The Hartshorne Sun. (Hartshorne, Indian Terr.), Vol. 10, No. 41, Ed. 1 Thursday, November 10, 1904 Page: 2 of 16
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I
'I
The Storm Bark.
Out of tht mist and the purple ^^r
Of the sea, with its tempes:-toss o.
(pray,
I.org ago there sailed a bar*
Into X'W Amsterdam s gra o'.:« r>V.
From strands of crystal her cordage
seemed , , , ,
To be spun, so gallv 1' spark.ed ar.c.
gleamed; , ..
Her hull, and her ir.asts or st.a.„e
device.
Shone with the pallor of A: tic . •
And her canvas, taut In the sir.g.: s,
br<"7 >. , . .
Was white as the spindrift of winu-sw.pt
seas
"Boom " went the harbor« s.rr.al P'-r-
But rever the sound of an answering
hail. . . ... .
Rom from decks that glowed ;n tne un.
U hilo on. with no sign of a drooping
The strange ship bore, with her spe.tra,
look. , . ...
Tl.l she wratiiered the reaches 01 Orin
ous Hook.
And, wnthlike. faded sudd nl>-
l 'rider the hills of the Tappan Z-'e.
With s-torm in her wake, as blacK to
As sh 'e from' the rail to the peak was
white.
And now, at the dreaded dane o the
Though all the blue be ashlr.e with
stars. ,
And land a: A w .tor seem k
If. showing a shimmer of g •
That wierd bark rlpp.es -eai;ko gm. .
Ihe river men cry to Sa'.r.t V. rio ar,,,
And put for port, tor they know ru..
Ere the sun peer out from its orient
cell. ...
The heaven will reel ar.d the earth w...
quail . „ i
Under the stroke of th® tempest fla.l.
—Clinton Scollard In New York fc-n.
struggle out of the maelstrom; and
the construction of his private yacht,
the value of his collection of patch-
boxes, and the color of his favorite
r^cktie were stiil matters wh.oh ex-
cited daily comment in the Moru'.ng |
Picador, or Mayfair Gazette.
He was just in that whimsical con- ►
ditlon of mind when a man with toc
A MAN Of MEANS
k y LAURA ACKROYD
I always think Cophetua was a
lucky man to get the beggar maid for
his "wife, for it is not often that a j
royalty has the chance of marrying ,
a woman who has not been clothed in
fine linen and fed on the adulation of
courtiers all her life.
For a king would sometimes like to
be a man, too, and share in the com-
mon give-and-take of ordinary life.
Therefore, I hope the beggar maid
was stalwart and 'ielf-reliant, for this,
doubtless, wa3 his majesty s one
c nance in life.
The case of George Newbolt was
something like Cophetua s. It is true
that he wasn't a king, but an Ameri-
can stockbroker; while Aimee Ruet
was not a beggar maid, but a painter.
Still, the man who can claim the
title of millionaire has all the privil-
Forgot that ho wanted to abdicate
eges of an emperor nowadays, while
the enthusiastic devotee of art. who
conscientiously copies the great mas-
ters, and only does pot-boiling under
protest, is often as penniless as the
prettiest barefooted mendicant who
ever asked for alms at the roadside.
J'ewbolt had only entered into his
kingv-am ten years ago, but lie was
weary of it already, and far from do-
siring more worlds to conquer, he
only wished to keep his name out of
the papers and lead a quiet life.
When he met Aimee, however, he
Uftd not yet tad the courage to
mucn grit in him to be debauched by
luxury will join a missionary society,
go into the East End to study the
wavs of the Hooligan, or start on an
exploring expedition through Tibet,
by way of giving zest to an existence ;
which'threatens to become savorless j
for want of variety.
Before he had decided which of
these courses to adopt however, he j
ran over to Faris for a few days to
see some of his favorite masterpieces j
in the Louvre—for Newbolt had a by j
no means contemptible love for pic- j
tures—and there, in the Salle aux '
Frimatifs. he saw Aimee Ruet, a
little French artist with a pale com-
plexion, lovable mouth and glorious
eyes, soberly copying Corot's delight-
ful "Paysage," which, with its silvery
lints and indefinable atmosphere,
s^ems doubly alluring when one
comes to it jaded with trying to take
in the glowing colors and sensational
compositions of David, Ingres an--.
Delacroix.
