Evening Star Newspaper, December 21, 1895, Page 15

THE EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 421, 1895—TWENTY-FOUR PAGES, 15 BRANDT, THE JANITOR WRIITEN EXCLUSIVELY FOR THE EVENING STAR BY JULIA SCHAYER. ee gee Philip Muncaster came into his studio, flung his hat into a corner and himself into a chair, and fell to staring out the window. The studio was a big, bare suite of rooms on the fourth floor of a ram- shackle old building in Southwest Wash- ington. From the window toward the south, away beyond the sordid foreground of roofs and chimneys, away beyond the tawny Potoma:, could be seen the low line of the Virginia shores; nearer, to the left, the inevitable monument rose in solitary beauty against the pale blue sky. A well-built fellow of five or six and twenty was Muncaster, with a dark. aqui- line face that was meant to be handsome, but was not so just now. Suffering may ennoble, but it does not seautify, and the past month had told on Muncaster. It was not that he was poor, with two dear old people on a barren Maryland farm looking to him for suppo: for Muncaster delighted in his work, believed in himself and had the courage of his convictions. No, it was not that. It was the old story of the moth and the star—of youthful love and parental tyranny—and in this way it had come about. Among other expedients for keeping the pot boiling in that old farm kitchen Mun- caster had arranged a class in painting, composed of society girls who came three times a week to his studio for what they innocently called “serious work.” Among them was Miss Drayton—Miss Beth Dray- ton—of whom Muncaster knew only that she was the daughter of a very wealthy widow and moved in the highest circles. To him she was only a student—an ele- gant, refined girl with a spirituelle face and hands so small and frail that it seemed absurd to him to see them handling maut stick and brush—and he had acted toward her as toward the other members of the class—secretly indifferent, outwardly civil and attentive. It was a great surprise to Muncaster when he one day discovered in Miss Dray- ton’s drawing totally unexpected orig- inality and feeling, and the look of eager delight in her face when he said some- thing of the kind to her went straight to his heart. ‘Poor gir! he said to himself, in his grand masculine way, “how pleased she Seemed! Strange—people are never satis- fied with their lot! Always want a lot more!” One day Miss Drayton lingered after the Other students had gone. She had been everywhere, seen everything—this girl of twenty —and Muncaster lstened to her bright talk with the hunger of his soul Plain to see in his dark southern eyes. “But you have geni * said Miss Dray- ton, guessing his thoughts, and Muncaster thrilled at the words and then burned with shame that he should place any value upon the sweet speeches of a sotiety girl. But he was led to talk of himself more and more and to confide to her his hopes and plans, and at length to show her the sketches he had made for the “great pic- ture” he wanted to paint. He had called this picture in his mind already “In the Midst of Life.” It was to represent Death wrestling from the feast of life a woman in the bloom of youth and beauty. What with the sketches and Mun- caster’s dramatic description, Miss Dray- ton seemed to get a remarkably clear idea of what he wanted to do and was very en- thusiastic and sympathetic. It was an ambitious attempt, Muncaster admitted, but that did not daunt him in the least. What did trouble him was the lack of a suitable model for the woman's figure. There was not a professional model in Washington who would do at all. Miss Drayton listened with dilated eyes; then, with a blush spreading all over her flower-like face, timidly aske ‘Would I do?” And Muncaster, overwhelmed with delight and gratitude, accepted the prof- fered kindness honestly, if thoughtlessly. After all, it was no unheardf thing— beautiful women of high position™had thus lent themselves to art for art’s sake, thousands of times. The posing began at once, at such hours as Miss Drayton could snatch from the many distractions of her social life. She was generally accompanied by a friend, upon whose discretion she could rely, for at her request the sittings were to be kept @ secret until the figure was finished. “You understand, Mr. Muncaster,” she naively explained, “I never disobey mam- ma, and as she probably would object to my posing it would be a pity to cause her to issue a command it would be so painful to obey!” And Muncaster, amused at this display of Machiavelism ih so unexpected a quar- ter, joined the girl's laugh and offered no protest. Of course but one result might be ex- pected from this propinquity of two young and ardent beings. Haeckel explains the origin of love as “the elective affinity of two cells,” but Muncaster would have re- jected with fierce contempt any such cold- blooded, illusion-destroying theory applied to the feeling that had sprung up between himself and beautiful Beth. It was a pure and exalted passion, born of mutual sym- pathy and understanding, an attraction mysterious and irresistible, holding within itself sufficient proof of its divine origin. To love Beth gave herself with the same unhesitating frankness and devotion with which she had lent herself to art, and sisted upon the same secrecy, to Muncas- ter’s intense annoyance. ‘ Abhorring deceit, he would, for his love's sake, have faced a regiment of tyrannical, purse-proud parents and begged to be al- lowed to see Mrs. Drayton at once. “What can your mother do to me, any- way?" he urged. “You see I cannot bear this sort of thing much longer! It is a humiliation to me and a wrong to you, dear!” Beth w: silent. She could not confess to her lover the fear he seemed not to share, that her mother would try to sep- arate them, nor that other lurking fear for which she despised herself—the fear that she would succeed in doing this. Mun- caster, looking into her troubled face, half guessed what was passing in the girl's mind. His dark cheeks burned. “You are not afrald—of your own mother?” he exclaimed. “You would not let her separate us, merely because I am