A little princess

Chapter I

The windows were open, and the draft occasioned by the assage of air from the fan-light over the door comir iigling with the circulation through the casement tow ,ied agreeably the brow of a young man who sat, w' .h palette, brushes and maul-stick, gazing critically, upon a portrait which rested on the easel before him. The sun through the sky-light made the heat of the room rather greater than it otherwise would have been. But Ballard Hilliard worked on as diligently as if his daily bread depended upon the rapidity of the strokes of his skillfully wielded brush. Not that it did, you know, for the clever young artist was one of those favorites of the gods who seemed to have reached the rainbow and its consequent bags of gold without the smallest effort upon his own part.

His brother artists sighed enviously.

“Not but what he deserves his success, you under¬ stand,” they would explain to each other ; “but if he were a poor devil without a dollar with which to bless

1153391 e himself the world would not take such pains to dis¬ cover this remarkable talent of which they now seem so proud.”

But Ballard Hilliard paid no attention either to their remarks or his own success. He loved art for art’sf sake, and he slaved and toiled early and late — not for' the number of ducats that resulted therefrom, but the glow of an ideality lightened and brightened his life. He had before him a grand ambition, and toward that goal every act of his life was to him a step. He wanted to be great, and to know that he deserved his greatness. He wanted no fame purchased by his social position and the wealth that had come to him as an inheritance through generations. He wanted not the glory of a day. He had no desire for that short-lived notoriety that made him the lion of the hour.

He wanted his name to go down to posterity. He wanted to feel within himself that future generations would know him even better than his contemporaries had done. And he deceived himself in nothing. He was his own severest critic. He spared himself in nothing. He grieved over his failures and delighted in his successes as a mother does over her best-loved child. i

And that was the passion of his soul. He was liv¬ ing in dreams of the future. 1

He was thinking of that, perhaps, as he sat there upon that golden day in June, gazing at the ideal head upon the canvas, when a light, quick knock sounded upon the door. In answer to a rather impatient “Come in!” the door opened, and a small figure, bear¬ ing a basket laden with flowers, entered.

It was a tiny, piquant face, with a singular p*s<eclion of feature that touched his artist’s soul with a Sudden thrill. She was small, almost childish in jappearance, but there was a roundness, a willowy grace to her form that he had never seen equaled, and as she stood there in the center of the floor, holding her 'basket up for his inspection, her exquisite face dimp¬ ling with a smile that seemed to be all in her eyes, though the dimples were near her mouth, he gazed in silence as he might have done at some masterpiece of art that touched and thrilled the lost chord of his inner self.

“Want some flowers ?” she asked, with an almost boyish intonation of speech and audacity.

Her voice was musical, in exact accord with her appearance, and the very slanginess of her manner seemed to sit well upon her piquant self. Ballard [Hilliard’s magnificent dark eyes softened as they rested upon her.

“Are you selling them?” he asked, scarcely con¬ scious of what he was saying.

“You don’t suppose I am giving them away, do you?” she questioned, saucily. “When I go to OBloomingdale it will be as an attendant and not a lunatic, and don’t you forget it! Want to buy?”

“Perhaps. Where do you live?”

“Avenue B, top flat, tenement row. Would you like to know the number? If you will call, there might be something to interest your artistic eye there in the shape of Persian portieres , Sevres china and Guido’s masterpiece. We got the last named for re¬ turned tea tickets. As my mother always teaches me to be entirely truthful, I had better add that it is not the original, but a copy. Would you like to know the brand of tea that they give them with?”

“Thanks, no. I never drink tea,” returned Hilliard, with perfect earnestness.

“You miss half the good of life,” she said, with a grin. Then, turning to a stand of fading flowers: “That’s about the best picture you’ve got here, isn’t it? That is one thing that none of you fellows can do — you can’t get over nature.”

“I quite agree with you,” lie replied, studying ad¬ miringly the changes in her lovely countenance. “Did you ever have your portrait painted, little one?”

“Pooh, no! One or two of the fellows have asked me, but I want no one to do that who is not a worthy successor of Rembrandt or Raphael. Perhaps Titian could do best, for he could catch the light in my hair that the others would fail upon. I think it would make me so seasick that I should never recover if I were to see chromos of myself like those I have seen of some ladies of society. I have been around artists’ studios more or less all my life, and after the shocks I have received, I have schooled myself not to see the contents of their work-rooms at all.”

“Are you so good a judge?”

