ; and I 
 lie signor, as the 
 id gentle. So I 
 last, I heard some 
 lirs. The light on 
 I was nearly burnt 
 door, I could see 
 saccone ! and he 
 afraid, and crept 
 have carried the 
 i a large bundle, 
 jry that hangs in 
 rs me, I have told 
 ime me about the 
 not send the mo- 
 ve done so, had he 
 i was with him." 
 
 SANCTUARY. 
 
 466 
 
 The paJronu's story agrees so exactly with what is 
 written on the box that I cannot doubt her statement. 
 Hut who is this saci-one? Is he the same penitent who 
 followed the Princess Natilika, and who is suspected of 
 that midnight crime ; and, if so, how is he connected 
 with Felix ? and how does it happen that he brings him 
 back ? My dear friend, you see how we are surrounded 
 with mystery. God knows, I wish you were here to 
 help u,s. In the meantime, our poor friend lies in a 
 heavy stupor, which resembles death more than sleep. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lorrimer, with Madam Raymond and 
 Ang61ique, are beside his bed, doing all that possibly 
 can be done at present to alleviate his sad condition. 
 Adieu, until further developments. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Paul Fahrien to Lionel Brent. 
 My Dear Friend and Father: — I have deferred 
 writing for two wtcks, hoping each day to have some- 
 thing satisfactory to communicate about the condition of 
 our poor friend. It is really deplorable to think of. 
 Although he has recovered consciousness, and is restored 
 to some degree of health, his mind is sadly clouded and 
 confused. He seems to recognize those around him, 
 but only for brief intervals. He remains in his apart- 
 ment, pacing the floor slowly and thoughtfully or 
 looking for hours from the window, out into the busy 
 square, which he does not seem to see. He is very 
 gentle and tractable, and consents to the wishes of his 
 friends with a docility which is truly pathetic to wit- 
 ness. His beautiful face is very pale and fixed in ex- 
 pression ; and his eyes have an introspective, mournful 
 
450 
 
 TllK STOHY OF AN KNTHU81AMT. 
 
 M» 
 
 look as if he were coiiteinpliiting his interior niin. He 
 Beklom speaks, and never smiles ; often he looks ear- 
 nestly at Mr. Lorrimer, and calls him by name ; ami then 
 makes some remark which shows that his mind has gone 
 back to his boyhood. . . . 
 
 At times he seizes pen and paper and writes for 
 hours — swiftly, eagerly, intently. Tiu-n he i)ores over 
 what he has written ; and, at last, tears it into fragments 
 and casts it aside witli a mournful sigh. Ho never 
 speaks of the llaphael. In fact, he does not remember 
 that he ever had it in his po3S(>ssion. The easel and 
 empty box have been put out of sight, and there is noth- 
 ing to rerauid him of it. The lirst time he entered his 
 studio after that terrible night, he stood for a moment 
 irresolutely on the threshold, looked around with an ap- 
 prehensive glance, pressed his hand to his head, and 
 seemed to be trying to recover some train of thought 
 that was slipping away from him ; then the brief light 
 went out of his eyes, and his face settled again into its 
 fixed, hopeless expression. . . . 
 
 The mystery attending the disappearance of the 
 Raphael still remains a mystery. For some time I 
 looked daily for its return ; clinging to the hope that it 
 had been taken away by the ghostly penitent for the 
 reason he gave, and that when he saw lit he would 
 bring it back. Of course, it has been an interesting prol)- 
 lem for the police ; all the detective skill of the Ponti- 
 ficat has been employed, but so far nothing has been 
 accomplished. The picture has disappeared in the most 
 inscrutable way, and for no reasonable motive. . . . 
 
 M. Blanc remained in Rome for a week, and then 
 went back to Paris without the treasure he had come 
 for. To the last he insisted that it was a clever 
 
 ".tWg l ft 
 
U8IA8T. 
 
 uterior ruin. Ho 
 ■ten he looks ear- 
 ly name ; ami then 
 
 Uis iniiid lia.s gone 
 
 I 
 
 ■r and writes for 
 luMi lui i)ores over 
 s it into fragments 
 sigh. He never 
 oes not remember 
 1. The easel and 
 and there is noth- 
 me he entered his 
 ood for a moment 
 round with an ap- 
 to his liead, and 
 ! train of thought 
 en the brief light 
 led again into its 
 
 ppearanee of the 
 For some time I 
 the hope that it 
 r penitent for the 
 saw fit lie would 
 LU interesting prol)- 
 skill of the Ponti- 
 nothing has been 
 peared in tlie most 
 ! motive. . . . 
 a week, and then 
 sure he had come 
 it was a clever 
 
 BANCtrARY. 
 