poor! You would not—you could not—oh, Beth!" Beth tried to smile reassuringly. “My mother Is the dearest mother in the world to me,” she answered, “but I have never opposed her. There has never been any occasion to, before! But something tells me that it would be better to wait— for the sake of the picture, if for no other reason,” she added, coaxingly. ‘Don’t let's think of the future, Phil! Isn’t the present enough?” And the smile she gave him disarmed Muncaster, as it would have disarmed any man in his place, and though secretly un- easy, he ceased to protest. So matters drifted aiong. Beth came as often as she could and the picture pro- gressed rapidly, and though Beth seldom came alone, there were always some pre- clous moments of solitude a deux, for a studio with its screens and draperies Jends itself happily to lovers’ uses. Meanwhile, poor young ostriches, thanks, ro doubt, to the friend upon whom Beth “knew she could rely,” their secret had become the talk of society, and wherever Beth went glances, smiles and innuendoes followed her. Mrs. Dayton was, of course, the last to hear what was being sald, but, finally, oh, day of horror, she, too, heard the rumor from the lips of a “dear friend;” then from Beth's own truthful lips the whole story. After that the deluge. Beth was commanded to break off this “ridiculous ard disgraceful affair’ at once, end, yielding, as she had always yielded, to that imperious will, break it off she did in a piteous little letter that Muncaster first read, then ground beneath his feet, then pel ed next his miserable heart night and lay. Poor little Beth! Cruel as was the wound her hand had inflicted he would not blame ber. True, If she were other than she was she might have acted differently, but then she would not have been Beth! And it was Beth he loved, and would continue te love, in spite of fate. It did not enter his mind to ri the cruel edict, not at this tim: pride, so he suffered in silence, shod, and starved himself in ¢ epearean fon. No wonder t! gaunt and ugly. All this while we have left him glowering out of the low H Grifting clouds, an brum—brumming, interrupted bs ; snatches of “Die Beiden Grenadie had teen going on behind a big screen, where old Brandt, Janitor and factotum, was at work. “Anyore been here?” asked Muncaster, as Brandt presently emerged with both hands full of brvshes. “A flock of gees: answered Brandt, his fine Teutonic face showing an amiable con- tempt. “Und parrots! Und canary birds,” he continued. ‘See!’ pointing the toe of ene big carpet slipper at a bit of silk caught in a spinter of the floor. ee! Dere ig ene of deir fedders! Some old, some young, some middlin’,” he grumbled on, arranging the bruskez neatly on the table. “S ‘Some ugly, some bretty, but all de same kind. ‘How lofely!’ ‘How sweet! ‘A perfect ckenius!’ Den dey all goes away und buys some more dresses und bonnets! Muncaster smiled—it was difficult not to smile when Brandt got on this tack. “All what I say!’ declared the old man, with an emphatic slap of the last brush, “dey’s two kinds of womens—fools and devils!” ‘Then Muncaster trrned round and looked at him. “To which class did your mother belong, Brandt?” he quietly asked. The old man’s face changed. “Dem kind ain't womens at all,” he said softly. “Dem is anchels'” Then he shuffled eway, an imposing figure in spite of the carpet slippers, rumpled shirt and baggy nether garments. Brandt was a character—a bit of the wreckege stranded every day in the year on the shores of the new world. His his- tory was in his own keeping, but that it had been full of change and incident, though keeping steadily to the downward trend, no one knowing Brandt could doubt. Replete with philosophy, history and literature; of versatile gifts, simple and honest, yet deep, flery, yet amiabl nical, yet romantic, a3 ene of the artists ressed it, ‘a man of frightful principles and almost blameless life’’—such was Brandt. It seemed that the foot of the facilis de- scensus had been r-ached at last. Brandt seemed likely to end his days as hanger-on of the artist colony to which he had at- tached himself, and to which, whether as model, man-of-all-work, messenger, critic cr cook, he was a veritable boon. He loved them all, the happy-go-lucky fellows! He knew all their incomings and outgoings, and, for the matter of that, their outstay- ings,-too. He rejoiced in their successes, and vilified the public when it failed to recognize their talents. He interviewed creditors, bric-a-brac dealers and pawn- brokers; lied for them, cried for them, and fought for time, with impartial zeal, accept- ing in proud silence the compensation which appeared at rather irreguar intervals upon the table in his private room. One thing he could not do for them—Titan that he was— he could not wear their old clothes, and continued to outrage their feelings by startling selections from 7th street bargain ceunters, until in sheer desperation a col- lection was taken up and respectability, in the shape of a decent black coat, thrust upon the urconscious cause of so much esthetic disturbance. But if Brandt loved and Served them all it was Muncaster whom he loved as the ckild of his bosom, and over whom he vatched with jealous care. With that subtle comprehension of mat- ters of sentiment that belongs to the Ger- man character, helped out by actual obser- vation, there was a little of Muncaster’s unfortunate love story left for the old man to discover, and deep was his sympathy and hot his wrath against that crucl sex that in one way or another is man’s inevitable undoing. So, after this characteristic dia- tribe against woman, Brandt, with a glance at the young man’s despondent attitude, withdrew, gloomily shaking his head, and for some time nothing further occurred to interrupt Muncaster’s gloomy revery, but finally a step and a frou-frou of rich fabrics reached his ear, and, turning indifferently, he saw that which made him rise hastily, pale to the lips. It was Mrs. Draytcn, Beth's mother, standing there, looking at him, her fire face white under its silver hair, her dark eyes, that seemed meant for softer glances, inimical and cold. They had met before