Life — December 26, 1895 — page 32: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“He MADE A Low sow.” olden days. He made a low bow and advanced to take the hand of welcome when offered. “Your grandmother says as she is ready to see the gentleman, Miss Ethel, and ‘opes he will walk upstairs.” Cyrus straightened up. Another blush, hotter than the first, spread over his face, and he felt it behind his cars as it wandered leisurely to the back of his neck and tingled down his spine. “Very well,” the young lady answered, “ we will go up at once.” Cyrus turned his eyes toward Miss Vedder's face. In her own eyes and about the edges of her mouth he found the exasperating look that used to mystify him in the portrait, but now intensified to a positive smile; gentle and evanes- cent, half mischievous, and evidently enjoyable to the owner. And this time really there. At this another blush, deeper, hotter, and slower than the last crawled over his angry face and then, as it were, seated itself to further enjoy the situa- tion. With these ancestral blushes, which only assailed him when least endurable, he had also inherited a hot, sudden little temper ; and for the moment he felt a strong desire to slam a door in these women’s faces and march out into the storm. When he fully recovered his senses he was upstairs in a large, old-fashioned chamber, talking calmly and with outward amiability to the unmistakable original of the portrait. The hair was white; the features changed with passing years, but it was a handsome, kindly, high-bred face, and he felt like offering a humble apology when he compared it with the tough old visage of the housekeeper. Mrs. Caine- Vedder gave him a cordial welcome, was sincerely glad to see him, and insisted upon his promising them a little visit. ‘The result was that three days later Cyrus, with his trunk, came down from London for a fortnight’s sojourn in this weather-stained, ivy-bound, restful old homestead. TLL. In the deep recess of one of the Tudor windows of the drawing-room were seated Cyrus and the granddaughter of the portrait. It was the golden twilight of an October afternoon, that mysterious hour when the human being with a poem in his soul finds it toying with his brains; when proudest hearts yield to the bondage that, since love began, has brought unspeakable happiness or enduring grief. Then is the hour for care and circumspection; and then is the hour when care and circum- spection are offensive to a lover's soul. The maiden’s eyes were turned toward the light, looking over the unkept lawn to the -golden band along the western sky. Her thoughts might be many miles away, but the young man was not deceived by appear- ances. While she gazed thus absently upon nothing in particular he, with no assumption of indifference, was studying in beatific content the dainty head and face that seemed un- conscious of his existence. But the dark eyes at last turned slowly toward him. “Ts it the custom in America to stare ata girl until she has to leave the room?” “Yes; when there is nothing else to look at.” “ There is your own portrait. It seems to excite your en- thusiasm more than anything else in the house.” “Rubitin! You don't mind hitting a man when he's down.” “ But you are never down. “Why do you say that?” “Because you are irrepressible. endurable, “Thank you. I wonder if all English girls are so subtle in their praises; so overflowing with gentleness and tender consideration for others?” “No. But they would be if pursued day after day by ob- noxious invaders who insisted upon marrying them in spite of themselves. If from unexpected corners wherever they went offers of marriage were perpetually jumping out at them, Take to-day as a specimen. This morning all the time we rode, and afterwards at golf, then all through the woods to the village and back, the same persistent, sulky, bullying foreigner at my elbow insisting that I shall fall in love with him. And here you are again; and you have been at it for an hour!" With a long-drawn sigh the haughty little head leaned wearily back against the panelling of the window. Cyrus seemed absorbed in the sunset and made no reply. There was a long pause, which at last she broke by asking : “Is it getting ready for a storm?” “Probably. That is the usual condition of this unpleasant little island.” You are always up.”” At times almost un- comicbooks:com