 457 
 
 robbery ; but still he was obliged to confess that it 
 could not be for t^ain, as the thief would never daro to 
 offer for sale a picture as well known all over Europe as 
 the head with the black berretta. 
 
 I suppose you have read in the French and English 
 journals tlie account of its disappearance, whici add;' 
 another interesting chapter to the atrangc history of this 
 remarkable picture. 
 
 From I'd id Fubrien, Home, to M. Ingres, Paris. 
 
 Mv Dkak Fhiknd and Mastkk ; - In answer to your 
 inquiries abcmt our unhappy friend, I can only tell you 
 that perhaps tliere is a little change for the l-'tter. At 
 times he seems inclined to talk, and last evening, wliile 
 I was sittin;? ak.ne with him, lie suddenly spoke of 
 ]*olon8e, — you reii' -uber him, our favorite model in 
 Paris, — and said thuL he, I'olonse, had found a sanctuary 
 among the tombs. Certainly I know that his mind was 
 wandering, as :.U his remarks were incoherent and dis- 
 connected; but he seemed to dwell on that one idea, 
 that sanctuary among the tombs. 
 
 It was melancholy and touching in the extreme, and 
 there was little to encourage one in his fitful, mournful 
 words ; still, to me, it shows a return to feeling. If I 
 could see that he suffered, I should hope for him. ... 
 
 There is no news of the Raphael ; I fear that it is 
 gone again into oblivion. Was there ever so strange a 
 history connected with any work of art ? I have often 
 thought that many pictures could tell remarkable stories 
 if they could speak, but surely none have had a more 
 wonderful history than this work of the divine 
 master. ... 
 
 This morning he took La Santa's hand, and, looking 
 
 .1 .totjMiriiilliMMSiWMfa 
 
!-zs=r=r.Bca 
 
 fe. 
 
 458 Till', HTOUV OK AN r.NTHUSIAHT. 
 
 into hry face with a gleam ol' intelligence, he sai.l, softly 
 and o;. .! ousiy, as though he feared to be overheard, 
 " You \i,./e s. rfered. Come with me to the aan<!tuar3' of 
 sorrow. It is so ([uiet, so peaceful, among the toniha." 
 
 Angeli^ue turned away to hide her tears, but he ftill 
 clung to her hand with gentle insisteuce, ^xu\ repeated, 
 "Come with me, and we will weep tog'^^ier." 
 
 Sometimes he goes into his studio, and sets to work 
 regularly and rationally, and one, to see him then, would 
 never dream that his poor mind was so cl-uded. He 
 wiV ^uaw rapidly and correcdy a face, a figure, some 
 wei'.' conceit. Then he will study it closely, ^itli a 
 severely critical air, and finally, frowning impatiently, 
 he v/ill obliterate it, and begin again. . ■ 
 
 All the eminent physicians here arc studying his casb 
 carefully, and all give us hope that in time this dark 
 cloud will disperse, and his mind will be clear again, 
 and they all agree that it is better to allow him to follow 
 his own inclinations, as far as it is safe to do so, without 
 restraint or control. We have found an excellent man 
 to watch over him, and Madam Raymond and La Santa 
 are devoted to him. I will let you know of his condi- 
 tion from time to time, and trust that the next letter 
 may tell of greater iniproveiuent. 
 
 Pray with us for the restoration of his splendid genius, 
 that it may again ennoble and gladden the world. 
 
 From Fanl Fair leu. to Lionel Brent. 
 My Dear Fkiknd and Father: - 1 know how much 
 interested you are in all that concerns our poor Felix. 
 Therefore I hasten to tell you of an incident that may 
 throw some light on the mysterious disappearance of the 
 Raphael. I have recently learned, from a private but 
 
 ■^ Mfe; , 
 
I«IA8T. 
 