in the touch and go ef Washington society, where talent is sometimes recognized in a way, and both bewed slightly. Mrs. Drayton even smiled, the glimpse of white teeth giving her face a certain fierceness. I came,” she said, with studied gra- clousness, “to see the painting for which I have been told my daughter has been pos- ing.” “The painting for which Miss Drayton has done me the honor to pose is not on exhibition,” said Muncaster, his head very high, his look as proud as hers. “It is not finished.” Mrs. Drayton's fece became lighty suf- fused. Her eyebrows arched themselve: “You mean,” she said huskily, “that you refuse to let me see the picture in its pri ent stage?” Muncaster bowed. “I ask it as a special favor,” said Mrs. Drayton, after a moment. Muncaster hesitated. Then, with an im- pulsive gesture, strode across the room and uncovered the great canvas. “I thank you, Mr. Muncaster,” said Mrs. Drayton, taking the chair he placed for her and raising her lorgnette. There was silence for some time. Mun- caster walked to the window again. _ How he hated this woman! This woman with a reputation for munificerce and charity, and all that, who could crush the joy out of two young hearts as she was doing, and for such paltry reasons! Nothing against him but his poverty—by birth, by every innate cuality her equal, and to be so scorned, so more than scorned—ignored! Dead silence reigned in the studio. Even Brandt was silent with his everlasting drumming, though he was not far away. No eye saw the change in that proud wo- man's face as she looked upon Muncaster's picture—great in conception if in nothing else, poor fellow! She admitted that in her critical, cultured mind. And the girlish fig- ure shrinking from the resistless embrace of the awful shrouded figure of Death, the terrified, yearning face, the hands that clung so desperately to the rose-wreathed seat at the joyous banquet from which she was being wrested—those were Beth’s, her beloved Beth's, idealized, but still strongly recognizable, and every ffber in the moth- er’s being thrilled at the sight. A long time she Icoked; then recovering herseit with a deep Inspiration, let the glass fall ard turned toward the artist. “Mr. Muncaster,” she said, “I want to buy this picture. Will you, name your price?” a Muncaster turned and looked at her won- deringly; her aplomb aroused his admira- tion. TI he laughed; his face became handsome in its play of emotions. “It is not for sale, Mrs. Dray said; “and I do rot know that it be finished. You should understand that!” “It is finished sufficiently for my pur- pose,” the woman answered, with a cold smile. “Will you sell it to me? At your own price, remember! Then Muncaster understood! Reth was right! This woman could be cruel! Merci- less! Every vestige of color left his face; his figure seemed to expand and neighten. “No!” he cried hoarsely. “There is a bet- ter way!” And filling a brush with paint, he dashed it repeatedly over the face of the girl in the picture. It was done in a flash -before Mrs. Drayton's hand could reach his arm. She sprang to her feet with a cry. The pity of it touched the artist in her—for the moment the mother, the woman of the world, was dumb. Muncaster threw the brush aside, and the two faced each other. “That was a foolish, boyish act!’ Mrs. Drayton said, after a moment. “I em very sorry you did {t.”" Muncaster burst into a reckless laugh. Mrs. Drayton came a step nearer to Mun- caster, her face disturbed by a look almost of sympathy. 2 “When you are less excited, Mr. Muncas- ter, you will understand, I think,” she said hurriedly, “that I could not, under existing circumstances, permit my daughter's por- control now!) ‘and I hope you will be mor fortunate in your next model. Good morn- ing, Mr. Muncaster If looks could kill Mra. Drayton wouid never have reached the door alive, but she passed unscathed out of his sight; and Muncaster, throwing the drapery over his ruined painting, with a smothered cry of “Beth! Beth!” sank nerveless on the va- cated chair. Brandt was at the street door as Mrs. Drayton passed out. Her rich gown teuch- ed him, the faint odor of heliotrope came to his nostrils, he saw her face distinctly under its thin veil. As the door of the coupe closed, he turned slowly and went up to his little hall room, his wrinkled face puckered with bewilderment. Closing both doors, he drew from be- neath the bed an ancient valise, plastered three deep with baggage labels in all known languages. This he opened, and from the Inner chaos selected a small pack- age. Having lit his pipe and seated himself, Brandt unfolded the package and drew out a small old-fashioned photograph. It was of a very young girl, with much dark hair, wonderful black eyes and beautiful imperious mouth. Upon this face Brandt gazed long, then with a muttered ‘Merk. wurdig!"”’ laid it aside. There were letters, too, in the package, yellow and faded. One of these Brandt opened, glancing at the sig- nature. Then restoring the package to the valise, the old man fell into a brown study. Mrs. Drayton did not go directly home af- ter leaving Muncaster’s studio. She made a number of brief but effective calls. When she at last mounted the steps of her own stately residence, a triumphant smile lit up for a moment her handsome, haggard face. “I have done a gocd day’s work!’ she re- flected, as she rang the bell. “Brown,” she said to her maid, when seat- ed by the open fire in her own sitting room, “send my daughter to me.” The triumphant smile had faded; her face showed de traces of that ‘‘day’s work,” and there was an uneasy look in the eye: that turned toward the door az her daugh- ter came in. Beth was very unlike her mother, being fair and delicately molded, with a’ gentle face, d eyes whese glance went straight to the heart. She gave her mother a timid look, but did not offer to approach her. ‘So you have not been out?” Mrs, Dray- ton said, seeing the girl's loose gown. “Why not?" I did not care to," Beth answered, qui- etly. Mrs. Drayton scowled at the fire some mo- ments in silence. Then: “Come here and sit down!” she said im- perilously, and Beth obeyed, like a well- trained child. There