OUR STORYETTE,

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 168, 25 April 1916, Page 4

OUR STORYETTE,

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—♦ — ALL ON A GREY AFTERNOON. John Allerton stood before his easel with bent head, thinking. He was not looking at the canvas, though the face depicted there was fair enough for any artist to take pride in having created.

Suddenly he flung down his palette, locked the studio and sat down before the fire with his face buried in his hands. When he raised it after ten minutes' thought it had a haggard, strained expression it ought never to have worn.

He was enormously clever, and knew if. But as yet the world had not discovered the fact. His admirers, for although he was not famous he had his admirers, prophesied great things for him; but dealers still held back. He was not the fashion yet, and had to take their prices, instead of commanding his own.

These things however, troubled him not at all. He worked quietly on, believing himself happy—which is nearly the same thing as being happy—and secure in the knowledge that his day must come. His art was suffijCient for him; she was his goddess, 'his life. He needed nothing more. 'He did not even suppose there was ,more to have. ! Then with a whirl and a flash, or without the slightest preparation for it, a woman upset everything for him; a woman, whom one day He had never heard of, and the next was intimate with. How long was it, by the bye, since he had known her? Was it a fortnight or was it two years? It must be two years, of course, and yet—and yet John Allerton was bewildered; he was half amused; he was wholly angry. He did not love her in the least, he told himself, but keep her face out of his thoughts he could not. She came between him and his work, which made him irritable. He was feverish, wearied, indignant; but when he did not see her the desire to do so grew ever stronger.

If anyone had asked him to describe her he could not have done so. Although lfe was an artist he did not know if she was beautiful or if she was well-dressed. He had a dim sort of idea that she paid a lot of money for her dainty footwear, and that her gowns were lined with a more costly material than their outwardness. He could not have said whether he found her charming, or whether she-was no", so charming %.& fascinating, or whether she was merely interesting. One thing he knew. This afternoon she was coming to his studio, and then he must tell her—well, he must tell her things it was only fair she should know.

When she came in he drew a long breath, and for the space of five seconds held her hand close in his own. "How good of you to come. I wondered if you.would change your mind. Thank heaven you are above stupid conventionalities."

"Of course I came. I said I should."

She drew off her gloves slowly as she spoke, and seated herself luxuriously with a small sigh of contentment in his own particular chair. From where he stood the perfume } which was part of her personality, came to him subtly, and he opened iiis nostrils a little. She drew up her skirt as she held her small feet to the fire and a mass of lace and silk peeped out alluringly. •'You got my letter?'' she asked. "Yes,'' he said. "Well, what do you think of my

allegory'.'" "The form of it is all right; it is Hie truth of it 1 doubt. The ending was—well, it missed." ~- Her eyes flashed a little. "Tell me how you would have ended it?" "I should have said there was a mistake that the man was—was helpless." "How? Why helpless.." Her lips were parted. "He could not order his life as he chose. It was already dedicated." "You mean to his art?"

Standing up as she spoke, she staggered a little. He pushed her gently back into the chair, and said, in a dull voice: "Try and help mo to tell you things. Two or three years ago I met a child, eighteen or nineteen, I suppose. She was brokenhearted because her lover had died. Her brother, who was my friend, and I. simply pulled her back to life. No love-making, you understand. Then the thing drifted on. She—she learnt to cling to me; I had come to her when everywhere looked very grey. I swear to you I never thought I should know what love was. When I say love 1 mean the burning, glorious love which is a gift straight from the gods. The child depends on me. Her people wish for the marriage. Long ago, if I had been richer, I should have said: 'Well, then, come to me, child, if you will have it so.' Only she is rich, and I could not ask her t > come to poverty. Her mother has spoken to me, quite gently, of course, but she has spoken. And when her brother went abroad a few months ago, he said: 'lf you let that child die it will break my heart.' "

The woman who heard the tale sat rigid. She might have been carved from stone.

"Help me," he whispered, bending a little to her. For answer she caught his hand in hers and pressed It to her heart. The next instant Lis arms were round her, passionate kisses on her lips. "Have you thought," she said, in a choked voice, "hive you thought of .ill we could he to Cii'-h other, you and f." "I have though!."

"Du you know th.it here on this sad, grey cart]) we two might know heaven'.' Do you know what it is to quietly put ou one side the love of a woman like me.'" "Yes, I know." "And you will do it? You will dare? You are not afraid of bringing down

o f mortals tasting joys they reserve for themselves?" "I have thought of it all," groaned the man. "But the path is mapped out for me and I must walk in it."

"It is not mapped out for you. Do not believe it. You are playing at being Providence. If you were already her husband, yes; but as it is no, a thousand times no. My whole soul revolts against the lie." "You would have me go back on what I have sworn?" "I would have you not fulfil a wicked and senseless promise." "I have for the past two years dedicated my every thought to his idea." " And the end—what will the end lie ?*'

"I do not know. I shall live my life. Apart from my work it will be a still, grey life. She is a cripple." "My God!"

John Allerton. walked to the studio window. Outside it was getting dark.

When he hfard the sound of low sobbing he f'irned and stood before her again, and, taking her by both hands, drew lier up to him. "Sweet" lip whispered, his lips on her hair, "whatever you tell me that will I do. Tell me to forget and I will forget." > "How can I dare? I love you."

"It should make it the easier." She put her finger under his chin and turned his face up to the dying light.

"Yes," she said, slowly. "I could make you foiget. I could make you forget that there was any other living creature in the world but me. I could bring such a love into your life that would inspire you to all your best and noblest work. I could make you taste the wine of the gods; I could make you drunk with it, drunk as the wild bee in the rose-heart, but " She drew herself from his arms and moved to thp door. "Stop!" he cried. "You must you shall stop!" "Not so. John Allerton. .The day would come when you would remember." —SILAS E. TREADGOLD.