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 THE BEST OF

SENIOr
PORTRAIT
Photography
techniques and images for
digital photographers
Second Edition

bill hurter
Amherst Media, Inc. Buffalo, NY
A Note from the Author
As I began to research this book, I became acquainted with many wonderful photographers who concen-
trate primarily on senior portraiture. They are a specialized group and, like the people they photograph,
they tend to be animated and full of life. They are also (thankfully!) willing to share the many secrets of fine
senior photography. I wish to thank the many fine teen and senior photographers—and new friends—who
have participated in this book. Without their help, it would not have been possible.

Copyright © 2012 by Bill Hurter.

All rights reserved.

Front cover photograph by: Frank Frost.

Back cover photograph by: Mark Bryant.

Published by:
Amherst Media, Inc.
P.O. Box 586
Buffalo, N.Y. 14226
Fax: 716-874-4508
www.AmherstMedia.com

Publisher: Craig Alesse

Senior Editor/Production Manager: Michelle Perkins
Assistant Editor: Barbara A. Lynch-Johnt
Editorial Assistance from: Carey A. Miller, Sally Jarzab, John S. Loder
Business Manager: Adam Richards
Marketing, Sales, and Promotion Manager: Kate Neaverth
Warehouse and Fulfillment Manager: Roger Singo

ISBN-13: 978-1-60895-479-7
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011942800
Printed in The United States of America.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electron-
ic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise, without prior written consent from the publisher.

Notice of Disclaimer: The information contained in this book is based on the author’s experience and opin-
ions. The author and publisher will not be held liable for the use or misuse of the information in this book.

Check out Amherst Media’s blogs at: http://portrait-photographer.blogspot.com/

http://weddingphotographer-amherstmedia.blogspot.com/
 Table of Contents

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 2. Posing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 30
Beyond Yearbook Photos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 The Head and Shoulders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Essential Skills . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Start with the Shoulders . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Make It Fun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Turn the Face . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
Respect Their Ideas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Tilt the Head . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
Show What’s Unique About Them . . . . . . 8 Facial Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Understand Their World . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Face Positions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Provide Variety . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 The Eyes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36
Make Them Feel Good . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 The Mouth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
Don’t Ignore the Internet . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 The Hands and Fingers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40
Teamwork at TriCoast Photography . . . . . . . 10 Three-Quarter- and Full-Length Poses . . . . . 42
Why Good Photographers Turn to Seniors . . 12 Technical Considerations Related to Posing . 44
Camera Height . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
1. The Changing Working Distance and Focal Length . . . . . 44
Face of Senior Giving Directions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46
Portraiture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Tim Kelly Gives Assistance as Needed . . . . . . 46
Yearbook Photography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Subject Comfort . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Contract Photographers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Guidelines, Not Rules . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
Dress Code . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
Composition and Print Size . . . . . . . . . . . 16 Photograph by Sam Sciarrino.
Deadlines . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
Split Sessions and
Yearbook-Only Session . . . . . . . . . . . . 16
When Contracts Work . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
Today’s Senior Studios . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Craig Kienast’s Portraits Rock . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
McClanahans’ Boutique Studio . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Robert Lino’s Quinceañera Portraits . . . . . . . 22
Kersti Malvre on Location . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23
John Poppleton’s Black-Light
and Fantasy Portraits . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
Beth Forester’s Digital Tattoos . . . . . . . . . . . 27

table of contents 3
3. Communication Fashion Lighting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75
Is Key . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Feathering the Lights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Pre-Session Consultation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Reflectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77
Clothing Selection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 Brian King Likes Soft Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
Guys . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54
Girls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 5. Outdoor Lighting . . . . . 81
Color and Style . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Window Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Shoes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Exposure and Fill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
Accessories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Time of Day . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Jeff Smith Offers Reassurance . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Diffusing Window Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82
Hair and Makeup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 58 Shade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Eyeglasses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Modifying the Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
Tony Hewitt Says Less Is More . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Reflectors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84
No Parent at the Session? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Gobos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85
Two Tips from David Humphrey . . . . . . . . . 61 Scrims . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Emphasize Individuality . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 62 Flash as the Fill Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Different Sessions for Different Clients . . . . . 62 Flash Output . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Give and Receive Feedback . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63 TTL Flash-Fill Exposure . . . . . . . . . . . . . 88
Breaking Down Defenses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Manual Flash-Fill Exposure . . . . . . . . . . . 88
David Humphrey Prioritizes the Kids . . . . . . 65 Flash as the Main Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
Ben Shirk Appeals to Athletes . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 Leslie McIntosh Uses Flash at Twilight . . . . . 91
Jeff Smith Works at Midday . . . . . . . . . . . . . 92
4. Studio Lighting . . . . . . . . . 69 Using Long Lenses
The Illusion of Depth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 to Cut Image Contrast . . . . . . . . . . . . 93
On-Location with Christian LaLonde . . . . . . 69 Don’t Pigeonhole Fuzzy Duenkel . . . . . . . . . 94
Main and Fill Lights . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70 Larry Peters Hits the Pool . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96
Hair and Background Lights . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Brianna Graham Seeks Organic Harmony . . . 98
Broad and Short Lighting . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Diffusing the Light . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 6. Marketing
Lighting Ratios . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Techniques . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
Budget . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Photograph by TriCoast Photography. Consistent Branding . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 102
Direct Mail . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Design . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 103
Frequency . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
List Brokers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
On-Line Marketing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
Your Web Site . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 104
 E-mail Blasts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Social Networking Sites . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Online Videos . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
Blogging . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Beth Forester’s Senior Slideshow Podcast . . 107
Yearbook Advertising . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Market in Threes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Dollar-a-Day Sessions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Frank Frost Hits the Silver Screen . . . . . . . . 108
Student Representatives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108
Scott and Adina Hayne Create a
“Senior Experience” . . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Cherie and Frank Frost Discover
Albuquerque’s “Selfless Seniors” . . . . 110
Dan Rowe on “The Game” . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112
Melanie Anderson Knows Her Stuff . . . . . . 114
Travis Gadsby: Customer Service Is King . . 115
Senior Portraits in Emerging Markets . . . . . 119
Tero Sade . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 Photograph by Fuzzy Duenkel.
John Ratchford . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
8. Senior Portraiture
7. Products in Practice . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 133
and Proofing . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Hernan Rodriguez Stays Flexible . . . . . . . . 133
Previews Make a Difference . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Bambi Cantrell: A Fine-Art Approach . . . . . 136
Pricing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Jeff Smith Offers Plenty of Options . . . . . . . 138
Session Fees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 125 Sam Sciarrino: Size Really Does Matter . . . . 140
À la Carte vs. Package Pricing . . . . . . . . . 126 Ralph Romaguera:
Premium Offers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 126 The Savvy Senior Market . . . . . . . . . . 142
Deposits and Pre-Payment . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Deborah Lynn Ferro: The Artist’s Touch . . 144
Proofing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 Tim Schooler: How a Veteran Does It . . . . . 146
Beth Forester Opts for Paper Proofs . . . . . . 128 Mark Bryant’s Fantastic StreetScapes . . . . . . 148
Senior Products . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129
“Exchange” Prints . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
Graduation Announcements . . . . . . . . . . 129
Paul Ernest’s Edibooks . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 156
Craig Kienast’s Speculative
Fine-Art Prints . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
Copyright and Usage . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 132