was another pause. “How would you lik to spend the summer in Norway, where we were last year?” Mrs. Drayton asked, suddenly, without looking around. “Anywhere you please, mother,” answered the girl, in a lifetess voice. Then the mother turned. “Do you mcan to say, my dear,” she be- gan, half coaxingly, half angrily, “that you fre absclutely indifferent as to what dis- posal is made of you? ‘As far es place goes—yes! Absolutely Beth answered in the same tone. Her mother moved impulsively, seizing the girl's hands and caressing them te ly, playfully. ‘Come, little girl,” she said, in the dee sweet voice that few could resist, “this will ot do! You are taking yourself too seri- ously. This—this affair will pass. It musi pass. I shculd be a bad mother to let you put these dear little hands in the fire be- cause you are crying after the pretty flames! I seem cruel, I know. I must be cruel to be kind, dear! Some day you will bless me” (the brilliant eyes wavered here before the dumb anguish in her child's face); “some day you will bless and thank me for having saved you from yourself. And when it is over, when you have come to your sens: An unexpected fire blazed up in Beth's childish eyes. She drew her hands hastily | away from her mother’s clasp. “If you mean that I shall ever stop lov. ing Philip,” she said, passionately, “I know that you are mistaken. I have given him up because you demanded it of me, and I have never disobeyed you, but you ‘cannot forbid me to love him. I glory in my love, | and will love him to the day of my death!” Mrs. Drayton's face darkened; she drew back, biting her lip sharply. “To the day of her death The millions of times these words had been spoken with the same passionate sin- the very root of such “tyranny” he could not believe. . “ ‘Love!’ ‘epeated Muncaster, with bit- ing scorn. “Selfishness and pride! I say it is murder, and nothing less, to separate us!" And having worked himself ‘up sufficient- ly he reached a point where he vowed that as Beth loved him, she was his by every right, and he would claim het! When? He looked abuut the shabby rooms, furnished principally with a valuable ‘collection of his own works; he looked at @ letter that had come that morning from Maryland,and groaned aloud! 2 The faithful Brandt, too, ‘ew despon- dent. The melodious diapason$’ which were the habitual expression of his inner con- tent, gave way to a lowering #loom broken by explosions of lurid Teutonic maledic- tions. He showed about this ‘time, too, an interest in the society colunin$'of the daily papers, which at any ot time would have aroused Muncaster’s ‘attention. It seemed as if Brandt was seeking for some- thing, and one day he had apparently found it, for the big fore-finger was arrested midway a paragraph, a tremendous “‘merk- wurdig!” escaped his lips, and society do- ings were henceforth relegated to their previous contemptuous obscurity in Brandt’s mind. And while Muncaster suffered, and Brandt fumed and plotted, Beth Drayton eat in her luxurious chamber and watched with dull eyes the expanding tree buds in the park opposite, refusing to go out, deaf to argument, indifferent to entreaty or au- thority. As for Mrs. Drayton, no one, seeing her in all the pomp and splendor of her social panoply, could have even remotely guessed what was going on In that proud, yet lov- ing, heart. Brown, her maid, could have told, if she had chosen, of the haggard old woman, who walked the floor for hours when the daily and nightly battle was over, sat staring at the fire like a graven with eyes almost as cold and stony. otwithstanding all this the earth con- tinued {ts customary revolutions, and the days grew longer and warmer, and on one these days, early in the afternoon a card was brought up to Mrs. Drayton. She glanced at the name written, not en- graved, upon it, and shook her head. HERMANN BRAND “He says,” ventured the footman, “as how it’s on business of importance to madam.. Mrs. Drayton’s eyebrows went up in- but she rese and went down to the reception room. A man was standing there, hat fa hand, a colossal man, with a head that might have belonged to Thor, the ereduously, Thunderer; with a majesty of carriage, too, which numerou uated by a pa coat could not As toilet deficiencies accent- ularly shiny, black frock impair. yton entered this man drew Mr order ef “The Iron picuously, and bowing courtly grace, said: “L have the honor to address Mrs. Car- Drayton ardt's which for obvious r roll glish was labored, his accent, easors shall be ignored in the account cf this interview, unusually marked, but Mrs. Drayton bowed with more graciousness than she aware of. ‘To what am I indebted—” she began. Brardt forestelled the question, Putting his hat on a chair, he drew from his breast pocket a carte-de-visite of ancient appear. ance, and without a word handed it to the lad. fu his eyes fastened upon her with pain- intensity as he did so. Drayton teok the card mec st upon it an indifferent glan her color rose, and a ec! caped her. turned the card—there was no writing uj this?” she asked, iclous look at Brandt. Brandt parried that look with eyes like steel. An exultant smile was bitried in the heavy bcerd that covered his lips. “Mrs Dri on remembers, perhaps— Heinrich Gartner d, quiet ‘There was a sl nically, ce. Then She sharpl his voice, for he wa that not avite sure, but at name Mr: yton turned’ deadly Her closed tightly on the She spoke with ditieuity “You knew—Heinrich Gartne! “Madam, Brandt, solemnly, “he died t cerity, yet how meaningless, how valueless they were! A mere matter of time—some months, some years at the most. That was all. Who should know, if not she? Yet—she stole a glance at Beth. It was only a month since she had been separated from her lover, yet what a change! How spirit-like her face, how thin her hands, how sharp the lines of her figure! She re- called Muncaster’s picture, the figure of that young creature wrapped in the re- sistless embrace of death, and her heart trembled. Sh2 had three stalwart sons, she had power, position and money, yet dearer than all else was this one little daughter who had come to crown her life—this daughter whom she was