“Well, perhaps not in an artistic way, you under¬ stand; but I have absorbed a sort of knowledge of things in general regarding art that I couldn’t have escaped if I had tried. It had to come to me like the measles and chicken-pox come to more fortunate chil¬ dren. I don’t know anything else.”

“Do you come from a family of artists, then?”

“Yes. My grandfather was Roderick Millbourne. My father was Donald Melbourne.*

The names she had mentioned were so v/ell known in the art world that Ballard Hilliard sprung to his feet.

“You don’t mean it?” he cried. “Why, my prize possession is a painting by Roderick Millbourne ! They were the greatest artists — But, pardon me, how — ”

j He could not complete his sentence, but stopped in considerable embarrassment.

“How does it come that I am selling flowers in the streets?” she said, quietly, though a trifle bitterly, finishing his sentence for him. “Do you remember the old quotation from ‘Pinafore’ : Things are sel¬ dom what they seem’? It has been so in our case. You know my father’s misfortune. The whole world knew it. What he made one day he spent for rum the next. The picture-dealers got the money that rightfully belonged to him, and nobody ever found out that he was great until after he was dead and my poor mother a pauper.”

Hilliard tried to find something to say, but some¬ how he felt tongue-tied in the presence of that tiny flower-girl who stood there before him like a small princess in disguise. He could not express his sym¬ pathy for her in words, but there was a note in his . voice far more eloquent when he said:

| “And your mother. Does she live?”

“Yes,” answered the girl, her great eyes roving to the window sadly, her lip quivering under an emotion that she was striving to conceal. “She lives, but — Don’t make me speak of it, sir. My mother is dying as rapidly as a woman can who is

1C A LITTLE PRINCESS

on her feet from morning until night. She won’t give up, and some night — ”

She did not finish her sentence, but turned suddenly and was walking rapidly toward the door when Hillliard caught her by the arm.

“You must not go — at least not yet,” he cried, his own voice trembling as he saw the white anguish of tier face. “I admired the work of your grandfather and of your father as I have done that of no modern artist. You must let me come and see your mother for your father’s sake. You must — ”

“No, you can’t do that. She is very proud. She 'does not know that I sell flowers, and it would break her heart if she did. She thinks that I am in a pri¬ vate office in one of the dry-goods stores; but I lost my position there and did not dare to tell her for fear the shock would kill her. We are very poor. There is an old blind florist that has a place not far from our house, and I sell for him. We divide the profits, and she knows nothing of it. I think it would kill her outright if she knew I am in the streets all day. I have sold them for a year now, and she has never Suspected. I have my regular customers — and it pays better, much better than the store. But she is growing Weaker every day. There is not a night that I go home that I can not see the change the day has brought. Oh, sir, I try to be brave, but it is breaking my heart!”

“Poor child. Poor little one !” whispered Hill¬ iard, more touched than he remembered ever to have been before. “How strangely hard life is for some, and so easy — so easy for others who could better bear the trials. But you must let me come to see her — •

II yuur mother, you know. You must let me, for your father’s sake, you understand. Come, look here! You see I am not a bad artist, as modfcrn ones go. Look at this. I am going to ask your mother’s con* sent to paint your portrait.”

He had turned her around and led her toward the canvas, which, though incomplete, showed the superb talent of the painter. Her face brightened as if urn* der the influence of sunshine. *

“Oh, I say, did you do that?” she cried, in sucK genuine surprise and admiration that he laughed out¬ right.

“Yes,” he answered.

She did not speak for many minutes, but stood there apparently drinking in the work of art in su¬ preme delight. •

“Your drawing, your coloring, your technique, your style are perfect!” she cried, at last, with suppressed enthusiasm. “Ah, you work from love! It is there in every sweep of the brush. Your fame is a dowry from Heaven. An unfinished portrait such as that, even if you were to die to-night, would be a monu¬ ment that would perpetuate your name through all the ages.”

Hillard’s face flushed as he listened. All his life he had received praise, but none had gone to his heart like that.

“Who is she?” asked the girl, nodding at the can¬ vas. “She is the most beautiful woman I ever saw.”

“She h an ideal. I thought her beautiful, too, until I saw you. Pardon me ; I don’t wish to be rude. I may surely admire the work of God even as you ad¬ mire mine. Not to the woman, but the artistic model,

I say that you are the most exquisite piece of molding that I have ever seen. For the sake of art, let me paint you. You have the soul of an artist. It is born •in you. I beg it as a favor — :for the sake of the be¬ loved mistress of both our hearts, let me -paint you!”

She put out her hand and raised her eyes humid with tears.

“It shall be my humble contribution to your future greatness,” she said, softly.

