CHAPTER 111.
'Tis rather a s-orry thing? in these time 5 to havo to speak of a man who is in love ; for in the eyes of most people — especially of the young men of the day — he seems to be considered a sentimental jackass : unless, indeed, the ■woman he is in love with should happen to boa mairied woman; and then the whole situation becomes intelligible, and even something to bo mildly envied. However, Walter Lindsay was in love, and very much in love ; and not with a married v, oman ; but with Sabina Zembra " Pool fellow," Janie Wygramwould say to her mother. " 1 do believe he is the most wretched man in this countiy ; and yet you would think he had everything that a human being could wish for. Uood-looking— well, I call him most distinguished-looking— and handsome, -with pleasant manners, a favourite every wheic, every woman anxious to have him at her house ; and people beginning to speak of him as almost, if not <|.ute, the thst landscape painter in England; v.itha tplendid career before him; v/ith plenty of money, a beautiful house, and heaps of fi'iend- ; and then hN family— well, no vondei he i, a little proud of the Lindsays of Carnrjan, and of the old tower overlookino the Voa : just think of all that, mother : and I know it is all worthier to him just because he cannot have Sab'e's love— and Sabie's lo\e he nc\er will ha\e in this world." "Dont be so sure," the mother woukl an-wei. . , "Ah, but I know,"' the plain-feat med, o-tc\-eved Jamc would continue (and she seemed rather to like talking- about Miss Zeir.bia). '"I know the only way fco win Sabie'i love; it's through her pity. If you're poor, or lagged, or suffeimg— and look to lei for help— that is the only \\ay Then her rye prow soft. But why should she pit} Mr Lindsay, or take an interest in him— LancUome, famous, with plenty of money, and plenty of friends- -how should ho appeal to her pity .'" '• Don't you say that he is miserable i Janie smiled a little— but not out of '•She doesn't understand that kind of mUoiy. "N T o, nor that kind of lo^e either. If \ou speak to her of that kind of love, she only laughs, and turns away, babie w ill never mairy— never." "Don't be so sure," the mother uould iopeat: she had seen moro things happen than her daughter had. '• Ah, hub 1 know. And why should she mairy 'i Doesn't she see how great a delight she can gi\e to *o many people? and it's so ea&v toi her, mother. She has only to smile and look pleaded, and people aie giateful. When comes in to a room, ic'sliLe bimgin<r sunll'-ht; e\cr> body's face brightens uiT I wondei," continucl Janie Wygram, rather w 1 -tfully, - if beautiful people know ho^v thankful' tln-y should be for thenbeaut) I 1 wondei if they know how easy it is for them to maLe fiionds— and to be kind " „ . , t "Iwi-h you would stop talking about her," hoi mother would piobably intcipose at ti>i, iunctvuo " She has made a fool of you." "And you, mother? \ou don ■ see much in Sabie ''. Well, it's a shame to speak of her as if it was only her beauty. It's hei jioodnofc-s. She's 'better than she's bonny'— if that i» possible." " She has got a staunch champion, any One afternoon tlie young artist whose name uib intioduccd so frequently in their repeated coin elation?., was in his studio, up in Ladbioko firoAe way, and he was seated at an open piano, though he was not playing. Ho was a man of about eight and twenty or thhty. tall and spare, pale of face, with peilcctly coal - black hair and black cye^, that were contemplative rather than ob^enant-at least they were at this moment. The studio was a large and handsome apaitmcnt, hung with tapestry, and stoied with all kinds of bric-a-brac, that spoke of Spain, and Tunis, and Egypt mostly, though there was a nondesciipt and pictuusque variety and confusion prevailing throughout. Damascus - ware jugs, old violin*, bit-, of Italian embroidery, Indian swords, eighteenth century ale-jugs, Sheraton chairs, pictures framed and unframeel, photographs of popular actresses, wooden pipes," sheaves of brushes, books, stray mime, invitation cards, Persian rugs, Rhodian dishes, tennis balls, cigar boxes, Syiian silks, all were flung together anyhow ; but besides the-,c ordinary paraphernalia of a modern studio, there were certain '• properties " more particularly wanted foi the landscape aiti&j's special work — s, p-reat mass of freshly-cut golden -blossomed fuize, a sheaf of diicd bulrushes, the stem of a ' birch tree with its hanging silvery flakes, and everywheie bunches of early spring flowers stuck carelessly into pots. And yet there was a kind of harmony in all fclusentanglementof things : they seemed appropriate. Perhaps thesombre greynessof the afternoon had its effect. And perhaps, too, that had its effect on the mind of the young man sitting as the piano. When he put hu lingers" on the keys it was in a musing kind of way, and the chance bits of Mendelssohn or Chopin that he absently played seemed to come uiisoufjhfc for, as if it were his memory that was speaking to him. Sometimes his fingers rested idle, and then the silence was almost painfully distinct, for the studio was separated from the house by a sb ip of garden, and there was not even fche ticking of a clock to be heard. He rpia^ed one or two little waltzes by Mozart _• curiously quaint and simple and melodious. He hummed to himself, as he touched the notes, Lillo's Ritorna chHo famo, mio primo sospir. But by-and-by this languid and careless occupation ceased altogether ; he sat for a little time plunged in a vague reverie ; and then, as with an effort he rose, shut the mano mechanically, and turned to face the empty studio. This beamed to bring him to his benses somewhat.