hurting, to her death, perhaps! Absurd! People never died of love in these days! Yet, and her heart contracted fiercely, there sometimes died within them that which left existence a different mat- ter altogether! That much was true, she knew. But Beth was not one of that sort—she was gentle, and reasonable, and yielding. In her case there might be a radical cure. She was singularly sensitive and shrinking, too; perhaps she might be reached on that side. So, after some reflection, Mrs. Dray- ton spoke again. “Beth, do you know what people are saying?” Beth smiled faintly. “I suppose I can guess. And I do not mind in the least,” she answered. “You do not mind their saying that you ve had a love affair—a secret love affair, with a poor, unknown artist; and that you are pining for a man who not only led you into a secret engagement, but received the girl who loved and trusted him, alone in his studio—” Now Beth rose to her feet, throwing out her hands in a gesture full of force. “Don't, mother! she cried hoarsely. “Don't attack him! I have told you over and over again that it was not Philip's fault. That it was mine, or rather, y mother, that I dared not tell you. what people are saying—of me- she went on, with biting scorn, “I care nothing; but any one, any one, against Phil. I hate!” And then poor little Beth, trembling In every fiber with indignation and with terror at her own audacity, too, but with her head held very high, marched out of the room, and her mother sat long by the dying fire in the dying light of day, a brooding sor- row in her eyes, her face growing older and harder with each passing moment. who says a word PART SECOND. Muncaster lived as he could, keeping his head well up “before people’’—strange, but there had never been so many visitors from Miss Drayton’s set at the studio before!— going off on long sketching trips, working half the night at the pot-boilers that must be kept up, hardly touching Brandt's chef d'ouvres of cookery, and, in short, suffer- ing as only one of his temperament can suffer. After that memorable visit from Mrs. Drayton he was less than ever inclined to blame Beth for her treatment of him. He could even condone her willingness to de- ceive her mother, which had been the one in his pricel jewel. No wonder ensitive little creature—gave in be- uch an embodied will! Tyranny be- gets slaves and cowar That love, pro- fcund, passionate mother-love, could be wee ER Lge feak. But after a cust hig hand into ‘Is time It was the hich4é held to- package ©! ward her~sv. Sow. “You willbe he said.in” sa! volce,— - Mrs getters and ae amined t Jorgne’ shak- ing in h atl white as death, she andt. “HOW Camu yong b, “things?” she de- before he could reply: crse, rstand your mo- tive in bringing them™here! May I ask your price?” : It was Brand's turn now to blanch. His eyes emitted lightnings. But his voice was calm and deep, as, laying one hand on his breast, he said: “Madam, TI ma a great monarch bono: answer in the words of ‘All is lost, except Mrs. Drayton winced before those flam- ing eyes. “I see,” she said, almost graciously, “that I was mistaken. Pardon me!” ndt bowed stiff, Will you sit down?” Then, as he hesi- tated. “I beg you to do so; I’ want to ask >u to tell me all you know of Heinrich artner. gentle new, and Brandt to take tho seat indicated. Mrs. Draytcn, after closing the doors, seat- ed herseif rear him, “This is the story,” said Brandt: ‘In the year 1864 I was at the Hespital in this city recovering from a wound received in Fattle. I sometimes helped in the care of the other patier One day there was brought in a young countryman of mine who was dying with consumption, they said. His name was HeinvichnGartner. He old no one his history, arid he was a strarger in the city; but ‘he was often de- lirieus, ard it was plain that he had suf- fered cruelly—that he had been separated from the woman he loved, and who loved m. One name wes always on his lips; it as the last werd he spoke. It wa roll.’ ” i Mrs. Drayton trembled visibl! “He was a noble-young 1m Brandt, after a pause; “ good woman.” Sohan Mrs. Drayton's face was turned away; she was silent, but the hands that held the letters shook Violently in ker lap. After a while B ‘The fe added e and good asa v th belonged to him were given into my care, for he seemed to have no friends to claim’ them. There was not much; only a violin, which was sold to y for his buri: for I,stoo, wa a poor me clothing, and those letters. No nything. For years I tried to of those letters, but only one of them was signed, and that only with the Christian name, as you know. jut it was not a common name, and by it in the papers and by comparing otograph with yourself, ma ve seen you meny times upon th 1 in other went on E with some em ment, “I thought I had found a_clew at last. It was only a ince, but I took it, and I am so happy now to be able to giy into the hands of the ¢ world, em or Mrs. row ¢ I bent low lap; her seemed S$ pres- ence, Strange resurrection of a past she had believed buried and forgotten by all save herself, and by her, even, but reluctantly remembered, so at variarce was it with all that had followed that episode of her youth! Yet, reluctantly or not, she could not repudiate those passionate wcrds wrung frem her agonized young heart, nor that vividly beautiful face that looked up at her with eager, compelling eyes. She had look- ed like that, had loved and suffered like that, and frem his obscure grave the dead lover of her girlhood called to her, and he, too, could not be denied. It was a not uncommon story. Heinrich Gartrer, a talented but unsuccessful mu- sician, had been discovered and taken up, after the manner of fashionable women, by one cf New York's foremost society leaders in ante-bellum days. Picturesque in ap- pearance. young, gifted and in delicate health, Gartner seemed especially designed to hecome the object of some grand dame’s philanthropic experiments, and soon was “all the fashion.” sought a higher flight, but just then Car- roll Vinton, davghter of his benefactress, came home from school. Carroll was eigh- teen, beautiful, willful and musical to the finger tips, and, with the