She did it for love of art. Is it God who rules events such as that? Can it be that He, who doeth all things rightly and well,' writes it in the book of pre¬ destination a situation such as that, with the awful future veiled?

Chapter II. “Carroll!”

There was a rather heavy brush between Ballard Hilliard’s teeth which thickened his articulation a tri¬ fle, but not sufficiently to make the word misunder¬ stood. His eyes were fixed upon the portrait and not the model. She heard, but waited for him to continue He repeated :

“Carroll!”

“Hun!”

“Are you tired?”

“Dead tired! My neck is cramped and both arms are fast asleep.”

“Let us rest awhile. My fingers are paralyzed from holding this palette.”

“That is why you thought of my fatigue, I sup¬ pose.5’

He laughed as he laid his brushes and palette away.

She came up behind him and leaned over his chair, catching her breath in a little gasp of surprise.

“Oh!” she exclaimed. “You are idealizing again. I thought you were going to paint me as I am.”

“I am: I have. One can not improve upon the idealization of God. I could not paint you as beauti¬ ful as you are without an inspiration from Heaven.”

He spoke with suppressed enthusiasm, as he always did when her beauty was referred to. The speech was followed by an embarrassed silence on the part of Carroll Melbourne. Hilliard observed it, and wishing to relieve her, exclaimed, briskly:

“Look at that!” holding up his middle finger for her inspection. “I did not feel it while I was at work, but see how the brushes have pinched my fingers. They usually callous it and make it sore, but this is a regu¬ lar blood-blister.”

“Let me open it from the under side,” said Carroll, turning in a business-like way from the contem¬ plation of her own pictured, poetical beauty to the most prosaic matter of relieving a blood-blister. “Where are your needles? Ah, here!”

She selected one, and kneeling beside him, took his hand in hers. As she bent her pretty head above it, a slow flush mounted from Ballard Hilliard’s throat to his brow. A soft light burned in his superb eyes such as no woman had been able to call there before. A smile trembled upon the corner of his finely cut mouth, and for the first time in his life he realized that love of a woman was master of love of art ; that there was something besides a canvas and brushes in the world; that the human heart was the perfected work of God, and that his had been played upon by the great Guiding Hand.

He forgot all else than that. He cared to remem¬ ber nothing. He knew that he loved the girl who was there so closely beside him, with his hand clasped in hers almost tenderly, and —

He did not complete the thought, for she had lifted her head, and was about to rise.

"There!” she exclaimed. “I don’t think you will have any more trouble with that. You are ruining your hands.”

He watched her rise as one watches a sunbeam go. He looked at her hungrily, yearningly, for a moment; then he too arose, with a sigh smothered in his heart, and rapidly walked the floor with bent head, evidently thinking deeply, unhappily.

The mental conflict had whitened his lips and drawn his brows, but Carroll did not see. Something in his 'manner had made her nervous, though she could scarcely have told what, and she had turned to his 'desk, upon which were scattered numerous etchings and photographs in artistic negligence. She was turn¬ ing them over carelessly, almost without seeing them, when he approached and stood beside her for some seconds in silence. He was not looking at her, but down at the tiny brown hands that were fluttering in and out among the pictures; and his thoughts were away as well.

He was thinking of the woman who held his prom¬ ise of marriage — thinking of how little she knew the Sneaning of love compared with this grand passion

IS that he felt for this flower-girl with her artist’s soul. He was wondering if honor was the rivet in a loveless bond, or if honor did not compel him to break it. 'And then Carroll glanced up with a smile, and he met her eye.

The work was done.

f

He forgot that other woman to whom his pledge belonged. His passion had crept from his heart to his head and entangled his brain. He leaned forward and slipped his arm about the girl, drawing her to his breast. *

“Carroll,” he whispered, “are you too much an angel to know the meaning of love ?” ,

His arm held her ; his hand pressed her cheek down upon his bosom. She did not reply, but lay there trembling, with downcast eyes and flushed face, mak¬ ing no endeavor to release herself. v

“Sweetheart,” he whispered again, “look at mel Have I frightened you? Forgive me-! The strength of my love is so great that I can control it no longer 1 Have you not seen how it was with me? Could you not read all the struggle in my heart? Ah, Carroll, speak to me !”

She lifted her eyes, a smile of heavenly happiness in their depths.

“What is there to say?” she asked.

“That you love me!”

“Would you know it better then than now? Can you not feel it?”

Hilliard smiled — a little, staggering sort of effort.