table of contents 5
introduction

S enior-age kids are at (or near) the pinnacle

of their physical attractiveness. At the same
time, seniors are at an age of transition. They of-
ten have boyfriends or girlfriends, they are consid-
ering colleges or careers, and they’re often think-
ing about leaving home—all of which can make
for a very confusing time of life. A portrait made
at this stage of their lives is a valuable heirloom
because they will never look or act quite like this
again.
Today’s teens often like to be photographed in an
urban atmosphere. This portrait by Nick Adams was
The art of senior portraiture has evolved to new stan-
taken in an alley, but it still exhibits the hallmarks of
dards of excellence. Tim Kelly created this elegant,
good posing.
contemporary look by combining formal and casual
elements.
Beyond Yearbook Photos
Reaching far beyond traditional yearbook shots,
today’s senior studios offer high-end, hip, upscale
senior sittings that allow kids to be photographed
with their favorite things and in their favorite lo-
cations. For instance, the senior’s car, usually a
treasured possession, is a prime prop for these
sessions. Often senior sessions will also involve
the subject’s friends and favorite haunts. Senior
girls often choose to be photographed in a high-
fashion style—sometimes wearing something
pretty provocative. This is all part of the process
of expressing their individuality and becoming an
adult. Instead of resisting it, smart photographers
now cater to it. (Of course, yearbook shoots are
still a component of senior portraiture; see chap-
ter 1 for how these are being handled in today’s
market.)
Essential Skills Respect Their Ideas. Accept that you may
For those photographers who want to build their have to be less in control in a senior setting than
businesses around senior photography, there are with other children. Teens want to feel that they
a number of essential skills to master. These skills have control, particularly over their own image.
will be covered in detail through this book, but
let’s consider just a few factors here.
Make It Fun. Teens will respond most favor-
ably if the session is fun—but not in some phony
way that feels contrived. Be yourself, but be excit-
ed and get them engaged. Ask them about their
lives, their hobbies, their likes and dislikes. Try to
get them to open up, but be prepared for teens
who are introspective and moody. It can take all
of your social skills and patience to bring these
kids out of their shells.

below—Great senior portraiture, especially of girls,

often has an aspect of glamour. Larry Peters used a
carefully feathered main light to produce this beauti-
ful portrait. right—Your enthusiasm will be reflect-
ed in the way your senior is animated in front of the
camera. Melanie Anderson captured the sheer fun of
the photo session in this beautiful high-key portrait.

introduction 7
left—Teens love to be photographed with their favorite things. Nick Adams photographed this girl with her
little pet bird. From the red bird to the orange door to the bright blue jacket, this image is ablaze with color.
right—Tim Kelly carefully chooses props that are simple and not distracting. The result is that the prop is
almost invisible, forcing the eye to engulf the subject.

You should suggest possibilities and, above all, Understand Their World. Teens want to be
provide reassurance and reinforcement that they accepted by their peers. While they may be non-
look great. This age group knows what they want, conformists in the adult world, they are part of
and it’s up to you to provide it. what’s happening in their own world. As an expert
Show What’s Unique About Them. As with at photographing this age group, you need to be
any good portrait sitting, the aim is to show the aware of the latest trends in clothing, hairstyles,
different sides of the subject’s personality. You’ll music, movies, and television. It helps if you have
need strategies for showing their fun side as well kids in this age group (at least you’ll know some
as their serious side. In many cases, this will re- of their favorite bands), but if you don’t, it would
quire you to work with teens in different styles of be beneficial to develop a working knowledge of
clothing (including everything from prom gowns, (and genuine interest in) popular teenage culture.
to tee-shirts, to sports uniforms), at locations that Larry Peters, a very successful senior photogra-
reflect the senior’s personality, and with meaning- pher, says the kids that come into his studios are
ful props (from footballs, to musical instruments, always blown away by the selection of CDs he has
to cars). on hand—including rap and hip-hop. Then he

8 the best of senior portrait photography

puts on one of “their” CDs and the kids relax and
start enjoying the experience, which is more than
half the battle.
Provide Variety. When a senior looks through
their proofs, they expect to see a variety of poses
and looks. Smart professionals offer a selection
of in-studio images and outdoor portraits—and
often a few shots with the teen’s session compan-
ions. If the senior took the trouble to bring along
some of his or her “favorite things,” be sure to
include images that feature them.
Make Them Feel Good. Part of your job is to
make your subjects feel good about themselves.

right—Uniqueness is something teens value in their

images. This portrait by Drake Busath resembles an
Italian painting. Notice the beautiful posing of the
hands and the hint of how beautiful the girl must be.
below—Mark Bryant is an expert at defining the
student athlete’s personality in an authentic way. He
uses HDR backgrounds, posing and lighting the se-
nior as if he or she were actually on the playing field.

introduction 9
 Teamwork at
pro spotlight

TriCoast Photography
Excerpted from an article by Alice B. Miller.
TriCoast Photography is a popular wedding and
portrait studio in Lake Jackson, TX. At the heart
of their success is the team spirit owners Mike Ful-
ton and Cody Clinton foster. “Photography is a
team effort no matter what your location, size, or
specialty,” says Fulton. “Behind the camera, an-
swering phones, or processing the images, with-
out each and everyone involved, TriCoast would
not be where we are today.”
The studio’s senior photographers (Fulton and
Clinton, along with Jordan Chan, Suzy Roberts,

TriCoast Photography makes every senior portrait

interesting, fun, and exciting. Here the image was
treated to a variety of effects for a unique attitude.

One of the best ways to reach the senior audience is

through a web site—such as the award-winning site
created by Ralph Romaguera Photography. The web
site gives seniors all the info they’ll need and shows
great examples of Ralph’s senior images.

However, reassurance and flattery should be

doled out in realistic doses. Expressing a genuine
interest in them as people can go a long way, as
can some honest compliments.
Don’t Ignore the Internet. High school se-
niors are Internet savvy. This is very clear to Ralph
Romaguera, who owns a prestigious senior-por-
trait studio in the New Orleans area. His award-
winning web site provides a wide range of infor-
mation and a gallery of photographs that not only
spotlight the quality of the studio’s services but
also encourage potential clients to get fully in-
volved in all phases of planning their session.

10 the best of senior portrait photography

top left—This senior was captured outdoors in open
shade with wireless flash. Photograph by TriCoast Pho-
tography. top right—This is a classic senior beauty
portrait. Photograph by TriCoast Photography. right—
This portrait was captured with a blend of shade and
video lighting. Photograph by TriCoast Photography.

below—A glamour shot in a graveyard is not something

you see in every senior portfolio, but it’s an image the
student requested, and TriCoast Photography’s team
pulled it off perfectly.

introduction 11
 Why Good Photographers
Turn to Seniors
In researching this book, both the first and sec-
ond editions, I spoke to quite a few accomplished
senior photographers who have migrated to this
field from other successful ventures. Some are
award-winning wedding photographers who
wanted a change—or a means of making their
studios profitable year-round. Some are success-
ful portrait and children’s photographers who
simply like working with teens. But almost all of
them agree that the senior age group represents
the fastest-growing segment of the photographic
market—and it attracts primarily upscale, high-
dollar clients. That means you can see not only
increased profits but also increased prestige with-
in the community. It’s cool to be an in-demand
senior photographer. Accordingly, the status of
the senior portrait photographer has risen from
the surly guy who does yearbook photos to a
full-service studio with a large staff of employees
(including makeup artists and skilled retouchers)
and hundreds of customer options.

This monochrome image has a very dramatic look—

almost as if it were a scene from a mystery movie.
The effect is quite well done and another welcome
change for today’s senior client. Photograph by Tri-
Coast Photography.

and Cindy Williams) share the workload and help

sell each other’s artwork. “As artists, we are very
close to portraits we capture, so having someone
else sell our work greatly increases our sales,” says
Fulton.
Another business strategy is sharing. Says Ful- facing page—Many successful wedding photogra-
ton, “No secrets—share everything with everyone phers do senior photography to keep their studios
profitable twelve months of the year. This photo-
and help everyone you can along the way. The
graph by Nick Adams was made with a Nikon D2X
success of those you have helped is one of the and 17–55mm f/2.8 lens at 28mm. The exposure
greatest achievements you can experience.” was 1/20 second at f/5.6.

