THE BLOSSOMY GIRL.

Alexandra Herald and Central Otago Gazette, Issue 426, 16 June 1904, Page 7

THE BLOSSOMY GIRL.

By .Lillian Quiller.

SHORT STORY.

(ContiauadJtojm .last week.) The eign-punter at the 'Garland Ox' worked en; ud, after a while, Welkin, strolling to his door, his perplexity more denned as he faced closer Sir Walter's detires aid his own limitations, gazed at the busy workman and at the flowers whion grew vivid beneath his brush, The painter was a .stranger to Welkin, and after a few miasrtes the fact filtered through his diafcrefa,.and he strolled over to the ladder. „j ; "" 3 ; a 'That's a pretty- bit o' work, sure enough,' he called up genially. 'Not bad,' agreed the painter. 'l'm trying a new plan with the flowers; body colour, you know.' 'Ah !» ejaculated Welkin. Then, the street being quiet and the painter one who could talk as he worked, ha talked a food deal to Welkin, all about paints and mediums, and shades, and intricate details; finally confiding that ha was car his "way toi jLondon and.- glad to do a job or so on the road. •Seems powerful well op to his trade/ thought Welkin; and was about to say so; but Sir Walter coming out at the moment said the words, for him. ' Capital,* he said, approvingly, ■• you've. got a good workman there, Welkin,' t And before Welkin had gasped out the mistake, Sir Walter had hurried on between the laburnums and was gone. That evening the sign-painter dropped into Welkin's for a pennyworth of turpentine. *When he came oat, considerably later, he was smiling and whistling eottly but cheerfully. Welkin, too, went up his stairs that night with a lightened, though flustered heart.. Few summers within memory can compare with that sammer when Medmead wis being made beautiful for its owner. In the tangled gardens men who knew the soil, cleared, and chipped, and trained; and the sun on the sjringaa, rose?, pinks and marigolds, melted the very, essence from them and flung it lavishly on the air. ? jfjj » - r ''■'"' ':"- . - " f - Work forward unceasingly. But though half a dozen men. might be moving- among the la*na and' shrubberies, in the house the wonderful changes were being wrought, practically, by one man. Silas Welkin and one of the two apprentices fetched and carried, stirred washes and cleaned brushes, but on wainscot, wall,, ceiling or door, the hand . of the stranger sign-painter was the master ihand, and bis alone. In his pocket lay Welkin'B pencilled notes, in his brain lay the zest; and the combination, meeting the- eyes of the little painter day by bay as he .came to overlook, staggered him; it seemed so little to go upon, and so amazing in its results. In the dining-room a rare shade of red transformed'the dingy brown zoom to a glowing saloon. In the drawing-room gentle blues rose from floor to ceiling till they ended in a toft mist overhead. In the study* greens were spread, as restful as the lawns and trees outside. In the bedrooms, whits, and primrose, and gold, and green, were used as if by a wizard's brush. --* ** • •Who to goodness is the man?' wondered Walking But Sir Walter, when. he. came down from time to time and saw his ideas glorified even beyond his conceptions, asked the question point blank. And Welkin, aitet parrying- it on five several occasions by the shifty reply, ' A man I hire, sir,' his own wonder and ouriosity getting the better of _ him one day, burst into words.. .• ~ . . - t ■ * I know no"more'n you, sir—wish I did. 'Tis almost discomposing. 'Tisn't like no painting ever I see before 1' They had .''gone for the sixth time through all the rooms but one, without sighting the man who was working the wonder; and for the sixth time were brought up sharp by a looked door. ' What d'you mean, Welkin f' demanded Sir Walter, 'lsn't he one of your own men? 'No, indeed, he ain't, sir. He was journeying to London, he said, and anxious for jobs to pay bis way, and he seemed a good man——* 'Good man! How did yon know he seemed a good man V , 'Well, sir; he talked like it,' and, seeing the anger in Sir Walter's eye, added hastily, ' and he'd done the 'Garland Ox* sign all-right; that was proof he could paint.' 'But do you mean to say' began Sir Walter fuming, 'that you took a travel-: ling painter, knowing nothing about him, and put; Turn into my house to rob, or burn, or <dawhat he would ?' . Poor Welkin squirmed beneath this torrent; '* He talked'so, iir,' he ventured. 'lf Tou-heard him,talk—•—' -- 'Don't all ruffians talk? Isn't that their stock-in-trade to wheedle foolsi * «Well, sir,' protested Welkin, a little runlxlby the implication, 'as the young man pointed oat—ha did understand his work, there was the sign-board as proof;' you had nothing to lose, for he'd be going ' to an empty house; and I had nothing to lose, for jie- wouldn't be paid till his job was done.' Six Waller, already repenting of his heat, and mollified by the very wall on which he gazed, said with a final show of irritation, 'But where is'the fellow P Why whenever to ha seen P* 'He asked if he should take bis meal hours juat when he liked, on account of the lignt and so forth, and I said he could please bimflelf; and it's plain to be seen he don't dowdle. It just so happens, belike, ~that he's along.* •Oh, wall,' said Sir Walter conclusively, after pondering, with his eyes on the well-graduated lines of the painted frieze in the hall, ' next time I come tell him I want to see him, and keep him—keep him hungry if you "can't keep him any other way. I want to see what the game is. The man's too good to be wasting his time in Meddicote—or will be, when this work is done. And tell him if he wants to lock np his things, not always to do it in the same room- .This is my daughter's . boudoir,* rapping the closed door, 'and I've not been able to look at it since the work was started—a room I was most particular about. Tell the young man, Welkin, that I'm much pleased with his work, and that I must see him and this zoom without fail next time.' J uly had come. A perfect summer still, everyone said; but in London they said it with less enthusiasm as the days passed, The freshness had gone out of the air, the pavements were scorching, the trees white-powdered. The atmosphere was over-taxed in its. endeavours to supply everyone, and 'seemingly gave up the attempt ' It's about time to get out of this,' said Sir Walt it, and Anne agreed. She was longing foe cpea country, leafy lanes, shaded lawns. And yet— It wan curious.-.how some t fanoy kept her in London, though cords seemed to be dragging her heart to the country. Curious, too, how many awnings she felt inclined to stroll out alone, and, turning in at Burliagton House, spsnd an hour or