 CO, he Biiicl, softly 
 to be ovcih'jard, 
 ) tho aaut^tiiiiry of 
 unit tho toiiiha." 
 teiirs, but hfi ntiU 
 ice, 'iiitl repeated, 
 
 and sets to work 
 e him iUeii, wouhl 
 , 80 cl'ivuled. lie 
 ,ce, a tigvire, some 
 it closely, with a 
 niiiig impatiently, 
 
 studyiup his case 
 i» time this dark 
 ill be clear again, 
 illow him to follow 
 e to do 80, without 
 
 an excellent man 
 lond and I^a Santa 
 know of his condi- 
 lat the next letter 
 
 liis splendid genius, 
 n the world. 
 
 •I Breiit. 
 
 - 1 know how much 
 rnb our poor Felix. 
 , incident that may 
 lisappearance of the 
 from a private but 
 
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SANCTUAUY. 
 
 459 
 
 reliable source, that some mouths ago, about the time 
 the picture was taken, a mysterious character, dressed in 
 the robe of a Dominican monk, was arrested on the sus- 
 picion of his being the assassin ttf the Princciss Natilika. 
 
 On being interrogated, he refused to answer ; in fact, 
 refused to speak, and was therefore placed in solitary 
 confinement, until it suited him to be more communica- 
 tive. Can the Dominican and the saccone who took the 
 picture be one and the same ? — and has his arrest pre- 
 vented him from restoring it ? 
 
 I only ask you to think this over and try whether 
 you can arrive at any solution of this problem. . . . 
 
 Last week our unhappy friend escaped from the sur- 
 veillance of his companion, and disappeared for several 
 days. We Avere most wretched about him, and feared 
 that some misfortune had happened to him, when sud- 
 denly he returned in the same condition as before. He 
 seemed very sad and much disappointed, and, in reply to 
 our questions, replied that he had been to his sanctuary 
 among the tombs, and added, sorrowfully, that Polonse 
 was not there, and that he had to weep alone. 
 
 He was wan and dishevelled, and greatly exhausted, 
 and had evidently eaten nothing during his absence. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Lorrimer have returned to England, and 
 now I feel a greater responsibility than ever. God 
 knows, I wish you were here to share it with me. Were 
 it not for Madam Raymond and Ang^lique, I could 
 hardly endure my anxiety : but these noble women are 
 determined to cure him with their love and care. If he 
 was the nearest of kin, they could not feel a greater 
 affection for him. ... 
 
 Lately he has shown a decided interest in our little 
 Dorothea. He takes the sweet child on his knee, 
 
 J 
 
460 
 
 THE 8TOKY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 smooths her golden hair, and looks at her silently and 
 sorrowfully ; he seems to have a peculiar attraction for 
 the child. She will cling to him caressingly, uiul, lean- 
 ing against his shoulder, gaze so earnestly at him that 
 one might almost say the soul of his dead love looked 
 through her blu«> eyes. 
 
 Frovi Paul Fahrien to the Rev. Walter Lorrimer, Had- 
 dingham, England. 
 
 Keverend and Veky Dear Friexd : — I have noth- 
 ing of importance to communicate to you respecting the 
 condition of your cousin. He remains much the same 
 as when you left Kome, with the exception of greater 
 energy in his studio, where he spends most of his time. 
 
 Occasionally he still disappears for a few days. 
 When he returns, he is much exhausted and depressed, 
 and always makes the same reply, when questioned, that 
 he has been to his sanctuary among the tombs, and adds 
 mournfully that Polouae is not there. . . . 
 
 I wish you could see his pictures. They would be an 
 interesting study for a psychologist. He has just com- 
 pleted one, which I considei truly remarkable. It is a 
 strange, impressive study — a wide, sunburned desert, 
 dry and desolate, with a solitary palm, and two pilgrims 
 seeking it, and under its scanty shade clasping hands and 
 weeping together. 
 
 There are others, that are like memories of the past, 
 faces that have either the features and expression of the 
 Raphael or the adorable eyes and tender smile of his 
 
 dead love. ... 
 
 It is very sad and pitiful to think of his bright and 
 beautiful mind so clouded and bewildered, and his splen- 
 did genius diverted from its proper source, and lost to a 
 
THUSIAST. 
 
 s at lier silently and 
 sculiar attraction for 
 iressingly, and, lean- 
 aruestly at him that 
 Ills dead love looked 
 
 liter Lorrimer, Had- 
 id, 
 
 EXD : — I have noth- 
 \.o you respecting the 
 lains much the same 
 exception of greater 
 lids most of his time. 
 i-s for a few days, 
 usted and depressed, 
 vhen questioned, that 
 I the tombs, and adds 
 e. . . . 
 