12 the best of senior portrait photography

introduction 13
1. The Changing Face of
Senior Portraiture

W hen most of us think of senior photogra-

phy, we recall the ill-tempered photogra-
pher who came to our high school to photograph
Yearbook Photography
Contract Photographers. The person who did
the session described above is a contract pho-
us—often with our eyes closed­—for the yearbook. tographer, someone who is hired to photograph
He took two poses (head turned left and head each and every senior for the yearbook. Contract
turned right) and you (okay, I ) blinked for both portraiture is generally the worst of all worlds in
of them. My senior portrait was hardly memora- portrait photography. There is mildly adequate
ble . . . although I did make the yearbook, and the lighting (but it’s the same for each person), stan-
jokes that were scribbled on my page helped make dard poses and expressions, and images that are
up for the “fabulous” portrait session. all alike—like a passport photo. In short, nobody
takes a really good yearbook photo.
This charming portrait by Melanie Anderson couldn’t So why do schools employ contract photogra-
be farther from the yearbook photo of past years. phers? They do it because photographers essen-
The pose and expression are very attractive and the
tially pay for the contracts, most often by doing
image has been treated with a transparent layer of
baby’s breath—a unique touch. activity photos at no charge or by giving free sup-
plies and the use of cameras to the school pho-
tography class. Contract photographers simplify
(for the school) getting photos of sports teams,
dances, band groups, graduation, etc. The studios
then make their money on reprints.
In the past, contract photographers locked up
the area high schools. Portraits by non-contract
studios were not accepted for the yearbook, and
students were literally forced to buy from the of-
ficially sanctioned studio. Today that practice has
largely disappeared, and most of the large contract
studios have lost their stranglehold on the senior
business. High schools can suggest the contract
photographer—and even threaten that the stu-
dent’s portrait will not appear in the yearbook if
their portrait is taken by an independent photog-
rapher—but it is ultimately the parent’s choice.
left—Today’s senior portraits rely on expert hair and makeup treatments, such as those seen in this senior
portrait by Bambi Cantrell. Notice how the lighting also brings out her smooth skin and the texture of her
thick hair. right—Seniors have come to expect a fashion flair in their images. This image by Sal Cincotta
takes advantage of the 70–200mm f/2.8L Canon lens’s shallow depth of field when used wide open.

As a result, smaller studios, with better service Dress Code. The basic requirements for year-
and higher photographic quality, have moved in book portraits are all very similar and generally
to fill the void. Many studios will also take care based on the school’s dress code. Most schools
of all of the yearbook details for students, getting also have a code that applies to hair, facial hair,
the yearbook photos to the right person (the year- jewelry, piercings, and other aspects of personal
book coordinator) by the right date and confirm- appearance.
ing that the staff received the photo so that the Also prohibited are logos that are offensive,
student is pictured in the yearbook. A good senior related to gang affiliations, or promoting alco-
studio will know the yearbook submission dates hol, drugs, tobacco, or other illegal (for minors)
for every high school in their area. (Note: There substances. Girls’ tops cannot be revealing, see-
are some high schools that still rigidly insist that through, or low cut. No hats are allowed in most
the yearbook portraits be done by the contract yearbooks—neither the cap worn for graduation,
photographer. If there is such a school in your nor fashionable, cowboy, or baseball hats. These
area, your web site or literature should explain rules are set forth by the school to represent the
that, informing potential clients of which high look and taste they feel appropriately represents
schools are open and which ones aren’t.) their students and parents.

the changing face of senior portraiture 15

This beautiful image by Michele Celentano was shot on a Canon EOS 5D with an 85mm f/1.2 lens, using the
natural light at her home studio. Beautiful hair and makeup are the hallmarks of girls’ senior portraits.

Composition and Print Size. There are addi- Missed deadlines are often blamed on igno-
tional specifications that must be adhered to. For rance, so the smart studio will be in touch with
example, the “head size” must be the same for students well in advance of the upcoming year-
each portrait and prints submitted must adhere book dates—usually midway through the stu-
to this policy. This is so that the students’ images dent’s junior year. Most studios mail reminders
look uniform throughout the senior section. If a several times to prevent anyone from missing their
print is supplied (rather than a digital file), it must deadline. Schools may even be persuaded to hand
be of a certain size so that the yearbook publisher out reminder slips to students when the yearbook
does not have to scan prints of different sizes. photo deadline is approaching.
Yearbooks are manufactured in a production-line Split Sessions and Yearbook-Only Sessions.
system, so you must adhere to all the specs. Because the yearbook portraits must be taken so
Deadlines. Missing the yearbook deadlines can far in advance of graduation, some seniors choose
cost the school hundreds of dollars per day. High to take just their yearbook portraits over the sum-
schools, characteristically, must have the color mer, then finish their sessions later in their senior
sections of the yearbook (in which the senior pic- year. Most senior studios offer this option at no
tures are found) completed and ready to send to additional cost.
the yearbook company shortly after the beginning Many studios also offer yearbook-only sessions
of the school year. This usually means that senior in which they will take about eight images that
portraits should be taken the summer before the meet school yearbook requirements. Such pack-
start of the student’s senior year. ages are generally inexpensive but include a few

