A SHORT STORY

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 32, 30 April 1927, Page 12

A SHORT STORY

‘ROSE ANGELA’S LAST RESOURCE’

BY

SIR GEORGE DOUGLAS, Bart.

Rose Angela was brilliant and unpractical, rather brilliant, very unpractical. The able administration of narrow means was an art which she never mastered. For example: being a graceful blonde, with a clear, almost colourless complexion, refined features, and red hair of the right tint, Angela dreamed of wearing green chiffon, with hanging sleeves. She had hex' dream materialised (not foi' nothing), and having worn it once or twice, discovered that if she was to wear the turquoise set an aunt had left her (her only jowels), a shade of crushed raspberry would have been the right thing. So the work was to do over again. Arid to be experimental in dress is a luxury quite beyond those whose income barely reaches three figures. But here I am anticipating. Angela had lost her father early, and when her mother, Mrs. Beausire, died, and the quiet old country home had to be broken up, Angela, aged nearly 25, found her self in possession of a capital of £1,200. It seemed a lot of money, for Angela had been bi'ought up very narrowly by her mother, who, though a very good woman in her way, was strangely unmodern in her views of life. For example, being blessed with six daughters, all of them more or less

good-looking, it did not appear to her that it was her duty to take them out into society. Tout au contraire, she regarded society as a snare, and never once reflected that if she herself had not met handsome Tom Beausire at a Yeomanry ball, she might still have been playing the part of understudy to the vicar’s wife. Though somewhat overgoverned, however, as well as over-crowded —for, besides all those daughters there were several sons—the old home had been a happy one, and though she had sighed for liberty, its break up cost Angela a pang. By this time one of her sisters was married, one engaged, and one had become a nurse, while the two youngest were still at school; so that she was in a manner left to her own resources, for of the three brothers none was yet in a position to ask her to keep his house. The late Mrs. Beausire had not encouraged the formation of friendships, but by the sheer charm of her nature Angela had won a few nice friends, and on the advice of one of these, she now decided to do nothing in a hurry, but to take an inexpensive lodging near friends in town, and there wait to see how things developed. It might be necessary for -her to work for her livelihood, but this (to her) uncongenial necessity might perhaps be avoided. In saying this, her friend, Constance Desmond, who was 10 years the older of the two, had matrimony in view. It seemed impossible but that somebody would fall in love with this charming creature. But Angela was thinking of her £1,200. Much might be done with that. By way of investment, or of speculation, for instance. In any case, it would last her a long, long time. You see, she did not differentiate quite clearly between capital and income. The family solicitor had explained it all, but she had been in a day dream at the time, thinking of something wholly unconnected with L s. d.

The lodging in King’s Road, Chelsea, engaged for her by Constance, was a modest one enough. But she had not occupied it long ere an inroad was made upon her nest-egg. It was in this way: her favourite brother, Arthur, five years younger than herself had gone out to Vancouver to seek his fortune. Well, from him she now heard that he had fallen among thieyes, who had left him penniless. Four hundred pounds, he wrote, would set him on his feet again. Would she come to his rescue? Angela read no further. Generous to a fault, her thoughts were solely of the ill-usage p_>or Arthur had undergone. Well, Providence had been kind indeed in putting it in her power to reinstate him. It was but a matter of realising a few shares. So Angela betook her to the city, transferred her shares to her brother’s name, and cabled him to that effect. Incidentally, she charmed everyone with whom she came in contact. And, her business done, she returned to her lonely lodgings radiantly happy. The chances she might have of being repaid for her sacrifice troubled her not at all.

“Why, my dearest, you have actually thrown away one-third of your capital!" exclaimed Miss Desmond, who happened just then to look in And, though by no means very provident herself, the horrified little Irish lady felt impelled to read her friend a lecture. And the conclusion of that lecture was that Angela must find a well-to-do husband with as little delay as might be.