 . They would be an 
 t. He has just com- 
 remarkable. It is a 
 [e, sunburned desert, 
 lira, and two pilgrims 
 de clasping hands and 
 
 iiemories of the past, 
 and expression of the 
 I tender smile of his 
 
 nk of his bright and 
 ildered, and his splen- 
 i: source, and lost to a 
 
 1 
 
 8ANCTUAKY. 
 
 world that understood and apj)reciated it. God only 
 knows if he will ever be restored to reason ; but if he is, 
 it will be through the love and holy influence of La 
 Santa aud my child, my sweet, blue-eyed Uoretliea. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 From Paul Fahrien to M. Lepeltler, publisher, Boulevard 
 St. Germain, Paris. 
 
 My Dear Fuienu: — ! can easily understand your 
 desire to know something more of the writer of the 
 journal which I entrusted to you, together with several 
 letters, for publication at some future day. 
 
 When I gave you the papers, I thought the sad his- 
 tory of my friend was near its close, and that nothing 
 further could be told to throw any light on the mysteri- 
 ous disappearance of the Raphael. Ten years have 
 passed since then, and some of the conditions have 
 eventuated in a way that will add another interesting 
 chapter to what has already been told, and I do not 
 hesitate to confide this additional information to you, as 
 I am confident I can depend upon your discretion not to 
 make any part of this strange story public property 
 until, as I have previously stipulated, he who is most 
 intimately connected with it shall have passed beyond 
 the boundary of time, into that country where, I trust, 
 he will find the happiness denied to his gentle soul here 
 on earth. 
 
 I agree with you that it would be a mistake to give 
 the story to the world in its present incompleteness, and 
 your summing-up is quite correct when you say that the 
 
 M 
 
m 
 
 THK STORY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 end is most unsatisfactory, that it loaves the hero tem- 
 l)orarily insane, the Ilaphael temporarily lost, and the 
 unfortunate Pole temporarily iniprisoneu ; all of which, 
 I grant, are most deplorable situations. Yet such really 
 were the conditions wheii I gave the manuscript into 
 your hands. 
 
 I wish it were in my power, without doing serious 
 violence to truth, to tell you that the past ten years 
 have restored all the graces and joys of existence to the 
 friend who is dearer to me than a brother ; but, alas ! 
 maturity does not often compensate us for the misfor- 
 tunes of youth, and such sorrow as his cannot be cured 
 by time. However, I can give myself the satisfaction of 
 telling you that the Kaphael was found, and is to-day 
 hanging in the gallery of the Louvre. There was very 
 little publicity given to its restoration, as we wished 
 to shield, as far as possible, the name of the unhappy 
 Pole from disgrace and ignominy. 
 
 I am sure you will agree with me when I say that I 
 think this little bit of the final history of Polonse fur- 
 nishes an example of friendship and devotion quite as 
 exceptional as it is noble, and serves to throw a soften- 
 ing influence over our judgment of him. Unfortunate 
 man ! we can only leave him to the mercy of God, yet 
 we cannot fail to admire the devotion that led him to 
 confess his crime, in order that he might communicate 
 with his friend, and reveal to him the secret hiding-place 
 of the wonderful picture. 
 
 For more than a year, he endured solitary confinement 
 in stubborn silence, and, in all probability, never would 
 have spoken — and, as there was no direct evidence 
 against him, might have escaped the extreme penalty of 
 the law, but the thought of that treasure lost forever to 
 
;NTHU8IA8T. 
 
 ; leaves the hero tem- 
 iporarily lost, and the 
 risoiieu ; all of which, 
 tions. Yet such really 
 I! the mauuscvipt into 
 
 without doing serious 
 at the past ten years 
 ays of existence to the 
 t a brother ; but, alas ! 
 ate us for the misfor- 
 LS his cannot be cured 
 ,rself the satisfaction of 
 ,3 found, and is to-day 
 xvre. There was very 
 ioration, as we wished 
 name of the unhappy 
 
 me when I say that I 
 listory of Polonse fur- 
 and devotion quite as 
 ves to throw a soften- 
 of him. Unfortunate 
 the mercy of God, yet 
 'otion that led him to 
 le might communicate 
 1 the secret hiding-place 
 
 •ed solitary confinement 
 robability, never would 
 as no direct evidence 
 the extreme penalty of 
 treasure lost forever to 
 
 SANCTUAKY. 
 