16 the best of senior portrait photography

Other documents randomly have
different content
 CHAPTER XVIII.
Mr. Austin Ambrose was spending an extremely unpleasant evening.
It sounds as if it would be a very nice thing to play with one's fellow
creatures as if they were puppets—to pull the wires which govern
their actions, and to make them dance to one's piping; but the wire-
puller has sometimes a very uncomfortable time of it.
Mr. Austin Ambrose had up to the present found his puppets quite
docile and obedient to the pulling of the wires. He had got Lord Blair
and Margaret secretly married, he had hidden them away at
Appleford; his puppet Lottie had played her part really quite
admirably, and Margaret was fully convinced that she had been
betrayed and ruined by the man she loved.
So far, so well; but still Mr. Austin Ambrose was uncomfortable. He
had left Margaret to herself, knowing that if so left she would be
more likely to carry out his desire and fly, than if he remained with
her.
But he did not mean to lose sight of her; it was his intention to
travel by the same train if possible, and to track her, unseen himself,
to her place of refuge.
So he went and placed himself on the road leading to the station,
and lighting a cigarette, waited as patiently as he could.
Hour passed after hour, and still she did not come. Then the clouds
rose, and the sky grew murky, and presently the storm broke.
"Confound women!" he muttered, vainly trying to light the last of his
cigarettes; "you can never count upon them. I would have sworn
that she would have made for the station; and yet she hasn't. She's
waiting to see Blair, after all. Well, I'll go and see. There'll be a scene
presently, if she remains, and I hate a scene!"
With his coat-collar turned up he climbed to the cottage and
knocked.
There was no answer; and after waiting and knocking again, he
opened the door.
To his amazement, the cottage seemed deserted. He was calling
Mrs. Day impatiently, when a woman came running with her apron
over her head from the neighboring cottage.
"Mrs. Day's out, sir. She's gone down to the beach," she said in
answer to his inquiries, "and I've got the children with me. It's lonely
for 'em here, and such a storm raging."
"But—but Mrs. Stanley?" he said quickly; "she's in, is she not?"
The woman stared at him.
"Mrs. Stanley, sir—the lady, sir? Oh, no; she went out hours ago."
"Nonsense!" he said roughly. "I beg your pardon; I mean that it is
impossible that she should be out in this storm."
"Yes, but she is, sir. I saw her go down the path in the afternoon
with her mackintosh on her arm. I think she went to meet her good
gentleman."
Austin Ambrose started, and his face flushed.
If she had, and they had met before—well, before something that he
hoped had happened—all his plans, all his deeply and skillfully laid
plots would be smashed and pulverized.
He turned his back to the woman, that she might not see his face.
"I—I think she must be in the house still," he said, with a sudden
hope; "she may have come back, you know."
"She may, but I don't think she could without my seeing her.
Howsomever, it's easy to find out." And she lit a candle and went up
the stairs, calling respectfully, "Mrs. Stanley, are you in, ma'am?"
while Austin Ambrose listened intently.
In a minute or two she came down.
"No, sir, she's not in the house. I'm afraid the poor lady's in the
storm; leastways, unless she's taken shelter."
Austin Ambrose caught up his hat.
"If she should come in before I return," he said, hurriedly, "ask her
to wait till I see her and speak with her. Do you hear? Do not let her
go. You understand?"
The woman, frightened by his pallor and sternness, dropped a
courtesy, and he rushed out and down the path.
If she had gone down the road to Ilfracombe, and had met Blair! His
heart almost ceased beating at the thought. She would meet Blair,
and, he knew too well, frustrate the elaborate plot, and ruin the
plotter.
He gained the entrance of the road to 'Combe; two or three men
were standing under the shelter of a shed, with their tools beside
them.
"Have you been working here—in the fields?" he inquired.
"Yes, master, and we be drenched through, we be!" said one.
"Have you seen a lady—a lady with a veil—come this way—to
Ilfracombe, I mean?" he said, trying to steady his voice. "I am afraid
she has got caught in the storm."
The men shook their heads.
"No," said he who had spoken first; "no one has been along this
road 'cepting the gentleman who rode Farmer James' colt this
morning."
"I know—I mean I don't know," said Austin Ambrose, catching
himself up. "Are you sure?"
"Sure and sartain!" said another man. "We've been working in sight
o' the road all day, and the lady couldn't a passed without our seeing
her. Have you got a bit of 'bacca, your honor?"
He tossed them a shilling, and hurried back. It was just possible that
she may have gone to the station by another road than that which
he had watched. Fighting his way against the wind and rain, he
reached the station.
From one and another of the porters he inquired if she had been
seen, and the answer was the same. No lady answering to Madge's
description had reached the station. Half wild with impatience and
fear—not for her, by any means, certainly not; but for himself!—he
returned to the beach.
As he did so he saw a gang of fishermen and sailors standing under
the lee of a rock, and peering out to sea.
They did not hear him approach, and, in his noiseless fashion, he
got close up to them and within hearing unnoticed.
"No boat could put out from the beach, man," said the old man with
whom Margaret had spoken that morning. "We've tried it with the
best of them, the Lass and the Speedwell, and it ain't no manner o'
use. 'Sides, where's the good? the tide have swept over the rock an
hour agone!"
"And you're sure you seed her?" asked a man.
"Do 'ee think I've gone silly all in a moment?" retorted the old fellow,
pettishly. "I tell 'ee, I seed her on the top, half a-sitting and half a-
lying. I did think as I'd get up and go to her, but I'd warned her in
the morning, this very blessed morning; and the missus come and
called me in to tea, and—and bla'-me if I didn't forget her."
"Oh, she's lost! She's drownded, as sure as a gun! Well, sakes a
mercy, but it's a pity."
"We've all got to die," remarked a man philosophically; "and most on
us dies by drownding; but then we're used to it, which makes all the
difference."
Austin Ambrose pushed his way into their midst, startling them not a
little.
"Of whom are you talking?" he demanded, and his voice sounded
harsh and stern.
The old man touched his forehead and puffed at his pipe.
"It's the poor young lady up at Mrs. Day's, your honor," he said;
"she've been and got washed off the Long Rock——"
Austin Ambrose put his hand up with a strange gesture, as if to stop
him, and his face grew livid.
"What?" he cried hoarsely. "You say—oh, impossible!"
The old man shook his head.
"It's the possiblest thing as can be," he said grimly. "Seed her there
myself, and I thought she'd gone to look at the tide. I never thought
as she'd stop there after the warning I give her. I told her about the
lady and gentleman as was lost there two year agone," he added to
the others.
Austin Ambrose rushed out to the rocks and stared before him like a
man dazed. Then he sprung to his feet.
"I'll give any man twenty pounds who will launch a boat and search
for her," he cried hoarsely.
There was a profound silence. Then the old fisherman said grimly:
"Twenty pun ain't much for a man's life, your honor."
"I will give fifty—a hundred!" he cried desperately.
"Bless your honor's heart," said the old man slowly, "no boat could
live in this—that is, near the beach—it might in the open! It's to be
hoped it will, for Day's out," he said significantly. "No, your honor, a
thousand pounds wouldn't tempt us; besides, it's too late! too late!
The poor lady is drifting out to the sands, and the last's been seen
of her or ever will be seen on this earth!"
Austin Ambrose uttered a cry, an awful cry. They who heard it
thought that it was that of sorrowing friend or relative; but the cry
was one of pity for himself and all his shattered hopes. After all his
cleverness, his deep-laid schemes and restless toil, he had been
foiled—and by the woman he had fooled and deceived!
It was maddening. And indeed as he reeled away from the group he
looked like a man demented.
Suddenly he heard a shout and staggered back.
A man came running toward them with something in his hand. He
held the wet and dripping articles on high and surveyed his
companions gravely.
"The old 'un's right!" he said slowly. "Here be the poor lady's cape
and hat!"
Austin Ambrose tore them from the man's hand.
"Are you sure?" he gasped.
"Yes," came a grave chorus. "We've see'd her wear 'em, time and
again. They're hers, and she's lost, poor soul!"
Austin Ambrose walked away with the hat and cape in his hands.
At the back of the beach, on the quay, was a small inn, through
whose red curtains the light shone cheerily. He pushed open the
door and entered with unsteady gait. The little place was full of
sailors and fishermen, all talking about the sad event, and recalling
the similar fatality of two years ago. As he entered they became
suddenly silent.
"Give me some brandy!" he said, hoarsely.
The landlady mixed him a glass of hot brandy-and-water, and he
took it in both hands and drank it; then he sank on to a seat, and