For a moment Newbolt forgot that
he wanted to abdicate. He only
thought that here was a poor person
(the child had so carefully darned the
hole in her blue artist's pinafore! ) re-
producing a picture he would give
worlds to possess, and that he had
enough money to buy the copy over
and over again.
He spoke humbly, but not too hum-
bly. to Aimee, expressing his admira-
tion of the Corot, and offering to pay
I whatever price she liked to ask for
| the replica; but the color flew into
the girl's softly-rcunded cheeks as
she firmly replied that, whatever mon-
sieur wa> prepared to give, she could j
not sell the picture.
"I am not painting it for sale," i
went on the little French artist, "it
is to be a present to a lifelong lover
of Corot."
' But are you so rich that you can
afford to give such valuable gifts to
your friends?" asked Newbolt, star-
ing at the canvas as if he would get
its cool, vaporing coloring by heart.
"Ah, monsieur'. ' she said gently,
"it is the poor who do not count the
cost of what they bestow on those
they love'."
Newbolt turned to look at her, and
his eyes rested curiously on the girl s
charming face, as she steadily con-
tinued her work, without so much as
a glance in his direction.
"Will it disturb you if I watch you,
mademoiselle?" he asked, abruptly.
"Not at all. 1 am used to being
stared at while I paint,' and she look-
ed up with a frank smile.
It was a strange beginning for the
friendship which subsequently sprang
up between these two, but it was ,n-
finitcly more original than a formal
introduction in a crowded drawing-
room, just as their conversations later
on were far more unstudied, than
those which are carried on under the
eyes and within earshot of a sleep-
less chaperone.
At all events. Newbolt postponed
his flight to Timbuctoo (or whatever
other erratic form of "putting in
time" he had been contemplating),
and staid in Paris for six weeks, dur-
ing which he was a regular visitor at
the Louvre and a constant attendant
j on Aimee Ruet. She. with all t..e
on the steam tramway to St. Germain-
en-laye, but the girl would not allow
him to go on.
"O. I have heard the same thing
from many men. although 1 seem so
voung " she said, naively, "and always
•hick it's such a pity! You see. how
yen spoil our friendship—and just
when it was becoming almost per-
fect!"
" \imee. are you a cold and cruei
woman, or only a wilful, careless
i?" said Newbolt. catching the
little hand that was full of violets she
naig gathered in the forest.
She shook her head and tears came
into those beautiful eyes which so
often played havoc with Newbolt's
resolutions.
"Neither, but a hard-working artist
—a* Bohemian, if you will—who loves
her freedom and her ambition too
well to give them up willingly—yet.
Besides, there is Aunt Eustacie; no
one can make omelettes for her as
I can."
"Don't make Aunt Eustacie an ex-
cuse," he said, gently; "for she should
never be parted from you, nor de-
prived of her omelets."
"You are good," replied Aimee,
looking at him wistfully; "so good
that I hate to give you pain; but,"
slowly, "I don't love you as I ought to
love you, if—ah, mon ami, let us not
speak about it! After all, we have
so little in common when we are not
talking of Corot; for you have lived
so happily, free from care and anx-
iety. while I have toiled and faced
disappointment, and suffered <*nd seen
life.' What could you do for me ex-
cept buy me pretty frocks, house me
sumptuously, and see that I ne^ er
again wanted tor material comforts?
As for pretty frocks, I like them—what
woman doesn't? But I cannot exist
for these things alone."
"Every word you say makes me
realize how much I lose in losing
vou!" said Newbolt. huskily. "But.
Aimee, you have taught me, by the
force of a living example what a sel-
fish brute I am, and the old shackles
have fallen from me. I shall never.
1 think, sink so low again. You don't
love me, my child—why should you"
But I shall try to win you yet. Some
day," he added, with difficulty steady-
ing his voice, "you will turn to me in
a moment of loneliness and misery,
and grow happier in the thought that
one man in the world is living for
his fellow-men because he loves yob
60 well."
They were silent for a few min
v.tes, then Newbolt said in his ordi
nary tones;
"And now that the Paysage' is fin-
ished, may I ask to whom you are
going to present it?"
Her eyes widened.
'Haven't I told you? Oh, it's for
Aunt Eustacie, to hang in her room,
because she is bedridden with paraly-
sis and can't stir. She once saw the
painter when he was still a boy, liv-
ing with his mother, who used to be a
marchande de modes in the Quai ol-
taire, and she is very fond of his
pictures."
a low wicker chair under the awning
sat a girl who wore a lilac muslin
gown, pressing her hand to her eyes.