 468 
 
 the owner, unless he was able to comnuinicato its place 
 of concealment, so preyed upon him that at last he de- 
 cided to sacrifice his life for the privilege of a private 
 interview with his friend. For reasons that you will 
 understand, I was the one who saw him in prison, and 
 received his last instructions, and I found the picture, as 
 he indicated, concealed beyond all chance of discovery, 
 among the ruins of the tomb where he had taken sanctu- 
 ary. 
 
 After its recovery, the Kaphael was quietly sent to 
 France, without the knowledge of my poor friend, who 
 was then in no condition to be consulted upon any sub- 
 ject of importance, and it was not until several years 
 after, when he had recovered his health, and to some 
 extent his mental poise, that he was told of that singu- 
 lar episode in the history of the picture. 
 
 Perhaps the best way to give you a correct impression 
 of my friend's present condition is by describing a little 
 incident that occurred yesterday in one of the galleries 
 of the Louvre. 
 
 I was sitting before the head with the black berretta ; 
 fascinated, as I always am, by its singular power, and 
 never weary of studying it in our frequent visits to 
 Paris, when a remark in a clear childish voice fell on my 
 ear : " I am jealous of the Raphael. I think you love it 
 better than you love me." 
 
 The speaker was my daughter Dorethea, who is now a 
 golden-haired girl of ten, with a face of angelic sweet- 
 ness, and eyes of that deep blue that one sees oftener 
 \mder cloudy English skies than elsewhere. She was 
 clinging to the hand of a tall, slender man, not yet forty, 
 although his hair is touched with the frost of age, and 
 his dark eyes have the mournful intensity of one who 
 
 ^i 
 
 A 
 
464 
 
 THK STOUY OF AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 has looked long at sorrow. He was standinp; before the 
 Raphael, his pale, earnest face fixed and stern, his sad 
 soul looking through liis beautiful eyts away beyond 
 the scenes around him. God only knows of what he 
 was thinking, or whitlier his spirit had wandered, for he 
 was deaf to the ])leading voice at his side, whose music 
 always reaches his heart, even in his most absent moods, 
 and whoso tender little hand draws him wherever she 
 wishes. 
 
 "Come," she urged. "You have looked so long at 
 this picture that I am tired ; come," with gentle insis- 
 tence, " and show me some others." 
 
 At length the persistent little voice penetrated the 
 mysterious silence that enfolded him, and his gaze turned 
 dreamily upon the lovely child. But no smile lit the 
 sombre gravity of his face ; oidy a look of ineffable ten- 
 derness and gentleness met the blue eyes turned anx- 
 iously upon him. 
 
 " Come," she repeated, with patient sweetness. " You 
 must go now." 
 
 With a long-drawn sigh, like one in pain, he suffered 
 her to lead him away to another part of the room, where 
 she ti ied to divert his mind frcm its preoccupation by 
 all sorts of innocent devices. 
 
 I sat silently watching them. She seems more his 
 child than mine. If (Jod had not given me other chil- 
 dren, I should suffer to have this one, my first-born, love 
 my friend better than she loves me ; but, as it is, I am 
 reconciled to see her a part of his life. It is pitiful, it 
 is pathetic, to see that great soul cling to the child as 
 though she were his only salvation. And his power of 
 winning love and sympathy is truly remarkable; no one 
 can come in contact with him that the teuderest and 
 
 L. 
 
CNTHUHIAHT. 
 
 ras stancUnp; before the 
 xed and stern, liis sad 
 ful eyts away beyond 
 ily knows of what he 
 it had wandered, for he 
 liis side, whose music 
 his most absent moods, 
 iws him wherever she 
 
 lave looked so long at 
 me," with gentle iusis- 
 i." 
 
 e voice penetrated the 
 nim, and his gaze turned 
 But no smile lit the 
 a look of ineffable ten- 
 blue eyes turned anx- 
 
 tient sweetness. " You 
 
 »ne in pain, he suffered 
 part of the room, where 
 n its preoccupation by 
 
 She seems more his 
 )t given me other chil- 
 ; one, my first-born, love 
 me ; but, as it is, I am 
 is life. It is pitiful, it 
 1 cling to the child as 
 on. And his power of 
 uly remarkable ; no one 
 that the teuderest and 
 
 SANOTtTAUY. 
 