so there among the pictures. Crowds came and orowdß went; faces, good, bad, English, foreign, passed before her; yet, though she watched and scanned them all, she seemed never to find one that interested her. Then she would wander to a corner of one particnlar room, and, looking up, would refresh her eyes and her heart with a scene of soft clouds, and cupids, and rosea, always beautiful, always springlike, _ whatever the atmosphere in the bustling street outside. It was her own picture now, and she did not like to go away from it From this comer she would stroll to the cooler, emptier sculpture room, and there, on a velvet lounge, she would close her eyes, and reenact a little Bcene. Then, with 'blosuomy girl' would rise and go slowly out of the building. Something had disappointed her. .. But jthe last visit had been paid to the Academy. With a sudden insistence the desire for the green lawns culminated, and Anne looked up from her breakfast one morning with her mind made up. 'lt is too hot to endure, papa. I shall run away from you today. I'll take Smith and go down to Medmead, and have a quiet time, and see the house and sit in the gardens, and think of everything I'd like to buy and take down with me next week.' 'Good idea,' agreed Sir Walter, looking over his newspaper. ' I've half a mind to follow you in the afternoon. Wail a you're there, see Welkin and insist on seeing your boudoir, if the painterfellow has made a hash of it, I'll settle him when I come.' So, in a cool linen frock, and shady hat, a big sunshade, and-the faithful Smith and a luncheon basket in attendance, Anne Tottenham leaned back in the train and felt that each field and tree she passed cooled her head and lightened her heart. 'After all,' Bhe thought, 'what is the use of staying in town for the chance of seeing a face which—has rather interested your" The gold was gone from the laburnums at Meddicote, but the leaves hung in feathery shade. And, leaving Smith at the 'Garland Ox' to give some directions, Ann 3 walked up the straggling street between the green lines, and tten out on the open read with its tangle of bramble, and poppies, and meadow-sweet; on again through a lane of ferns and honeysuckle and overhanging trees, to the clicking gate and the avenue of green shade with the sunlight filtering through, past the smooth lawns with their borders of vivid colour, to the old house itsolf, standing with doors and windows wide open. The pillared porch looked hospitable, the hall was cool and shady. A Bense of unreality fell upon Anne, finding herself away from bustle and noise, in absolute solitude; it was like a dream. Was is a dream in truth? Was this some dream-mansion such as one wanders into one night and aever sees again P This might surely be a dream room, this stately, ruby chamber, in which feasts and revels could be pictured with shadowy guests at the visionary board; and this wonderful blue room into which Anne wanders, where, in the shaded sunlight, sea and sky and mist seem to have been caught 1 Is she really but a modem girl walking through an empty house P And this She knows this door; it opens into the zoom she chose herself, months ago. She turns the handle, half expecting to find it looked. But it opens. Is this a dream-room P Surely no dream could picture a zoom more beautiful. Boses, roses and roses, in sprays, in wreaths, in single blooms, Fink roses_ scattered on white walls from floor to ceiling, and the scent of roses in the air. In the middle of the room, on top of the workmanlike steps, holding a brush in his hand, and looking down into her eyes with a light in his own which thrilled her, was the man who had haunted her fancy, whose face she had watched and waited for in vain. Was this a dream, too? 'Youl' Bhe whispered. And he knew, by the look, by the word, by his own heart, that all was right And he came down the steps towards her. 'Ton have come at last,' he said. Somehow there had never seemed the need for conventional words between these two. 'lt is zeady foz you. I seemed to draw yon to it as.l finished. Look!' 'Oh,' she whispered again, and he held her hand and pointed to the ceiling, 'it is lovely 1*

There, making a roof for her bower, lay soft clouds of sunrise stretching out to four corne*s; while from the centre, half-veiled in mist, sprawled happy cupida with wreaths of blossoms gathered in their chubby hands. The work was exquisite. 'lt is love,' he answered, * for you;— Will you have it' Among the cupida and roses they sat on a plank and discovered the wonderful secrets oE their hearts, and in spite of the undreamlike state of Linnel's painting jacket; Anne feared that it must all be still a dream. So, in time, Linnell drew her., to the window and ehowod her the paint brushes and rags he had worked with; and, finally showed her Sir Walter and Ambrose Turner coming up the drive, followed by Smith. ' I have given your father,' said Linnell, laughing, 'a' masterpiece. Do you think he will give me his daughter ?' ' Papa does not like being .under great obligations,' replied Anne, 'so perhaps he willT" .' :■ ~~ • ••i* ' Turner,' said Linnell as they strolled home together that night, 'have you the heart to knock the bottom out of my cloud castle with that abominable little hammer of yours P' 'Perhaps, I'll be merciful,' replied Turner. 'After all, your cupids seem perfectly happy in a cloud home, so perhaps you know the dodge.' •I think I do,' deoided Linnell.