“Do not, do not refuse me—think of your own heart, should all that it worshiped on earth be torn from it: think of your own mother, and for the love of her and heaven, hear me! What is the fame you tell of? Will it not come for other things than this—will it be sweet if you trample over one bruised heart to reach it—will praise be precious, bought at the price of a mother’s agonized tears? Oh, pity my wretchedness, and heaven will smile upon you—all the fame you covet will one day be yours!”
As she finished, the artist quietly resumed his brush, saying in his calm voice —
“My time is greatly occupied this morning, Mrs. Revere, and you will excuse me, if I decline all further conversation on a subject, concerning which I have already given you my intentions. I am momently expecting a sitter, and must beg your pardon for requesting you to allow me to attend to my preparations for her reception, undisturbed.”
A convulsive cry escaped from the woman’s lips as he turned away, and gathering her coarse veil about the face which was now deathly pale, she turned to leave the room. The cold heartlessness of those words had frozen the last channel of Hope, and daring not a glance at the face of her child, she feebly passed over the broad staircase, and into the noise and bustle of the crowded street.
She had been gone but a few moments, and the artist had had just time to brush with careless elegance the magnificent hair from his white forehead, and to fling a drapery over the portrait of Elise Revere, when steps were heard approaching, and with eye all light and lip all smiles, he hastened to the door to welcome his young sitter.
“Good morning Emil—Miss Hastings; I have been impatiently looking for you,” and with deferential tenderness he ushered her into the studio, and offered the luxurious chair which seemed to be her accustomed seat. His voice was deep and musical, and his eyes eloquent of admiration, as he stood conversing while she laid aside her hat and shawl, and drew off her delicate gloves.
Well might Edgar Loring gaze admiringly upon her, for she was “beautiful exceedingly,” and yet a greater contrast could not perhaps have been found, than she presented to the picture we have just noticed.
She was scarcely seventeen, of a petite figure, and her face, in the softness and delicacy of its outline, seemed almost childish. Golden curls clustered around her pure, sweet brow, lay against the sunny bloom of her cheek, and fell in a bright shower over her dimpled and snowy shoulders. Her eyes had that summer’s day radiance given only to eyes of blue—her soft lips were of the richest red, and seemed moulded to thoughts of lovingness, and gentleness, and happiness. It was a face into which you could not look without the conviction that it had never known aught but sunshine and love—that the dark truths of the world were to its owner, but unreal visions of a far-off future. No deep tide of feeling, no storm of strong passions had left its impress there; yet the face so exquisite in its infantile loveliness, was not without its signs of latent power. There was often a deepening of the light within those soft eyes, an earnest compressing of the full lips, that were a prophecy of a higher type of beauty for her maturer womanhood.
And Edgar Loring loved sweet Emily Hastings, although he had not yet told her of it save by looks and tones perhaps as unmistakable as words. He loved her fondly, almost passionately, next to himself and fame. Intensely selfish and insatiably ambitious, he was ignorant of his incapacity for a great and generous love. Possessed of a good education, and a fine share of talent if not genius, he had come to the city, with no friends but these and his remarkably handsome person, filled with the determination of making to himself a name. Accident had brought him into contact with a few influential persons, and he soon became known among a certain clique as a young man whom it were well worth while to patronize.
He had been in the city a little more than two years, and had painted several portraits in good families, when he met with Emily Hastings, the daughter of one of his patrons. Her beauty delighted his artistic eye, her winning gentleness captivated his heart, her position in society was a mark for his ambition. Well assured of his growing love for her, he was also far from insensible to the advantages which a union with her would confer. Mr. Hastings, although a man of wealth and high-standing, was free from the weak prejudices of many of his class, and Edgar knew that were his daughter’s heart bestowed upon a man of education and character, he would not be looked upon as unworthy, even though penniless. Could he win Emily’s love, he felt that her father’s approval was sure, and in all his thoughts of the future, he pictured himself a distinguished artist, and the husband of Emily Hastings.