usual fatuity of mothers, Gartner was installed as her teacher. So immense was the social chasm that yawned between her daughter and the Ger- man violin player that it never entered Mrs. Vinton’s head to watch the pair. Wher, therefcre, she entered the music rcom one day, to see Carroll’s arms about Gartner’s neck, the foundations of the ezrth apparently gave way. The Icvers tried to stand their ground— Carroll defiant and beseeching in turn, Gartner confessing manfully to his poor crime of loving a rich man’s daugh- ter—but of course it was of no avail. G: er loved the girl too well to run off with her—and she wes quickly whisked off to Europe, while ke—disappeared. At the end of six months Carroll was ap- parently dying. Then the frightened par- ents succumbed, brought her back to America, and tried to find Gartner. He s traced to Washington, where he had died three months before. Carroll Vinton died also—the Carroll Vin- ton Whom they had known, but another irsensibly took her place—a brilliant, hard, imperious, worldly; woman, who had in time married a distinguished statesmin and became the woman we know as Mrs. Dray- ton. That was the story of the letters and the photograph so strangely restored to her possession, Meanwhile, Brandt was intently consider- ing his next move. Should he come out openly with an appeal for the lovers or leave it to memory and maternal love to do their perfect work? Instinctively Brandt felt that a blunder here would be fatal, and sig ee in his life acknowledged him- self at his wit's ends. But fate, up to this point so kind, was not going to abandon “r chose? minister at the crisis. While Brandt ill struggling with his doubts M Drayton rose, paler than was her ont, but perfectly composed, and offered him her hand with a friendly smile. Ir. Brandt,” she said gently, “I knew Heinrich Gariner well when I was a very young girl. He was all that you have id, and more. He was as gifted as he noble in character, and he deserved a etter fate. Influences stronger than my- if caused both of us much suffering. I have never forgotten him, and I thank you from my heart for what you were to him 2 for what you have done toda: Her face and voice were unutterably sad e ceased speaking, her eyes veiled with and Brandt seized the moment to say what was on his lips. “I need no thanks, madam; I am only too happy to have brought his last words to the love of his youth. Ah, it is a cruel ard dangerous thing,” he added, with all his scul in his etoquent blue eyes, “to separate two young and ing hearts! A cruel and angerous thing’ Drayton was silent. Brandt started 8 understood,” her voice came after firm and proud as ever, “that this in- terview is never to be mentioned Brandt drew himself up with his grandest manner. “The grave is not more silent than I shall be, madam!” he sald dramati- cally, and went away. Late that same afternoon Muncaster was alone in his studio. He had begun the day in one of his wrought-up moods, when the two things he yearned fer—fame and Beth —seemed possible, yes, certain, of achiev ment. He had worked all day feverisnl: one might say savagely, since every other consideration was barbarously sacrificed to his ze! Not upon “the great picture’— that he nad not even uncovered for many a had made a number of outdoor studies, and e also, perhang,*{ which he felt sure was painted in his ‘strongest vein. Muncaster was no mere sentimentalist; he had never believed himself tikely to die of love, but he had believed that he could never feel such real delight in life or in work again as he had feit that day. Now the light was fading from those blue Virginia hillg and from Muncaster's eyes, too. The reattion had set. in; his exhausted body gladly welcomed the mpting food that Brandt prepared for him, to that faithful soul's overflowing delight. Brandt, for some reason or other, had been in high spirits all day. Several times, noticeably after a two hours’ absence, his eyes had met Muncaster’s full of light and hope, and he had sung over his work with all his former vigor and sentiment. “Poor old chap!’ thought Muncaster Is so glad to see me In again!” “he Workiag order Now, in the twilight shadows, his morn- ing mood seemed to his ening mood like the veriest madness. Fame, for him? Without money or influential friend dicapped by family ties? What foliy If only he might see Beth for just a moment! He had tried in every way to get a glimpse of her, even to the extent of at- tending services’ at the church to which he knew the family belonged. He had seen Mrs. Drayton, stately and superb as ever, but alone. Beth mus: be iil! He would write to her! He would go to the house and insist upon seeing her! He had a right to see her! This was not the feudal age. If Beth lovei him—-if? No, not ‘af! She loved nim, and no one should separate thera longer! desperation ne went over to the for- ture and threw the drapery aside. oan escaped him at sight of the ruin his own hand had wrougat. But it was Beth's figure—and Beth's lovely, tender ttle hand—and in a frenzy of love and loug- ing he bent and xIssed the painied fingers, rauttering passionate, disconnected phrases in his agitation, not hearing the steps that mounted the stairs and entered the room and came toward him. Then gome one spake his name: “Phil!” Muncaster turned in wild amazement. There in the waning light stood Beth, look- han- ing frail and spirit-like enough, heaven knows! But it we no vision. Before he could bring out even a ery of astonishment, the Little outstretched nands were in his, the white face close to his. “Phil!” repeated Beth. verything Is changed—I don’t know why, or how, but ft is all right now, Phil! My mother is here!” And, indeed, there was Mrs. Drayton, with both hands outstretched, her face shining with that beautiful inner light that burns always in the heart of a good wo- man, It was she who | started back, compl ‘for the moment “I have broug2 a back your model, Philip,” she said bravely. “I could not find it in my heart to spoil such a fine work!” Then, suddenly breaking into a sob: “I could not make my little girl so un- appy!” she added. “Be—be good to her!” he took their hands and pressed them tegether, then retired to a remote corner of the studio and sat there by herself spoxe, el as Muncaster overwhelmed, and vevi in Being of really good stuff, however, he} kles on his beaming face he reveled in chafed under his silken fetters, and would | secret joy, with many “Gott sei gelobts’ no doubt have broken loose from them and | and day—but upon a landscape for which he | SSS Highest of all in Leavening Power.