As a rule Miss Beausire gave very little thought to her own matrimonial prospects. There were so many things in life which interested her more. That evening, however, when Constance was gone, her thoughts lingered for a time upon the subject of a husband. “Now do tell me, dear,” Constance had asked her, “is there anyone?” Rose Angela shook her head, a little sorrowly, as it seemed to Constance. “Honestly, now, darling?” “Quite honestly.” “But you must have had proposals —now come!” Angela was not embarrassed. “Yes, I have had proposals,” she replied, “two or three—from boys—that meant nothing.” “Is that all?” “'Well, no—not quite all.” And it was, ndeed, not quite all. For, one sunny afternoon, in the garden of

the old home. Angela had failed ft elude a certain ancient friend of heV mother’s, Sir Jenkin Faithorne. whomi she knew as a good man and true, and yet had for some time past instinctively avoided. (She. by the way. called him ancient: “Who’s Who” called him 45: to which, as he was immersed in political cares, perhaps five might be added.) “Let us sit down here for a few minutes,” said 'Sir Jenkin. pointing to a bench. “I have something to say to you.” Angela was on her guard. “I’m afraid I mustn’t stay,” was her rather lame reply. It put him on his mettle. “Come, don’t refuse a few' minutes to a man who w r ould like to ask you to spend all your life with him ” There was manly energy in his tone, and though she tried to think that she did not understand his drift, Angela yielded. Then came the usual proposal of the elderly man (in this case a widower) to the young girl. And, being once seated, she had to hear it out. All that an upright, honourable, and affectionate suitor could say Sir Jenkin said. And yet, while recognising the propriety of it all, Angela could not disguise from herself that this was the veriest prose of love. And her dream had been of its poetry. “No, no—l can’t!” she murmured, almost distressfully, at the same time drawing away the hand which by this time he had taken in his. And at that moment she was conscious of feeling

that, had he been less earnest, she might have found him more moving. As a man of the world, Faithorne was prompt to recognise defeat. Nor was he one to plead his own cause beyond the point which dignity prescribed.

“Well, well, dear girl,” he said, “of course you know best! Nor would I even wish to persuade you to do what goes against the grain. But 1 hope this will make no difference to our friendship. And remember, please, that you have in me a constant and devoted friend.” He paused, then added, not without a smile, “Girls of your age sometimes change, don’t they? Men of my age, or, at least I, do not. Well, if there should at any time be any change, you have only to let me know. . . . And now forgive- my saying even so much, and good-bye.” Thinking things over later on, Angela decided that he had behaved like a man and a gentleman. He was likeable, not the other thing. Still supposing that she had never met Vincent Chelbrooke, she might possibly have come to care for him in a way. That was out of the question now. One point in his conduct which she strongly approved, was that he had evidently made no attempt to enlist the support of Mrs. Beausire. Vincent Chelbrooke was a type of youthful elegance. He had a slender figure and well-bred features, his eyes in particular being often described as wonderful. This was when maidens were the speakers. He was eight and twenty, claimed to be a pauper, lived at his club and in two rooms in Jermyn Street, and devoted himself exclusively to a cultured enjoyment of life. Of his superficial faults, perhaps the worst was a form of social ambition which was rather difficult to differentiate from snobbishness. As he had first appeared before Angela, however, in the seclusion of the old country home, he had been brilliancy incarnate. Her first talk with him was a revelation to her. They had intellectual and artistic tastes in common, and the quiet authority with which he laid down the laws upon great writers and painters impressed her powerfully. She did not guess that most of his opinions were at secondhand, nor that her own love of art and letters was a much stronger and purer thing than his. On his part, Vincent was sincerely taken by Angela. He telt that she was a discovery of his own, and that he would like to be seen with her, seated by the Achilles at the crowded hour, and to have people ask who she was. They became friends, and, in his owu words, “he did a little for her,” by which he meant that he had taken her to a few matinees and “private views,” and introduced her to a few of his friends. Chelbrooke, by nature something of an aesthete, very much admired Angela’s beauty. Some of his friends said that he had fallen in love with her, but he himself said (only not in her hearing) that a penniless man about town cannot afford to fall :n love except with money. He had an income of £BOO. She on her part liked him very much.