with tightly compressed lips stared at the door.
For the time he was unconscious of the presence of the others, deaf
to their voices, which arose again in a hushed tone.
"It's the awfulest night," said one, "the awfulest! The poor
gentleman's out in it, too! Farmer James have gone down the road
to look for him. He's afeard the colt will be skeared by the lightning."
"Ah," said another; "not come back yet, poor gentleman? What a
terrible story it will be to tell him. They beant long been mated, have
they?"
"Hush!" said a warning whisper, and the speaker nodded toward the
crouching figure. "Her brother, most like," he added, in a whisper.
"He's took all aback, poor fellow."
There was silence again, then they commenced to talk once more,
and still Austin Ambrose sat still and motionless.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and a short, active-looking man
dashed in.
"Why, Farmer James!" cried one of two, "what's amiss, man?"
"Give me time!" panted the farmer. "It's a night o' bad news, boys!
The colt's come home—without him!"
The men sprung to their feet, and looked at the speaker aghast.
"Without the gentleman, farmer?"
"Ay," he said solemnly, wiping the perspiration from his face. "I met
the colt tearing down the road to the stable with the saddle empty. A
lantern, missis, quick. Who'll lend a hand, boys?"
One and all turned out and proceeded at something between a trot
and a run into the road.
At a little distance the colt stood, wet and trembling, held by a boy.
They paused a moment to stare at it and then passed on.
Austin Ambrose, uninvited by them, joined the group and ran with
them.
They stopped a moment where the two roads joined, the one Blair
had taken in the morning, the other he was returning by in the
evening.
"Let's divide," said a man; but the farmer stooped down and
examined the road.
"No occasion," he said; "here's the colt's hoof-marks. This is the road
she come!"
Hurrying along, they climbed the narrow lane, and the foremost, a
young lad carrying the lantern, stopped with a cry at the motionless
form lying in the road.
There was a hush as the men crowded round. The farmer knelt
down and examined it for a moment, then he looked up.
"I'm afeared he's dead," he said gravely.
"Is—is it foul play, do 'ee think, Farmer James?" inquired one of the
men.
"Foul play!" the words ran round. "Why do 'ee say that?"
The man, a small, sharp-eyed old fellow, pointed to the road.
"Looks as if there'd been a struggle," he said. "But no matter now.
Take that gate off its hinges, lads, and lay him on it. We'll carry him
down to the Holme."
The gate was torn off its hinges—how little they guessed that it was
not for the first time that night!—and some coats laid upon it; then
they stooped to raise poor Blair.
As they did so, Austin Ambrose slid forward.
At the sound of the words "foul play," he had aroused. All was lost;
Margaret dead, Blair dead; all his toil and ingenuity thrown away.
But if these rustics were suspicious it was time to think of his own
safety.
"Let me see!" he said, in a low voice. "He—he is a friend of mine.
Who said 'foul play?' If I thought so—but, no! Look!" and he pointed
to the stirrup through which the foot was thrust. "My poor friend
was thrown from the saddle; the mare bolted and must have
dragged him. His foot is still in the stirrup."
"That's true," said one. "Ah! if that stirrup leather had slipped out
sooner——"
Almost in silence they carried him down to the small farm called the
Holme; and the good-hearted people roused from their beds did
their best for him.
In a short time he was undressed and put to bed.
Austin Ambrose, calm and self-possessed, but very sorrowful,
showed the affliction of a brother.
"I am afraid it is all over!" he said, as they gathered round the bed
and looked at the handsome face and stalwart form, which many of
them had seen depart in the morning so full of life and happiness.
After a time the doctor came. He was an old man, who had worn
himself out in the hard practice of a wild country-side. Accidents
were his daily experience, and he fell to work in the cool, business-
like way acquired by custom.
White and breathless, Austin Ambrose, who had been permitted to
remain during the examination, waited for the verdict. It came at
last.
"He's not dead," said the old doctor, gravely, "and that's about all
that can be said. It was a terrible blow!"
Austin Ambrose's lips contracted, and his eyes sought the old man's
weather-beaten face keenly.
"A blow, doctor?" he said, gravely.
"Yes," was the reply; "he was struck on the back of the head, sir."
Austin Ambrose uttered an exclamation.
"Oh, impossible, doctor!" he said. "Who should do such a thing? My
poor friend had not an enemy in the world."
"Plunder?" said the old man, questioningly.
Austin Ambrose shook his head.
"His purse, watch, jewelry, even the things he purchased at
Ilfracombe, are untouched. Besides, we found him lying, his foot still
entangled in the stirrup, as you have heard."
"Humph!" said the doctor, still at work with restoratives. "Well, he
must have fallen on the back of his head; but"—he looked puzzled
and frowned thoughtfully—"but it's very strange. If I hadn't known
what you have just told me, I should say that he had been struck,
and that if he should die, the coroner's verdict would have to be
'Willful murder!'"
Austin Ambrose's lips twitched, but he shook his head and sighed.
"Thank Heaven that I have no such suspicion—it would be too
dreadful! No, my poor friend was thrown and dragged by the
frightened horse. It is, alas! too common an accident."
"Yes, yes, just so," said the doctor. "It's a pity, a thousand pities, for
he is a splendid fellow," and he looked with sad admiration on the
stalwart form. "What is his name?"
Austin Ambrose hesitated a moment.
"His name is Stanley. He is a very dear friend of mine," he added,
"and only recently married."
The old doctor started.
"You don't mean to say that he's the husband of the unfortunate
young lady who was drowned off Long Rock this morning?"
Austin Ambrose nodded, the doctor sighed.
"Well, sir, I'll do my best to bring him back to life; but it will be cruel
kindness, I fear, under the circumstances. Poor young fellow! But if
he should die he will be spared the misery awaiting him!"
"You—you think there is no hope of her escape?" faltered Austin.
The doctor shook his head.
"There may be a faint hope for him," he said, pointing to the bed.
"But for her there is none, none whatever. She was seen on the
rocks; they tell me that her cape and hat have been found washed
ashore. No; if he should die they will not be long apart. But you look
worn out, sir, you had better get some rest."
Austin Ambrose shook his head.
"I will not go until——" and he stopped significantly.
For the remainder of the night they watched beside the still form.
Life was in yet, beating faintly, like a flickering lamp; but the dawn
came, and Blair still remained hovering between the shores of the
River of Death.
The morning passed. The whole village was in a state of excitement
over the two accidents; that they should have happened on the
same day, and to man and wife, seemed phenomenal, and every
one of the inns drove a roaring trade with the crowds of excited
men.
There was the chance, too, of another fatality, for the Days' boat
had disappeared, and it was rumored that she had gone down in the
storm.
Toward evening, however, the crowd collected on the beach, for the
boat had been sighted.
Austin Ambrose had left Blair for a short rest, but he could neither
sleep nor remain quiet, and his restless feet had dragged him to
Appleford.
He stood just on the edge of the crowd watching the boat with lack-
luster eyes that shone dully in his pallid face.
There was a rush and a cheer as the boat came in, and two or three
men ran out into the water—it was smiling calmly enough now—to
haul her in, but as her keel touched the beach, Day held up his
hand.
"Don't cheer, lads," he said, gravely; "I've bad news."
"Ay, ay, we can guess, James," said a voice, "you've seen the poor
lady!"
Day started and glanced at his wife, who sat in the stern, her shawl
to her eyes.
"Tell 'em, you," he said, in a whisper.
She raised her head.
"Yes," she said, with a sob, "I've seen the poor lady. We saw her on
the rocks, almost at the last moment."
"And you couldn't get near?" said a man.
She looked round.
"Do you think we'd be here without her if there'd been half a
chance?" she said, reproachfully.
"Ay, ay!" said the old boatswain. "Well, well, that settles it, and that's
some'at of a comfort! The poor soul's gone! Don't 'ee cry, missis!" he
added as he helped Mrs. Day out of the boat.
It so happened that as she stepped on the beach she was near
Austin Ambrose.
He had been listening in a kind of stupor, his eyes wandering from
Mrs. Day's face to her husband's.
At the moment of her landing he was so near that her arm touched
his.
As it did so his eyes fell upon the shawl which she had been pressing
to her eyes.
The sun was shining full on it, and in the dull vague fashion peculiar
to his frame of mind his eye was following the pattern.
Suddenly he started, and a light shone in his eyes.
"Let me help you," he said, and gently but firmly he laid his hand
upon her arm covered by the shawl.
And, as he did so, the light gleamed still more brightly in his face, for
he discovered that the shawl with which she had been wiping away
