Miss Grief and Other Stories by Constance Fenimore Woolson Page A

used to like to paint me all sorts of ways. Wait, I’ll show yer.” Going up therough stairs that led into the attic, the woman came back after a moment with a number of sheets of drawing-paper which she hung up along the walls with pins for our inspection. They were all portraits of the same face, with brick-red cheeks, enormous black eyes, and a profusion of shining black hair hanging down over plump white shoulders; the costumes were various, but the faces were the same. I gazed in silence, seeing no likeness to anything earthly. Erminia took out her glasses and scanned the pictures slowly.
    â€œYourself, madam, I perceive,” she said, much to my surprise.
    â€œYes, ’m, that’s me,” replied our hostess, complacently. “I never was like those yellow-haired girls over to the Community. Sol allers said my face was real rental.”
    â€œRental?” I repeated, inquiringly.
    â€œOriental, of course,” said Ermine. “Mr.—Mr. Solomon is quite right. May I ask the names of these characters, madam?”
    â€œQueen of Sheby, Judy, Ruth, Esthy, Po-co-hon-tus, Goddessaliberty, Sunset, and eight Octobers, them with the grapes. Sunset’s the one with the red paint behind it like clouds.”
    â€œTruly a remarkable collection,” said Ermine. “Does Mr. Solomon devote much time to his art?”
    â€œNo, not now. He couldn’t make a cent out of it, so he’s took to digging coal. He painted all them when we was first married, and he went a journey all the way to Cincinnati to sell ’em. First he was going to buy me a silk dress and some ear-rings, and, after that, a farm. But pretty soon home he come on a canal-boat, without a shilling, and a bringing all the pictures back with him! Well, then he tried most everything, but he never could keep to any one trade, for he’d just as lief quitwork in the middle of the forenoon and go to painting; no boss’ll stand that, you know. We kep’ a going down, and I had to sell the few things my father give me when he found I was married whether or no,—my chany, my feather-beds, and my nice clothes, piece by piece. I held on to the big looking-glass for four years, but at last it had to go, and then I just gave up and put on a linsey-woolsey gown. When a girl’s spirit’s once broke, she don’t care for nothing, you know; so, when the Community offered to take Sol back as coal-digger, I just said, ‘Go,’ and we come.” Here she tried to smear the tears away with her bony hands, and gave a low groan.
    â€œGroaning probably relieves you,” observed Ermine.
    â€œYes, ’m. It’s kinder company like, when I’m all alone. But you see it’s hard on the prettiest girl in Sandy to have to live in this lone lorn place. Why, ladies, you mightn’t believe it, but I had open-work stockings, and feathers in my winter bunnets before I was married!” And the tears broke forth afresh.
    â€œAccept my handkerchief,” said Ermine; “it will serve your purpose better than fingers.”
    The woman took the dainty cambric and surveyed it curiously, held at arm’s length. “Reg’lar thistle-down, now, ain’t it?” she said; “and smells like a locust-tree blossom.”
    â€œMr. Solomon, then, belonged to the Community?” I asked, trying to gather up the threads of the story.
    â€œNo, he didn’t either; he’s no Dutchman, I reckon, he’s a Lake County man, born near Painesville, he is.”
    â€œI thought you spoke as though he had been in the Community.”
    â€œSo he had; he didn’t belong, but he worked for ’em since he was a boy, did middling well, in spite of the painting, untilone day, when he come over to Sandy on a load of wood and seen me standing at the door. That was the end of him,” continued the woman, with an air of girlish pride; “he couldn’t work no more for