— Latest U.S. Gov't Report Ro al YEAS ABSOLUTELY PURE Baking Powder while Muncaster came out of his bewilder- ment. No one saw poor old Brandt peering from behind his screen all this time. No one heard his final retreat to his little den, where with tears coursing among the wrin- “Merkwurdigs,” until the awful thought. obtruded itself that Muncaster might summon him for some purpose, and ris machinations be thus brought to light; whereupon Brandt seized his hat and dis- appeared for the remainder of the even- ing. That was the beginning of life for Mun- caster. The “great picture” was finished, and though in after years the artist almost wished that it never had been painted, it brought him recognition, friends and pa- trons. Then followed happy, fruitful years abroad, and if any one in the world doubt- ed that Philip Muncaster was a genius and a splendid fellow altogether, it was not his mother-in-law. There was one dangerous moment, of which, however, Muncaster knew nothing. It was shortly after the scene just de- scribed, when everything was going on as smoothly as true lovers could wish, that Mrs. Drayton, calling unexpectedly at the studio, met Brandt face to face. The lady stopped short; her face hardened. “You here? she exclaimed. Brandt looked about him. Muncaster was not in the studio at the moment. “Madam,” said Brandt, simply, “I am the janitor here.” Mrs. Drayton's face blazed. She took a step nearer. “You were sent to me that day by—by—” The name choked her. She could not speak it. Brandt drew himself up, his hand on his breast. The frock coat and the Iron Cross were missing, but Brandt was majestic, notwithstanding that. “Madam,” he said, with an earnestness that carried conviction with it. ‘Madam, I swear to you that Philip Muncaster knows nothing of the letters and the pho- tograph; nothing of my visit to you! And never shall!” It was impossible not to believe Brandt. Mrs. Drayton’s face relaxed. “Good!” she said with dignity. ‘Let it be so.” And so the drama goes on to the end. May it not prove sadder than the inevitable erd of all mortal lives and loves! (The end.) —— THE ERA OF SKILLED LABOR. Men Whe Know How Are Always in Demand. From the Age of Steel. Skilled labor fs in greater demand than ever. In some trades it is at a premium, and there is a confessed paucity of the best material. There are various reasons both for the scarcity and the demand. In new and constantly multiplying mechani- cal appliances, we have conditions that in- sist on special abilities. Some of these in- volve not only a deftness and dexterity of hand, but a mental grasp of all that ts related or contributory to the end in view. In others it is simply a special and trained aptitude for but one link in a series to complete the chain. In the process of production each man has his place, and to be efficient each human cog in the wheel must keep time with the rest. It is evident that in so perfectly arranged a system the directive skill of the machine must be of a high order to be run successfully. The superin- tendence of a large plant under these con- ditions involves heavy responsibilities and requires much more than a mere technical knowledge of the trade. Here the fore- man has to be more than a mechanic. The saine principle has been recognized in “all the professions. In literature, law, medicine, science, &c., education on one point presupposes a knowledge or a study of all other matters related to a special pursuit. In the focus of these we have the capable lawyer, physician or scientist. The industrial world has to revolve on the same axis, and the successful manager of a modern plant has to understand not only what a machine can do and ought to do, but the nature of the material he uses, what its technicalities signify and the bearing of other related products on the value of the one he handles. All this is in line with the progress of education. Aside from this, it is also a fact that competition demands increasing produc- tive powers at a declining rate of time and cost. The best machine and the best man are co-ordinate {pn modern conditions of manufacture. As labor is being rapidly released from many of its old forms of hand work, even to the excavating of sewers and the digging of coal, the demand for skilled labor as apart from mere physi- cal force will increase. To keep pace with these new conditions we are establishing our manual and technical schools and rub- bing up some of the forgotten duties and A BRAVE ACTION. He Saved a Girl's Life and Gave a False Name. From the Hartford Courant. There was a splendid example of quick wit and heroism on the Park river under the Laurel Street bridge Sunday afternoon. The chief performer successfully concealed his identity for the time, but it has since been learned. Among the many skaters were several girls and young ladies. The ice was perfectly safe except in the center, where it is still thin, and on Sunday afternoon it had rotted somewhat under the rays of the sun. One young lady, about sixteen years old, was getting along famously for a novice, when she suddenly saw the danger spot just ahead of her. Not being an expert, she was une able to change her course in time and in another moment she was in the cold water. As quick as thought one of the young men near by threw himself on his breast and drew himself toward the hole where the young lady had sunk once. He shouted to another man, who caught him by the heels while he reached out over the bend- ing ice and seized the girl by the arms. Her chin had struck the edge of the ice as she Was going down the second time. ‘The young man exerted all his strength to raise her. The ice bent under him and his face went into the water, but he still held on speaking vol of