her tears—was dry!
 CHAPTER XIX.
Mr. Austin Ambrose walked back to Lee with a step that had
regained its usual elasticity, and with hope again beaming in his
eyes.
Few men would have been sharp enough to notice, in the midst of
such excitement, so trivial a fact that Mrs. Day's shawl was dry; but
Mr. Austin Ambrose was not an ordinary man, and in an instant his
acute brain was hard at work.
If Mrs. Day had been out in the boat all night, as she would have
them believe, then her shawl would have been still wet; but as it
was dry, then Mrs. Day must have been somewhere to dry it, and
Austin Ambrose felt, with that kind of conviction which is more a
matter of faith than reason, that Margaret had been with her.
He felt as certain as that he was walking along the road that the
Days had rescued Margaret from the rock, and had taken her to
some place of safety, and that for some reason, best known to
themselves, the Days had agreed to conceal the fact, and lead the
public to believe that Margaret had perished.
"That woman wasn't crying," he muttered to himself as he walked
along; "her eyes were as dry as the shawl! No; Margaret is in hiding
somewhere, and those Days know where. Now, if Blair will only
kindly pull round, I am all right."
When in the Holme, he learned that "Mr. Stanley" was still
unconscious, and that there had been no change in his condition.
"Get some one from London," he said to the old doctor, with an
energy which surprised him. "Get the best man—the very best: we
must save him!"
"You can send for Sir Astley," said the doctor, quietly; "but if we send
for the whole college of physicians, they can do no more than we
are doing. It is concussion of the brain, and the poor fellow's
magnificent constitution will fight for him far more effectually than
we can. He shall have every attention, trust me."
Austin Ambrose acquiesced. Sir Astley might have seen Blair, and
recognize him, and, in any case, might talk about the affair when he
got back to London, and cause inquiries to be made.
So the days wore on. No man could have received more attention
than Blair got at the hands of the old doctor, whose interest in the
case increased as it became more critical.
Austin Ambrose, too, watched over him, as the people of the house
declared, "like a brother!"
The case still puzzled the doctor, and he went one day and looked at
the spot where Blair had been found; but the feet of the people who
had searched for him had blotted out the impression of the struggle
between Pyke and Blair, and there was no trace left of the
murderous assault.
Chance had worked hard in Austin Ambrose's behalf, and if Blair
should only recover, all might yet go well with his plans.
On the eighth day, toward evening, the doctor, who had been
bending over the bed with his fingers on Blair's pulse, looked up
suddenly, and motioned to the nurse and Austin Ambrose.
"Shut out the light," he said, in a low voice.
They drew the window curtains, and Austin Ambrose stepped up on
tiptoe.
"Is—is he coming to?" he asked breathlessly.
The doctor nodded.
"I think so. Let no one speak to him but me."
They waited, and presently Blair opened his eyes and looked round
with a dazed inquiry.
"Margaret!" he said.
The doctor held up his hand warningly to the others.
"Madge! Where are you?" he said again, almost inaudibly.
"Your wife cannot come to you at present," replied the doctor
quietly. "Do not speak just yet."
"Where am I? Have I been ill?" inquired Blair, knitting his brows, as if
trying to remember. "Ah, yes; the horse! Is the horse all right?"
"The horse is all right," said the doctor. "I will tell you all about it
after you have had a good sleep. You have been very ill, and will be
worse if you do not sleep."
"All right," he said, with a sigh. "Madge, my wife, is asleep, I
suppose? Have I been ill long? Don't wake her or distress her; I shall
be all right! Stop!" he exclaimed; "the paints and things, they are in
my pockets, and the easel will be sent on to-day. Give them to her! I
hope they haven't come to harm!"
"They are all safe," said the doctor soothingly.
"I'm glad," said Blair, with another sigh; "and the horse is all right?
Well, it's not so bad! I thought he had settled me, confound him!"
The doctor thought he referred to the colt, but Austin Ambrose's
cheeks paled.
He stepped forward noiselessly.
"I am here, Blair," he murmured softly. "Take the doctor's advice,
and don't talk yet."
"You, Austin, old fellow!" exclaimed Blair, trying to hold out his hand.
"Why, how did you hear of it? To come the same night. That's kind.
But how did you get here? and Madge—have you seen Madge? Don't
let her be frightened, Austin, I shall be up in an hour or two. Tell her
—no, don't tell her anything; leave it to me."
"Very well," said Austin; "and now get some sleep, old fellow. I
shan't say another word."
Blair closed his eyes, and presently the doctor looked up and
nodded.
"He is asleep, and is saved, please Heaven!" he said in a grave
voice.
All that Austin Ambrose had accomplished was as nothing to the task
that loomed before him.
The time must come when Blair would ask for Margaret, and insist
upon seeing her.
Many men would have shrunk from such an ordeal, but Austin
Ambrose was not the man to allow sentiment, as he would have
called it, to interpose between him and a long cherished design; so
that when, on awakening from the deep sleep which saved his life,
Blair asked: "Where is Margaret?" Austin Ambrose was prepared.
"Blair," he said, laying his hand upon the sick man's, "are you strong
enough to hear what I have to tell you? I trust so, for I cannot keep
it from you."
"Keep it from me! What is it?" demanded Blair, trying to raise
himself. "Is it anything to do with Madge? No, it can't be, of course.
But why doesn't she come? Ah, I see—give me a minute, Austin,"
and he turned his head away. "My accident has frightened her, and
she is ill."
"Yes, she is ill!" said Austin Ambrose, watching him closely. "Blair, for
Heaven's sake, be brave, be calm."
"What is it? You haven't told me all," he exclaimed. "Don't turn your
face away; tell me. Anything is better than suspense. Let me go to
her—bring her to me. She can't be so ill——" he paused,
breathlessly.
Austin Ambrose laid his hand upon his shoulder.
"Blair, dear, dear Blair," he murmured; "she cannot come to you; you
cannot go to her. She has been very ill—Blair, your wife is dead!"
The sick man looked at him and laughed.
"That's a pretty kind of joke to play upon a man lying on his back,"
he said. "Go and fetch her, and we'll laugh at it together—perhaps
she'll see the fun in it; I don't!"
Then, as Austin Ambrose remained silent, Blair looked from him to
the doctor, who had entered—an awful look of anguished, fearful
scrutiny.
"I'm—I'm dreaming; that's what it is," he muttered. "Madge—don't
leave me. Take hold of my hand I—I dreamt somebody had told me
you were dead. Don't cry, dear. It's I who was nearly dead, not you;
and I'm all right now. Did you find the painting things? They're all
right, are they? I told Austin—I told——" he stopped short suddenly,
and uttered a cry, a heartrending cry, and raised himself so that he
could see Austin Ambrose's face. "I'm not asleep," he moaned; "I am
awake. And you are there—and you have just told me. Dead! Dead!
Austin—don't—keep—it from me! Tell me all. Look, I'll be quiet. I
won't utter a sound. Doctor, for Heaven's sake make him tell me."
The doctor turned his face away. It was wet with tears; there was
not a tear in Austin Ambrose's eyes.
"Shall I tell him—or wait?" he whispered to the doctor. The doctor
nodded.
"Better now than later; the shock will be less now he is weak. Poor
fellow, poor fellow!"
Austin Ambrose bent down, and in a few words scarcely audible, told
the story. He said nothing of the visitor who had come, nothing of
Margaret's anguish. According as he told it, Margaret had strolled
down to the rock and remained there too long, until the tidal wave
had caught her and washed her out to sea.
Blair listened, his face pallid as that of death, his wide eyes fixed
gleamingly on the speaker's face, his hands clutching the quilt. Every
now and then his lips moved as if he were repeating the words as
they dropped cautiously from Austin Ambrose's lips, and when he
had finished he still leant upon his arm and looked at Austin with
horror and despair.
Then, without a cry, he sank back upon the pillow and closed his
eyes.
"He has swooned," said Austin. "It was too soon."
The doctor shook his head.
"No; better now than later."
After a moment or two Blair opened his eyes.
"Have you told me all?" he demanded, and there was something in
the tone and the wild glare of his eye that smote Austin Ambrose
and made him quail.
"Yes," he said, after a moment's pause, "everything has been done,
Blair. Everything. I think you will know that without my saying it.
There is no hope—there was none from the first. She was not seen
after the tide reached her—she will not be seen again. Blair, you will
play the man for—for all our sakes," and he pressed the hot hand
clutching the quilt.
Blair looked at him and withdrew his hand; they saw his lips move
once or twice, and guessed whose name they formed; then he
spoke.
"Austin, did you ever pray?" It was a strange, a solemn question. "If
so, pray now, pray that I may die!"
Over the weeks that followed it will be well to draw a veil; enough
that during them the strong man hovered between life and death, at