 165 
 
 best part of his nature does not go out to him. He is 
 one of us. My wife, my ehildren, and tiiat noble 
 woman La Santa, are all devoted to him, and, as I pre- 
 dicted long ago, through their love, he has been saved 
 and his wonderful genius restored to a world that de- 
 lights in it. 
 
 While I was watching my child's sweet efforts to in- 
 terest her companion, a friend approached and exclaimed 
 in a voice of repressed eagerness, "Is not that Mark- 
 land, the apostle of the new school ? " 
 
 The speaker was Dupre, the leader, as you know, of 
 the realistics. 
 
 « That is Markland," I replied. " But why do you 
 call him the apostle of the new school ? " 
 
 " What ! do not you know that he is the first of the 
 impressionists, and that his peculiar and mystical style 
 has numerous imitators. In fact, he is the fashion. The 
 realists have had their day, and now the impressionists 
 take the lead." 
 
 « Indeed ! Is it possible ? I had no idea that my 
 friend's dreamy, fitful bursts of genius, wonderful as 
 they are, had caused such a revolution in art." 
 
 "It is true, nevertheless. His last picture in the 
 Salon was one of the most reniarkable Avorks of the age. 
 It almost converted me into a follower, and, now that I 
 have seen him, I can understand why he paints such 
 mystical things. He looks as though he lived in botii 
 worlds at the same time." 
 
 " He does," I rejoined, gravely. " His soul is often 
 
 absent on long journeys into a celestial country, from 
 
 whence he returns, like St. John the Divine, to give to 
 
 the world the revelations that are made to him there." 
 
 "What a wonderful character," said Dupr^, following 
 
466 
 
 THK 8TOUY OF AN KNTIIirsiAST. 
 
 my friend and his little golden-haired attendant with 
 eager, curious eyes. "Thoy say all sorts of strange 
 things about him here in I'aris. la it true that he is 
 insane at times, and that he paints liis best pictures 
 when he is in a state of mental aberration ? And does 
 lie live alone in a mined tomb in the Campagna ? " 
 
 " Most of what you hear is nonsense," I replied, im- 
 patiently. "He lives in my family; he is one of us, 
 and his life is calm find rational, and in no way differ- 
 ent from ours. He is devoted to my little daughter, who 
 is always with him, and his manner of working is not 
 remarkably erratic or irregular. It is true, he loves 
 long solitary walks, and is occasionally absent on excur- 
 sions to the country. Bfit he cannot leave my Dorothea 
 long ; he is happier with her than with any one else." 
 
 " Then, you really do not think he is insane at times ? " 
 
 " Not unless you call genius insanity, and consider an 
 exceptional nature an abnormal one." 
 
 " Well, whether he is insane or not, the world con- 
 siders him the greatest genius of his time, and I agree 
 with the world," said Dupr6, as he left me. ... 
 
 I sincerely hope it may be many years before the 
 time comes to publish these pages ; but, when that event 
 occurs, you can use your own judgment in regard to this 
 chapter, to add it to the others, or leave it out, as you 
 may think best. 
 
 K 
 
 -^o-^iiyg/ 
 
• mm III n ii iii. li i m itfi^immm 
 
 KNTirirsiAST. 
 
 n-haii'ed attondant witli 
 ^y all sorts of straugo 
 Is it truo that he is 
 paints liis best jjietures 
 aberration ? And does 
 1 the Cainpagna ? " - 
 vonsense," I replied, im- 
 niily ; lie is one of us, 
 ,1, and in no way differ- 
 my little daughter, who 
 nner of working is not 
 r. It is true, he loves 
 lionally absent on excur- 
 iiinot leave my Dorethea 
 in with any one else." 
 t he is insane at times ? " 
 iisanity, and consider an 
 one." 
 
 > or not, the world con- 
 jf his time, and I agree 
 he left me. ... 
 many years before the 
 es ; but, when that event 
 dgment in regard to this 
 , or leave it out, as you 
 
 _„ i'iii»'*'i 
 
fii^-S/r ' 
 
 X