encouragement to the gir] vi badly frightened. ee e crowd could hardly keep from ruehii toward him, though it was apparent that ane other ounce of weight would put lm into the water with her; but it seemed impossible | that he could have strength enough to raise her without other leverage than that of his almost straightened knees. And when his face went into the water, there was a mur- mur of despair from the observers, some of whom hastened away for planks or rails, One more supreme exertion, however, and he had brought her on the ice and was slow- ly dragging her back from the broken ice. Another moment and she was on hor feet and hurrying away with a girl companign be: re her name could be learned. What is your name?” wds the question on ae. one’s lips and which several iramed fe young man mad i va vi the bank alone. a “ She “John Hogan,” was his reply, after he saw that an answer could not be avoided. But his manner was such that few oelleved him; [he appeared to desire to consider the er as nothing out of the ordinary to shrink from commendition. pr la ——+e+—_____ WHY BERMUDEZ MISSED. Reminiscence of 2 Famous Old-Time Duel at New Orlean: From the New Orleans Times-Democrat. “Did you witness Judge Bermudez’s duel?” I asked an old Louisianian who had seen many meetings under the code. Al- though a dead shot, Bermudez missed bis man at five paces. “Yes. You know Lepouse was his ad- versary and, to the best of my recollection, the cause that led to it was a trivial one— seme foolish newspaper publications in re- lation to the College d’Orleans. I believe Lepouse, whom Gayarre has somewhat travestied in his ‘Fernando de Lemos,’ was a professor in that institution and a Poet of great merit. He was as simple as a child, unacquainted with the ways of the world and perfectly inoffensive, except when goaded by contradiction on some favorite hobby. Then, under the influence of harmless anger and perhaps wine, his language would become caustic and biting. He lived in dreamland, even amid the gay- eties of society. Fear was a stranger to his nature. Duty was his only guide. “Well, for some reason or other, Lepouse concluded to call out Bermudez, and know- ing that the judge was the most expert marksman in the city with a pistol, also made up his mind to shorten the distance to five paces. ‘I can’t hit a barn door at ten paces, I know, but at five the case will be different, I hope. Il me tuera, mais je le toucheral, jen suis sur.’ (He'll kill me, but I'll shoot him, sure). Things turn- ed out as he expected, except as to the markmanship part. When they reached the scene of combat, and as they were about being placed in po- sition, Lepouse, yielding to the force of habit, drew out his snuff box, and, after offering a pinch to the attendants, ad- vanced in his usually suave, smiling and winning way toward his antagonist, over whose astonished countenance flitted a shadow of perplexity. 'Prenez-en; c’est du bon, c'est du Macouba. (Take some; it is gcod, pure Macouba.) The judge bowed and accepted the compliment. There was something simple, yet grand in that act. It was the alliance of valor with gallantry, “They stood at five paces, face to face, and fired. Both missed, though their pis- tols were directed at ohe another. The seconds here interposed and a reconcilia- ticn was effected. When questioned upon claims of the apprenticeship system. They all converge on one point—the era of skili- ed labor. —_+--_—_____ The Doctor Was Busy. From Tid-Bits. Dr. Liddell’s morning leve2s were crowded beyond description. It was his pride and boast that he could feel his patient's pulse, look at his tongve, sound him with a stetho- scope, write his prescription and pocket his fee in a space of time varying from two to five minutes. One day an army man was shown Into the consultation room, and underwent what might be termed the instantaneous process. When it was completed the patient shook hands with the doctor and said: “I am especially glad to meet you, as I have often heard my father, Col. Foster, speak of his friend Liddell.’ “What!” exclaimed the doctor, “are you Dick Foster's son?” “Tam, sir." “My dear fellow,” exclaimed the doctor, “fling that prescription into the fire, will you, please, and sit down and tell me what is the matter with you?” A Powerful Actress. From the Town and Country Journal. Playwright—“Is her acting natural?” Manager (enthusiastically) — “Natural! Why, when she appeared as the dying mcther last night an insurance agent, who has her life insured for £2,000 and who was in the audience, actually fainted!” the subject Bermudez frankly admitted that the sympathetic face of that kind and affectionate recluse and scholar had haunt- ed him at the moment of firing and para- lyzed his nerves. Easily Fixed. From the San Francisco Argonaut. A certain well-know “blood-and-thunder” producer arranged with a cheap firm of Paris “awful” publishers to receive week by week the blocks they had used for the illustration of a thrilling seventeenth cen- tury novel. By some sort of mistake one Thursday an up-to-date semi-society block was substituted. Said the luckless serial- creating creature whose duty was to write up to the blocks as they came in: “Really, Mr. , how can 1 possibly work it in? This is a nineteenth century subject, and my story is Louis Treize.” With much in- dignation the publisher burst forth with “. Louey Trays—trays or teapots neither! I pays you good money and you do your work. -If you ain't got the imagination for it, why do you take my money? Have the kindness to ‘and over that there proof; I'll do the hunderline myself.” And the “hunderline” appeared thuswise: “They re- tired into the wood and disguised themselves in modern costume.”” —————_+ ee. A Striking Similarity. From Life. “Jones is an awful chump. He reminds me of the wise men of the Noachian era.’ “What, that idiot? Why, he doesn’t know enough to go in when it rains.” Vell, neither did they CHRISTMAS EVE. aun nea Nee Haiti j A int in "" 3 Clara (in bed)—“Come into bed quick, S$ you a walkin’ aroun’ with them legs, he'll kr SN a. i veer or lly! Santy Claus ain't no fool. If he sees ow that stockin’ don't belong to you!