times raving madly and calling upon the woman he had loved and
lost, at others lying in a stupor which was Death's twin sister.
As soon as he was able to walk with the aid of a stick, Blair got out
of the house unnoticed and made his way to Appleford.
Pale and trembling he stood on the beach and looked at the rocks
where Margaret had been seen—looked until his eyes grew dim,
then he crawled back to the cottage.
"You have been to Appleford?" said Austin, who had watched him.
Blair lifted his heavy eyes.
"Yes, I have been to Appleford," he said in a hollow voice. "I have
seen the last——" he stopped, and his breath came and went in
quick gasps. "Austin, while I live, my poor darling will be with me in
my thoughts but—but never speak her name to me. Never! I—I
could not bear it."
"Yes!" murmured Austin Ambrose, sympathetically. "I understand.
You will fight your sorrow like a man Blair. Time—Time, the great
healer—will close over even so great a wound as yours, and you will
be able to speak of her, poor girl."
Blair looked before him with lack-luster eyes.
"Do you think that a man who had been thrust out of Heaven could
ever learn to forget the happiness he had lost?" he said, in a low
voice. "While life lasts I shall remember her, shall long to go to her!
That is enough," he added sternly; "we will never speak of her
again!"
 CHAPTER XX.
What passed in the cabin of the Rose of Devon between the two
women, Mrs. Day never told, not even to her husband.
In the morning, while the Rose was sailing along the coast, she went
to the captain and requested that she and her husband might be
taken as near Appleford as possible, that they might get back in
their boat.
"My cousin will remain on board, Captain Daniel," she said. "She will
go with you across the Channel, and land at the first French port."
Captain Daniel whistled.
"You settle things easily, Mrs. Day," he said, with a half smile; "how
do you know I'll take her?"
"You'll take her for my sake and your own," said Mrs. Day quietly.
"For mine because we are old friends, for yours because if she
landed in England there'd be questions asked about the Rose of
Devon that might be awkward to answer."
"And how am I to know that I can trust her?" he said.
"Because she has to trust you," said Mrs. Day. "Captain Daniel, my
cousin has just come through a great trouble, and she's as anxious
as you are that no one should know that she was ever aboard the
Rose. If you don't mention it when you get back to England, she
won't, wherever she is. You needn't require any oath; she's one
whose word is as good as her bond; she's a lady and different to
me. Just land her at the first place on the other side you touch, and
say nothing. She'll pay for her passage——"
"Thank you, Mrs. Day," said the captain. "I don't want the poor
woman's money, and she's welcome to the run. As to keeping quiet,
well, I think we can do that as well as she can; and if she will say
nothing about the Rose, the Rose will say nothing about her. We
know how to keep a secret, I think! If she's got in trouble and wants
to show a clean pair of heels, well, I reckon we've been in the same
plight, and may be, shall be again. Anyway, whether or no, Captain
Daniel isn't the man to turn his back upon a woman in distress!"
Mrs. Day gave him her hand with a simple dignity which would not
have shamed the first lady of the land.
The Rose beat about, and in another hour or two Mrs. Day and her
husband got into their boat, and Margaret was left on the Rose of
Devon, which, spreading all sail, was cleaving its way to the French
coast.
For two days she kept to her cabin. There was a young lad on board,
the captain's boy—a little mite of a fellow—and he waited upon her,
carrying all sorts of delicacies from the cook's galley to her cabin;
but Margaret, though she thanked him in a voice which made the
lad's heart leap and brought the color to his face, could touch
nothing but a little dry bread and tea, though she tried hard for the
boy's sake.
The rough-looking skipper, with the truest delicacy, left her to
herself, merely sending his compliments about twice a day, and a
request to be informed if there was anything he could do for her.
On the third day she found courage to go on deck. The sailors
looked at her curiously at first, but something in her beautiful, wan
face appealed to their rough natures, and touching their caps, they
went on with their work.
Margaret leaned against the bulwarks and looked out at the sea. She
was a good sailor, and the vast expanse of cloudless blue above and
the rolling water beneath her brought something of peace to her
tortured heart.
Presently Captain Daniel came up with a deck chair in his hand and
a thick rug over his arm. With a little bow, he put the chair right for
her and spread the rug over it.
"Glad to see you on deck, miss," he said shyly. "The air's rather
chilly; I'll fetch you another rug: there's plenty of them aboard."
Margaret thanked him, her voice sounding weak and hollow.
"I'm afraid I ought not to be here at all," she said, coloring; "you are
very kind to let me stay. It will not be for long—you will land me
soon, will you not?"
Captain Daniel took off his hat.
"You shall stay as long as you please, miss, and the longer you stay
the better the Rose of Devon will like it."
"I am very grateful," she said in a low voice; "but I will not stay after
we reach a French port. Mrs. Day has told you——" She stopped,
and the captain took it up.
"Mrs. Day has told me nothing more than that you are in trouble,
miss, and I reckon that's enough. There's no need for you to say
anything! Me and my ship and my men are at your service, and if
there's one place more than another you'd like to land at, say the
word, and there the Rose goes, fair wind or foul!"
Then, without waiting for any response, he touched his hat and went
aft.
As he had spoken so Captain Daniel acted.
The boy was ordered to make the cabin as comfortable as possible.
An awning was rigged up on deck to provide shelter for her, and the
cook taxed his inventive faculties to the utmost in the concoction of
dishes which he deemed suitable to an invalid lady. The rough
sailors lowered their voices as they went about their work, and even
put out their pipes when she came on deck.
Their kindness, and the beauty of sea and sky, did more toward
Margaret's recovery than fifty doctors could have effected, and by
the time the Rose had sighted the French coast her face had lost
something of its wanness, and a faint color had found its way to her
cheeks.
She spent most of her time sitting on deck looking out to sea, trying
to piece together the broken fragments of her shattered life.
For the future she had no plans, and could form none. Of what use
or value could her life be to her when the man she had loved and
trusted had broken her heart and left her desolate and utterly
hopeless?
But as they neared Brest on the Brittany coast, she felt she must
come to some decision.
She was alive, alas! and the future lay before her; something had to
be done with it. Margaret, broken-hearted and weighed down by
sorrow as she was, was still the same Margaret, strong of purpose
and self-reliant. Love she had done with forever, happiness had
passed beyond her reach, but her art still remained to her—the
mistress whom those who serve find faithful to the end.
As the Rose sailed into the harbor, Captain Daniel came up to
Margaret.
"We're nearing port, miss," he said, "but it don't follow that you and
the Rose need part company. Brest's a poor place for a lady to be
turned out in. If so be as you care to go on with us, why I'll pick up
a few things in the port here to make the cabin more fit for you. I'm
thinking, if you'll forgive me, miss, that the sea is doing you good,
and that if you'd come on with the Rose as far as Leghorn in Italy
——"
Margaret's face flushed faintly, and a light, the first that had shone
there for many a day, glowed in her eyes. The captain saw it and
pressed his point.
"Italy's the place, miss!" he said, persuasively. "At Leghorn you'd be
near Florence and Rome, and all the grand sights! But here, Brest,
it's only a 'one hoss' place."
Margaret hesitated. The prospect of going to Italy contained as
much pleasantness as any prospect could for her.
"Are you sure that I should not be in the way?" she asked, gently.
"You are all so kind, and make such sacrifices for me——"
"Don't say another word, Miss Leslie," said Captain Daniel; for
"Leslie" was the name Mrs. Day had given to her. "Me and my crew
will be proud to have you with us!"
Margaret went ashore at Brest for a few hours, and got some
articles of dress, and the Rose, staying no longer than was
necessary to obtain provisions, set sail for Leghorn.
The weather was fine and the wind favorable, and in due course the
Rose reached the Italian port.
Margaret's parting with Captain Daniel was characteristic of them
both. When she offered to pay for her passage, the captain refused,
at first politely, and then almost roughly and sternly.
"Why, Miss Leslie, sakes alive!" he exclaimed, "I'd rather see the
Rose at the bottom of the sea than me or my men should take a
shilling piece from you; and all I say is, if you want to pleasure us,
why, when you're tired of Italy and I—talians, drop a line to Captain
Daniel of Falmouth, and the Rose shall come and fetch you away,
and be proud to do it."
Margaret could scarcely speak, but she managed to get out a few