What, in the meantime, was the state of Angela’s finances? It was byno means healthy. After writing oft' her loan to Arthur, she discovered at the end of her first financial year that her income had been overspent to the tune of some £250. -Being determined not to run into debt, she paid her Christmas bills out of capital, which left her with a total sum of £ 550 in hand. In other words, she had spent more than half her fortune in one year! If things went on at this rate another 18 months would land her in the Bankruptcy- Court. She spent a gloomy evening planning, turning over expedients in her mind, forming excellent resolutions. She would sell her turquoises, which ought to bring in several hundreds, and would invest the proceeds advantageously-. She would countermand or return a two-piece suit which was being made for her. (The modiste was a good soul, who loved to make for her.) She would cease entertaining, even on her present limited scaJe. She would endeavour to earn something, either by writing or painting, spending long hours of toil over desk or easel, nourishing herself upon black coffee and embodying her dreams in art. In this manner the prospect came to look not merely hopeful but exhilarating.

Decidedly her future was not so black las she had painted it. And, after all. ; if everything else failed her, was there ' not still Sir Jenkin to fall back upon? I It would be a sacrifice, of course, but 1 after all most women are called on to make sacrifices. She had come to realise that since she had lived in London. And Sir Jenkin was certainly to be preferred to the “Gazette.” Still, he should be her last resource. And it . is noteworthy- that never for a moment \did it occur to her that her hold on \um was slight, or that he might fail -V 'i*. x She had lately been seeing a good dtY\l of her mother’s old friend. Acby his daughter. Janey-, he had * called upon her and bade her look upon* his bouse as her restaurant in the lib lgravia quarter. He added that he hi/» self would scarcely ever be at home a s besides his work on Parliamentar v Committees, he was piloting, or helping r to Pilot, a much opposed bill through House of Commons. Undoubtedly- this circumstance made it easier to i Angela to the house. Janey- Faitu orne quickly took to her. as so many-' people did, and her visits to Eaton FiV* ee became increasingly frequent. seldom Sir Jenkin would pass luV in the hall, or on the doorstep, but 4 here was seldom time for more than tU e exchange of a cheery greeting. And" when she lunched or had tea with Mh* Faithorne the baronet was seldom present. Occasionally, however, she would accompany father and daught-^ r to some evening entertainment, at which times she could scarcely fail to be struck by the tactful attentions of er sometime admirer. But if ChelU'Ooße also happened to be present I’m afraid that the older man had general\ v to take the second place. The fi% ct that Jane Faithorne was engaged to a sailor who was at present on the c\ lir | a Station obviated all possibility of rivalry- between her and Angela.

Said Sir Jenkin to his one evening when they were pixft'taking of some liquid refreshment aft.si’ returning from a function: “Have you any idea how Angela made the acquaintance of that fellow Chelbrooke? I simply- cannot abide him! ” Janey gave him the needed infca’ination, adding: “Mr. Chelbrooke is in great request. The glass over his chimney-piece is almost hidden by invitation cards, Angy and I noticed when we went tea with him in Jermyn Street.” “Then all I can say is that society is» less exclusive than it ought to be.” After hesitating for moment, Janey now said: “Father, are you perfectly certain that you are not just a wee bit jealous of Chelbrooke?” There had always been perfect confidence between father and daughter, and if Sir Jenkin w-as an ideal father his daughter repaid it by to some extent mothering him. “Has Angela told you anything?’ he quickly asked. “Never a whisper! But I have eves. And, dad, when I marry Jack and am obliged to leave you, I should so like to leave you in the hands of A- •>. You two are so well suited. to pat'll other.” “Well, my girl, I don’t mind telling y-ou that that is exactly how I should like to be left. But the outlook is the reverse of promising.” “I don’t know. Angy said only- yesterday that you were the kindest friend she had ever known. She looks up to you ” “I believe I had rather she didn't do that. But we have said enough. And now to bed, or Jack will blame me for letting your roses fade.”