"OH, Major Grant, how quick you
have been!" she said, as he came to
the balcony. "Lady Gifford evidently
keeps her eau de Cologne handy."
The girl raised her eyes with a
grateful smile, but their expression
changed as they met those of New-
bolt and a deep flush dyed her pale
tace in an instant.
"Oh. it can't be—yes, it is!" and
she sprung from her chair, holding out
her hands with the impulsive gesiure
of a glad child—the characteristic
gesture of Aimee Ruet. "That v,e
should meet here—how strange it
stems."
Womanlike, she was the first to re-
gain her self-possession, and in a few
/■ /// * ft.c-
aaaJ
isamffi
zest of an unspoilt child-like nature
nut her whole heart into her friend
ship for Newbolt; but her frank atti
tude of camaraderie rather exasperat-
ed him sometimes, when he would
have preferred to see her eyes down
cast and her cheeks a little more rosy
under his lover-like glances.
For it had come to that—Newbolt
. was hopelessly in love with Aimee.
while she, at present, vas in love
with art, to the exclusion of any emo-
tion of a more agitating characte*
for any male suitor, rich or poor.
He tried to tell her one day. when
she had cuubeiitbd to go with him
"Then~I do~not~Krud.ee your work
to her. Happy Aunt Eustacie—and
happy Aimee to be possessed of such
a brave, unselfish heart."
Newbolt had been out of the world
for three years, and this was his first
appearance in society since he had
risen to the surface of that whirlpool
of suffering humanity in which he had
submerged himself.
The soft chatter of well-bred wom-
en and the rustle of dainty skirts
sounded pleasantly in his ears after
the rasping accent of flower girls and
costers; but he smiled a litlc sadly
as he glanced over the crowded room,
taking "the measure" of his well-
groomed fellow men as they assidu
ousiy handed muffins and talked small
talk to ti-., smiling sirens whose very
garments were redolent of the exotic
atmosphere in which they had been
nurtured.
He put down his teacup and step
ped, unnoticed into the little balcony,
bright with acarlet geraniums, which
ran along the window belaud liiw. u
"I said what was not true."
minutes they were comparing note.,
on the events of the past few years
without any embarrassment.
"Yes," she said, presently, in answer
to a question of his, "I suppose I am
famous—in a way! People like my
pictures, and make a fuss with me,
and I have money to spend, and the
world treats me well. But you see,
Aunt Eustacie is dead, and there is
no longer any one for whom I can
make omelettes! Dear Aunt Eustacie!
I wish I were back again in the little
flat aux quatrieme, where we lived to-
gether so long! But you—are you
not happy? I hear of your noble
work among the poor, and I glow with
pride to think that you are my
friend."
"Is that no." he asked eagerly. "Is
it true that, altnough you would not
even write to me, you still counted me
vcur friend? Aimee, you know that
if I have done any good in the world
it is through your influence. There-
fore, if to love one's fellow men makes
one happy, your life ought to be full
of felicity! For myself, I have learned
to believe in humankind, but there 13
still something wanting in my life—
something for which I asked you that
day at St. Germain-en-laye. Do you
remember?"
"I have never forgotten it," she
said, gently, her eyes averted. "I
have had reason to remember that
afternoon sadly enough many times
sinco then. For—will you forgive me?
—I said what was not true."
"You mean—"
"I mean that I loved you then, al-
though I did not know it. I mean
that I have missed you every hour of
every day since—I mean that I am
miserable and lonely—and—"
Sho drew away the hands which he
had grasped, and sprang up hastily,
as voiccs were heard near the win-
dow.
"Aimee," he said, his eyes fixed on
her face, "before we are interrupted,
promise me one thing—promise that
you will bo my wife."
And just &s Major Grant appeared
behind them, his florid face full of
concern as ho drew the stopper from a
bottle of eau de cologne, she raised
her eyes and bmd, "1 prouiiau."—
Lad}'1* Pictorial
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Hunter, T. W. The Hartshorne Sun. (Hartshorne, Indian Terr.), Vol. 10, No. 41, Ed. 1 Thursday, November 10, 1904, newspaper, November 10, 1904; (https://gateway.okhistory.org/ark:/67531/metadc151010/m1/2/: accessed June 12, 2024), The Gateway to Oklahoma History, https://gateway.okhistory.org; crediting Oklahoma Historical Society.