words of thanks, and the captain, almost crushing her hand—now
very thin and white—turned to go, but he stopped at the last
moment to add a word.
"And, Miss Leslie, don't be afeared of me and my men a-cackling.
There's not a man as can't keep his own counsel, and there's not a
man as wouldn't rather be strung up at the yard-arm than admit that
he'd ever set eyes on you! No, miss, so far as the Rose is concerned,
your whereabouts is as safe as if we didn't know."
Then he went, and Margaret was, indeed, left alone in the world
without a friend!
Captain Daniel had engaged a room for her at the hotel, but to
Margaret, whose wounded heart ached for quiet and solitude, the
busy seaport seemed noisy and intrusive, and the next day she
started for Florence.
Fortunately, she had some money with her; not a large sum, but the
captain's hospitality had left it intact, and Mrs. Day had promised to
send on the notes which Margaret had left behind directly Margaret
sent her an address.
For the present, for a few months at any rate, she was secure from
the dread attacks of that most malignant of foes—poverty. And she
had her art; and she was in Florence, the Florence of painters and
poets, the Flower City of the old world. The captain, who seemed as
well acquainted with inland places as he was with the sea-board,
had recommended her to a quiet little hotel overlooking the best
view in Florence; and there, in a little room near the sky, Margaret
found the solitude and quiet which she so much needed.
One morning, the third after her arrival, she roused herself
sufficiently to go into the town and purchase some painting
materials, and carrying them to a quiet spot commanding a view of
the Arno and the wooded slopes above it, began to paint.
At first her hand trembled and her eyes were dim, for at every
stroke of her brush the past came crowding back upon her, and she
could almost fancy that Blair was lying by her side, and that she
could hear his loving voice and bright laugh; but after a time she
gained strength, and was gradually losing herself in her work—the
work which alone could bring her "surcease from sorrow," when she
heard voices near her, and looking up saw a young girl coming
quickly along the path. She was a beautiful girl of about seventeen,
with the frank open face of sorrowless childhood, and the springy
step of youth and health. The day was hot, and she had taken off
her hat which was swinging in her hand. Margaret had seen her
before the girl had noticed Margaret sitting almost hidden behind a
bush, and she came on, singing merrily and swinging her straw hat
to the tune.
Suddenly she caught sight of Margaret, and she and the song
stopped abruptly.
It was almost impossible for her to pass so close without saying
something in the way of greeting, and so she made a little bow, and
said rather shyly:
"I'm afraid I startled you. I didn't know anybody was near, or I
shouldn't have made such a noise."
"I only heard you singing," said Margaret.
The words and the gentle tone, together with the beautiful face with
its sad expression, seemed to fascinate the girl, and she drew
nearer, saying timidly:
"But I was making a tremendous noise! You are painting?"
"Yes," answered Margaret, with a sigh, "I am trying to do so."
"What a lovely spot you have chosen!" said the girl looking round.
"May I see what you have done? I am so fond of art myself, but"—
and she made a little grimace—"I am a shocking stick!"
Then she colored furiously and laughed with pretty embarrassment.
"That's slang, I know. I beg your pardon! But I learn it from Ferdy!
There—how stupid of me! Of course, you don't know who Ferdy is:
he is my brother."
By this time she had looked at the canvas.
"Why!" she exclaimed, "that is beautiful! You are an artist!"
"A poor one," said Margaret, smiling in spite of herself at the girl's
enthusiasm.
"Oh, no; you are a real artist!" she said. "I know the real from the
sham; because we have so many of the latter staying in Florence.
Poor Florence! They make daubs of her all the year round, and send
them about the world as true pictures, while they are only libels. But
yours will be a beautiful picture! How splendidly you have got those
trees there, and that bit of cloud. Oh!" and she sighed, "I would give
ten years of my life if I could ever paint like that!"
"That would be rather a heavy price if your life should be as happy
all through as it is now," said Margaret, in her sweet, gentle fashion.
The girl looked at her and pondered for a moment, then she flung
herself on the grass beside Margaret, and said:
"Do you know, you reminded me of mamma just then. That is just
how she speaks when she wants to scold me for one of my
extravagancies. Of course I wouldn't give ten years—or one year—of
my life for anything; who would?"
Margaret sighed. How gladly would she have given all the remainder
of her life to be able to wipe out the past! never to have seen Blair,
or to have known those few short weeks of happiness.
"It all depends," said Margaret, gravely. "Some people's lives are not
so happy that they could not spare a few years from them."
The girl glanced at Margaret's pale face and then at her black dress,
and remained silent for a moment or two; then she looked up and
said, timidly:
"Do I interrupt you sitting here? I will go at once if I am a nuisance."
"No, no," said Margaret, quickly, and with a wistful smile. "You do
not interrupt me; pray stay!"
"I like to see you paint," said the girl, after a pause. "Somehow you
remind me so much of mamma, though, of course, you are so much
younger! I wish you knew mamma. Are you staying in Florence?"
"Yes," said Margaret, "I am staying at the hotel there," and she
pointed with her brush.
"Really! Then you must be——" exclaimed the girl, quickly, but
checking herself abruptly, and coloring with annoyance.
"I must be—what?" said Margaret, smiling at her embarrassment.
"What were you going to say?"
"I was going to make one of my foolish speeches; and I'd better say
it now I have gone so far, and get you to forgive me. I was going to
say that you must be the young lady who lives so quietly at the hotel
that they call her the 'Mysterious Lady.'"
Margaret smiled gently.
"Do they call me so?" she said; then she sighed, and went on with
her work.
The girl sat and watched her for a moment, then she said:
"I'd better go now, I have offended you," and she half rose.
Margaret put out her white hand, and laid it on her arm with a
gentle pressure.
"Do not," she said. "You have not offended me. And now, will you
tell me something about yourself?"
She asked the question, not that she was at all curious, though the
girl interested her, but to put her more at her ease.
"With all the heart in the world," was the instant reply. "Do you see
that villa there—that one with the turrets? That is ours; mamma and
Ferdinand, my brother, live there. It is called the Villa Capri; and, do
you know, there are some beautiful views from it. If I were sure you
wouldn't be offended, I would ask you to come and pay us a visit,
and see if you could not make a picture of the river running below
the woods. Oh, I would like that!"
Something in the girl's voice attracted Margaret's attention.
"Are you Italian?" she said.
"Half and half," was the reply, with a laugh. "My father was Italian,
my mother is English. I call myself all English—please do not forget
that!" she added, with all an English girl's frankness. "My brother, we
say, represents the Italian side of the family. I should like you to
know him. He is out riding this morning——"
Almost as she spoke a voice sang out clear and musical above the
trees:
"Florence! Florence!"
The girl laughed and sprung to her feet, then she sunk down again
as quickly.
"It is Ferdy!" she said. "Let him find me if he can!" and in a falsetto
which rang quaintly through the hills, she called, "Ferdy! Ferdy!"
Margaret heard the dull beat of a horse's hoofs as the rider rode this
way and that, misled by the echo, then, as, tired of the sport, the
girl sprung to her feet and shouted with a full round tone, Margaret
saw a handsome young fellow ride pell-mell at them.
"Oh, take care, take care, Ferdy!" shouted the girl; but the warning
came too late; the horse struck the leg of the easel with its fore
hoof, and over went the whole apparatus, paintbox, brushes, and
the rest, leaving Margaret sitting smiling amidst the ruins.
The girl uttered a cry of dismay, and the young fellow, almost before
he had pulled the horse in, flung himself from the saddle and stood
bareheaded and penitent before Margaret.
"Oh, Ferdy, Ferdy, how could you be so reckless?" exclaimed the girl.
He put up his hand as if to silence her; then, as he went on his
knees to recover the scattered implements, he said:
"Signorina, I am overwhelmed with shame! Believe me, I did not
suspect that any one was here beside this madcap sister of mine!
Pardon me, I pray you! Have I broken anything?—have I frightened
you? I shall never forgive myself! Is that right?" and he put the easel
in its place with the greatest and most anxious care.
"Thank you, yes," said Margaret. "No harm has been done. You did
not see me, that bush hid me. Please do not mind; it does not in the
least signify!"
"Oh, but——" he said, arranging the palette and paints with the
nicest carefulness—"it signifies so much that I shall not sleep in
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