Rose Angela had parted with her turquoises for about one-fifth thenmarket value, and by this means kept her financial position for a brief while from deteriorating. But before her was an aw-ful prospect. At her present rate of expenditure she had enough money left to last her for less tuan two years. After that, there would be nothing for her but the workhouse? No, that is not quite correct! There would still Up the alternative of becoming Lady Faithorne. But would it be quite fair fo marry a man simply that he might find her in board, lodging and chiffons? She had of late developed some scruples on this point. Then of course there was Chelbrooke, too. But Chelbrooke, she felt, as she came to know him better, was not to be depended on. No doubt he loved her in his own way, but what was tnat compared with his Jpve for Chelbrooke? Angela wasf not altogether lacking in clear insight into character, and her experience in London had greatly developed this faculty. Meantime she was wording long, though irregular hours, an(i finding considerable happiness in work. Whether in ink or aquarelle, whatever she did had the qualities of grfV-’e and individuality. Only- it was not marketable. For one thing, she Jacked training, and, secondly-, grace individuality appeal only to those who themselves have some portion of traetfe qualities. And these, at that timc v were few. So her manuscripts cantf back to her. And the two little paintings which she had paid to have exposed in the window of a frame-shop attracted no purchaser. With time and perseverance she might still carry the day. But perseverance was not her strong point. And as for Jme she had less than two years zo count on. Nay, considerably less! For at this juncture one of her rather risky investments happened to go pop, leaving her with in all something less than £IOO to her name. Her last resource loomed big before her. And, curiously about this time she almost ceased to frequent the Faithorne’s house. But her critical position did not prevent her buying a beautiful and costly present for her friend Constance Desmond, who was getting married It was at this juncture that she met Violara. You know, of course, that Violara was the great Spanish portrait painter—the greatest since Goya, or, perhaps, Velasquez—who was now on a visit to London, and was being much feted by artists and social magnates. This great man saw her at a “crush,” and had himself introduced to her. Seated side by side on a divan, they had a very- pleasant talk together, and before parting the artist invited her to visit his temporary studio. .Tumping at this coveted opportunity she went next day- with Janey and Chelbrooke, and was more than ever fascinated by the stately courtesy and chivalry of the picturesque portrayer of beauty and character. “Plow can I thank you, Master, lor this great artistic privilege?” said she in her most gracious manner, when about to take her leave.

And the great man replied: “By allowing me to paint vour portrait senorita, in the dress you wore last night.” (It was the crushed-rasp-berry-, still doing duty). “It will be, of course, what you English call a labour of love.” And he inclined himself almost to the level of the Persian prayer-mat. At the first moment Angela was for declining. But Chelbrooke, with his knowledge of artistic values, would not hear of it. “Why, Angela, this is your chance of immortality! ” And Janey joined her oersuasions to his. So Angela gave way. The council of the Royal Academy had invited Violara to exhibit at the annual exhibition, and time oeing short the work had to be out out of hand speedily-. “What name am 1 to give the picture?” asked the master cf his sitter, who had declined to allow her own name to appear in the catalogue. Angela, who had been looking into her pass-book that morning, replied, impulsively: “A penniless lass wi’ a lang pedigree.” The title tickled Violara’s fancy, and by- that name the portrait went to exhibition. It became the most talked of picture of the year. This was due to three several causes. First, that Violara was the fashion; secondly- that Angela was beautiful: and thirdly that Violara was a great artist. She had recoiled from the cheap