“I want to hear you say it,” he answered, tenderly. “I want to know it from your lips. My darling — Garling, if 3'ou knew how my love has mastered me ! It is the one thought of my heart — the strongest emotion of my soul! Carroll, answer me!”

She lifted herself in his arms just a trifle, and smiled up at him with almost delirious ecstacy.

“You want my lips to speak the words that my heart has said to you a thousand times?” she ques¬ tioned, happily. “I love you! Is it enough?”

“Yes, if love means to you what it does to me. I have never loved before, and I have loved much longer than you. Oh, dearest heart! there is such sweetness, such joy in holding you in my arms and knowing that your life is mine !”

“And it is — all yours!”

He bent his head and kissed her — a long, passion¬ ate embrace that contained nothing of impurity, noth¬ ing that could tarnish her perfect chastity.

L He was striving to control his emotion as much as possible, lest he alarm her; but it required a tre¬ mendous effort. His entire self seemed submerged in the overwhelming desire to have her for his own. Great passions come to great natures suddenly, and his left no room for any other thought.

For some time there was silence between them, when each seemed listening to the beat of the other’s heart; then, with his lips upon her own, Hilliard whis¬ pered :

“When will you be my wife, my own?”

“Not yet,” she answered. “You must wait. Not long, you know ; but until my mother is better.”

“It must be soon. There are so many things that 1 have to tell you; but just at first I want to feet the

A LITTLE PRINCESS 1Z

sweetness of you life without thinking of the past. You trust me, do you not, Carroll ?”

“Absolutely I”

“And yet there are some things in my life which you must know — some things which you must hear from me alone. If I could only make my life a clean page like yours, for your sake, my love, I should be so glad — so glad !”

“I am satisfied with you as you are. If you were different in one thing my love would of necessity be less. Oh, how can you, so great, so grand, care for an insignificant creature such as I?”

“There is no woman under God’s sun to compare with you. Your beauty never has and never will be reproduced. Your purity is as great as that of an angel. Your soul is that of an artist. Does mortality go beyond that? Dearest love, if I were but worthy of you my happiness would be too complete ! ”

“Hush! I am half afraid of my own joy. There has been so little of sunshine in my life that it seems to me that the cloud must come while I am basking in the delicious warmth. I have felt that you cared, yet I dared not frame the thought.”

“You are the one and only love of my life, my own; yet there are things that you must know.”

“No. I am more than satisfied with that. Let the rest go. What is your past to me? It is the future that is mine and God’s.”

He kissed her once again with reverent devotion.

“And God deal with me according to my fidelity to you!” he said, slowly, the flush of ideal passion upon his cheek.

Chapter III

Three months lay in the dead past, for Happiness and beauty and love must die, even as misery and hatred are included in dissolution. The months lay, dead, yet unburied, still held under the caress of mem¬ ory. <••!

How happy those two were, Carroll and Ballard Hilliard! Life was like che sun in the middle-da); sky to them. They saw nothing but each other, heard nothing but each other, wanted nothing but each other. They spoke to each other in sighs, in glances and caresses. They adored each other, con¬ tent in silence.

The portrait progressed slowly. To Hilliard, Carroll seemed to grow more beautiful with each hour, and where at first he had been satisfied with his work he now found flaw's — defects that no care or pains could erase.

“You are too beautiful for any but a god to paint, my little princess!” he said to her often. “I must give it up. If you were dead, and I saw you only by the light of memory, I could do it then, and the world would call me famous, but never while you are before me. I see too clearly then how short I fall of the per¬ fection of the original, and the failure disheartens me. I must be satisfied with the possession of the fairest flower of the universe, even if I can not make it live for future ages.”

But still the sittings continued. Each day lie scarcely seemed to live until he heard her well-known tap upon the door; then heaven opened.

"When are these partings to end, my little prin¬ cess?” he said to her one day as she was leaving him. ".When are you to become my wife before all the world ?”

"Scon, Ballard,” she answered, with that upward glance that expressed her love so well. "Not quite yet. I am foolish, but the thought of change hurts me. Wait until my mother is better. Then, dear heart— Shall we be so happy — after!”

‘ "Does it make you happy to go from me? It will be an eternal union !”

She looked at him without replying. There was a long caress, so deep, so tender, so true. What is there left in life to one who has tasted so much of

bliss ?

She went out into the early gloaming of that still September day, her heart light under its flutterings of love. There was a song in her soul — a song of g\ atitude to God for the richness of his blessing. She noticed nothing of the busy, bustling world about her. She paid no heed to where she was going, but walked more by instinct — from habit — than from any sight that directed her. Her thoughts were filled with him whom she had left behind. When she came to their poor home she paused and sighed.

