The dull rumble of a rapidly approaching carriage diverted his
attention to the street below him. Right opposite his humble
studio it stopped, before a great silent house whose blinds had
been closely drawn ever since Jacques had rented the little attic
room. He had often wondered who owned the grim, stately
mansion, and many a weird, fantastic tale had been wrought. by
his fancies with regard to it. Now here was the owner returning
after a long sojourn in a distant land, and he again turned his
gaze to the carriage. First there came forth a pile of luggage
boxes and parcels—then a parasol, then two ladies. But Jacques
saw only one, heard only one sweet voice. He was enchanted.
Never in all his life had he seen such beauty as this. There was
something'angelic, divine, in the face of the woman, and Jacques
held his breath with awe while the two ladies passed up the
neglected walk and entered the spacious, gloomy, deserted house.
Then, of a sudden, all the poverty and loneliness of his life
rushed back upon his mind, and, overcome, he bowed his head
upon the narrow sill and wept —wept wildly, pitifully, like a child
for its dead mother, while the stars began to people the heavens
and the moon rose majestically over the tall spires of the cathe
dral. At length, his soul having exhausted its grief, his sobbing
ceased, but there was a heaviness in his heart which he could not
cast out. Then, as he sat there, a sudden inspiration struck him
like a flash of light from a propitious star. He would write once
more, and this should be his masterpiece. She of the angelic
face should be his heroine, and with such a character, success
would be certain.
All aflame with his new resolve, he turned to his little desk
and lighted a candle. Then he drew forth a plain pad and began
to write. Tate that night the taper burned low and died with a
sputter, but he drew forth another and lighted it, laughing softly
at his extravagance, and then resumed his work. Nor did he
pause until the gray light of morning had begun to tinge
the sky. But the middle of the forenoon found him again at
work with the same feverish haste as before. He wrote furiously,
as though he was afraid he might forget it ere he could put it
upon paper. Thus the long day passed. At eventide he paused
to eat a meagre supper, and afterward to take a quick glance at
the house across the way. How changed it was. Above and
below the shades were all drawn back, and borne gently up to
him on the night air came the music of a low, sweet, soft voice in
The Free Lance ,
[JUNB,