notoriety which would have been h had she attended the private view \ was she greatly impressed by Jan^° r information that a policeman had hito be stationed beside her picture • move the crowd on. That night, however, she was due t go with the Fairthornes to a in* . official party at the Foreign Office \v« had she mounted more than a *{? steps of the great staircase before ** became aware that she was being oh served and pointed out. “The penniless lass wi’ the lang poc greel” was repeated in penetrating whispers round about her, while far tastic versions of her personal histoi floated in the air. Her name Plantagenet. it was said, and she h < been bred up as a milkmaid. For Lon* doners of the upper class deligt t in < sensation, and seldom spare to work to death. Sir Jenkin was besieged for introductions by men who wanted word with her, by hostesses wh" wanted to secure her as an attractior. at their parties, bv all and sundry who wished to be able to boast that thev knew her. Angela took all thus very quietlv 'V’ith her it was scarcely a case oi rising to the occasion, for. truth to tel! shV was indifferent to admiration m thd gross. And to her it came much mor%e easily to exchange baudinage with one of the most splendid heroes or tH*o late war, than to inquire of a dressmaker what she would charge to turn a- skirt. It \\AS indeed, upon her two lovers that thl 5 * ovation of hers produced most effft ct. And curiously enough, it affected them in opposite ways. For Sir Jenkin. when he saw her triumph was well pVeased that her beauty and charm shouVl receive recognition, ever, after this s<vnew-hat crude fashion of the. London -%'orld. But for himself, he interjected interna ! ly, “There’s an •>nd of my chances anvway—if, indeed. I ever had ans ! Angy- will marry a peer or a millio2X aire - And in oneway I’m glad of it, I have felt for a long time that sb*e must be miserably poor. And y-et bar pride made it impossible for one tv attempt to help her!” Meantime ChelbrcwXjte’s thoughts ran as follows: “I must secure her instantly. London, alwaj’s so uncertain, has at last woke up to »her For there is no misinterpreting such a demonstration as this. After this, ali she will require will be to “run adroitly. Trust me for that! And henceforth every- house in town will be open to the beautiful Mrs. Chelbrook-: and her clever husband! There’s no time to be lost, however. For by tomorrow her position will be totally changed. To-night, I fr.ncy, I have but to throw the handkerchief." So he got Miss Beausire to come with him to the buffet, where lie found means to say:

“Angy-, I have been thinking for & long time, why should not you and I join resources?” To his surprise she turned to him quite composedly with the reply: "Why, because we have no resources to join.” Taken aback though he certainly was, he brought self-control to his aid. and explained that he referred to other than pecuniary resources. Had net she beauty? Had he not wit? “But, Vincent, one cannot breakfast on beautv, or dine on wit!” “We should not often dine at And with a large and wealthy acquaintance things turn up unexpected!} —opportunities offer themselves. Besides, we should always have m> eight hundred a year to keep the won from the door.” “But that sum, as you have one. told me, is not enough to keep even a bachelor in town!” ‘ Nor, to be brief, could anything tn« he could say persuade her to take him seriously. ~ , . {Jravelv annoyed, he told him-•• tha* her head was turned, that she wnot herself to-night. And he de * mil**! to return to the - ' moraing. As it happen sd, howevt, he rifct not have the chance. As janey Fairthorne was gojj* JJ from (S* Foreign Office to a ban J™ friends. Sir Jenkin and Angela alone to her lodgings. For. oi coat he must see her home. And in car this conversation took pace. “Sir Jenkin, do you remember *n--you said to nie one day in the g at my old home?” ba , “Yes, dear Angela, 1 renumber, I wanted you to forget it.” “Why so? Hwe you charged mind? You told me you weed change,” (with gen tie re P ro “’ , nf ■ "Nor have I changed, dearest aw. except in so far tha* I now **• with different eyes. I see that asking the impossible ’ .-afe, “If you think so, r dont. what would you say if I wem you that hardly a day has pass» then but I have thought oi J offer ?” ft “With repugnance? honest. I “Not at all! To be quite hones thought of it at first as a something to which 1 c*«* bt all was gone. A slight sob her voice. “That was not Menu ; minded, was it? To tura for solely for, what he c ° uld do , tbat I. too. who have always bell* my nature was rather bountifub I reallv did prefer giving to r “And so you do, dear! I've seen sco

of instances of that. necurrei “Well, only to-night lias it to me, after the foolish lu people made about me, tna perhaps have something tos tbe in- exchange. . . Foolish things kind women give an d bis “You dear, dear, dear girl- g arm was round her. As far gtre e: as those stars are above lamps!” It was the one and. in the House or out of it* Jenkin waxed poetical! . And it was well, perhaps. sua iir streets at that hour ere .. . ebarf' crowded, fully occupying t

feur’s attention. . . fter *il Sir Jenkin was niarried, JaD€ y before his daughter, so tn might have the satisfaction oi him comfortably settled befor*with her husband for M “Australasian.” -