Was not there something in contrast? Would life be the same to her when she had left that wretched place forever? At least there was happiness with Ballard Hilliard, wherever she might be. Comforted by that thought, she mounted the long, steep flight of stairs and very softly opened the door.

Instead of the pale face of her mother that had always greeted her, she was met bv a lady charmingly though simply attired, her pure, noble, high¬ bred face wearing an anxious look. She had removed her hat and gloves the jewels upon her hands looking strangely out of place in that poorly furnished room.

“You, Miss Kingman — and at this hour!” exclaimed Carroll, her face growing pale under an intangible fear. “Has anything happened?”

Before replying, Geraldine Kingman took the beau- ' tiful face between her hands and kissed it. I

“I hope nothing serious, Mignonne,” she answered, gently. “I called to-day to see your mother, know¬ ing that she had not been well of late, and I found her more ill than I thought. I persuaded her to go to bed and summoned a doctor.”

“And now?” gasped Carroll.

“She has not been well, you know. The doctor says — ”

“What?”

“Don’t be frightened, Mignonne. It is so difficult to tell in these early stages, and he may be mistaken after all.”

“But he said — ”

“ Something about — small-pox.”

“My God!”

The girl staggered back; but the tender arms of the woman of society supported her, leading her to a chair near by.

“You need your strength, dear child; and she needs you, too. She has called for you so often — so often during the last two hours.”

Carroll colored painfully as she remembered where she had been, forgetful of all save her own selfish

LITTLE PRINCESS 31

joy, her own boundless love. Then the thought of Miss Kingman's danger came to her.

"Great heavens l” she cried, starting up in wild horror; "you should not be here. Oh! why have you remained? Why did you not go when he told

I you the hideousness of it all? Have you forgotten? Don’t you remember the frightful — ”

She seemed unable to continue, and Miss Kingman smiled.

"I am not afraid, dearest,” she said, soothingly, "If one’s friends think of self in moments like this, where would the charity of the world be? The terrible epidemic is raging, Carroll; you will not, therefore, find many that will stand by you now. Every one is afraid. You must not let any one suspect in the house. We are doing everything possible to prevent the disease getting through the house in the event of its proving what we fear. You understand? I have persuaded the doctor that it will not be necessary to send her away until — until we know beyond a doubt.” "Away! Where?”

"There are places, you know — <”

"You mean the pest-house?”

; Miss Kingman did not reply, i "Great — ”

! "Hush!” she whispered. "Did I not tell you that I had persuaded the doctor not to send her?”

J "Not until he knows !”

"But he will never know until she is well, or — - Carroll, you are very beautiful, child. Would you — ” But the girl seemed to divine what her friend, or more than friend, would say, and with a gesture of horror she put out her hand.

“Don’t say it!” she cried. “Don’t think me so vik! Have I been neglectful of her? Forgive me — forgive me! I love her — oh, how I love her! It will kill me if — ” j

“But it won’t come to that!” interrupted Miss Kingman. “ We won’t allow it to come to that. 1 am going to remain, you know-all the time, you uaderstand. We will nurse her, you and I, night and day. We will save her; and after that her health will be better than ever, for it clears the system, this disease, and after it one is always so well.”

As she listened to the kind voice trying to cheer; her, Carroll’s courage gave way, and leaning her head upon her friend’s shoulder, she burst into bitter tears.

“You are the best friend a woman ever had,” she said to Geraldine, when her tears had ceased to flow. “One would know how to give up life— more than that — love, for you. Some time I shall find a way to repay you.”

Then she went to her mother.

The next morning she got a boy to take a note to ■Ballard Hilliard. It was brief.

“Love, — Do not expect me until you hear again. My mother is ill — dying, perhaps. I dare not tell even you what is wrong. Do not come. I do not ask, but command it. Trust me. With my heart, “ Y our own Carroll. ”

And then these two — the society queen and the flower-girl — went on with their work, nursing that frail form back to life again. And, ah, what weary work it w'as S As they knelt beside the bed one night.

watching the poor face, Carroll took the noble one of her friend between her hands.

“Think”- — she exclaimed, with dull anguish — “think of your face being like that! Think of the hideous mark each one of those awful pustules will leave. Have you no thought of self? Are you an angel?”

Miss Kingman smiled.

“Only a woman,” she answered, gently . “Is not that enough? Must a woman be always a vain cow¬ ard? Dearest little one, I told you once that if you ever needed a friend you should call upon me. You see, I found it out for myself, and the friend is here.”