" It's a queer world," he said to himself. And yet he seemed involute. He took ,up a wooden pipe ; but almost immediately ; put it down again ; then he went and stood j in front of the unfinished landscape that was on the easel. It was a large watercolour drawing : an evening scene — • the spire of a village church rising dark into the golden glow of the sunset sky ; a river stealing in shadow underneath a grove of dusky elms ; empty meadows with a pearly grey mist rising from them. Ifc seemed to suggest silence and i*emotencss, and perhaps a trifle of sadness, too, for the day was dying away in the west, and the velvetfooted night coming stealthily over the land. But what a time and place for lovers ! There were no figures in this , landscape ; he had intentionally left it without any sign of lifo ; it seemed secret and .sacred at this sad hour ; theie was not. even a swallow skimming over that still-flowing stream. Tint what, now, if somo veiled and hooded maiden were to appear out of that golden glow beyond, and come swiftly with timid footstep along by the hushed meadows and the whispering reeds? Could the gracious heavens be so bountiful, on some such evening as this — in the coming years — and she, the one maiden in all the world, be actually there, and him hastening towards her with wildly-boating heart? Easily could he recognise her figuie far away ; there was but the one. And then tho untying of tho hood — and the beautiful tender eyes benignant — Sabina !- " If 1 were on my death-bed," he .said to himself, " the imago of that woman would come between me and my grave." But what had Sabina dono that he should be angry with her ? hhe choso to make a fool of himself about a woman (he said to himself), that was, none of her fault. And so, as tho afternoon va-^ dreary and uncomfortable, and not conducive to work, and the studio very silent and lonely, and the associations of this picture rather melancholy, he thought ho would go away and seek for somo society somewhere. And whose ? Why, Janio Wygram's. to bo sure— if haply he might iind her at home. If not the rose, she was near the rose ; she would have something to hay to him about Sabina. He put on his hut and overcoat— and also a pair of gloves, for artists have abandoned their Bohemian manners and customs now a days, and he was about to pay an afternoon call. And as he walked away over Campden Hill Road, and so down into Kensington, how was it that his eye instinctively .sought out any tall woman that he could bee in tho distance? It was very unlikely th.afc accident should bring Sabina in his way. And yet the remote possibility was always there ; and it lent an interest to all the neighbourhood of Kensington ; and it had become an unconscious habit with him to look far ahead with this half-defined hope always pie&cnt with him. And then, again, where the High-street narrows theie is° an abundance of shops; and there mammas add daughter congregate, passing by the windows slowly; and if by chance he were to find Sabina in that j throng ' In especial there was a liovist's shop 'that was of interest to him ; for Sabina, when she came round that way, generally called theie to cany home forao flowcis for Mrs Wygiam, who heisolf could not well afford .such luxmies. However, on this particular afternoon (as on many and many another one) his half intentional scrutiny was fruitless ; and so he turned down Young-stieet and made for the Wygrams 1 houao, in Kensington Square. janie was up staiia in her mothei's • room ; she saw him come along the pavement. '• There*, Mr Lindsay, mother." " You must go down, then, and make some excuse. I can't sec him in this state ; beside.-., I'm busy." "Oh, lean entertain him well enough, mother," the younger woman said. " You've only to talk to him about Sabie." Of course, it was not Mr Lindsay who introduced that subject -\\ hen these two were seated in the dusky drawing room. Oh, no ; Mr Lindsay talked about theatres and new books and music ; and when Miss Wvgram incidentally mentioned that Sabie waVspcnding that afternoon with her people at Lancastei-gute, he did not say anything at all Nay, w hen Miss Wygram (who was a kind-hearted creative) would insist on talking about Sabic, and tho good she was doing, and her kindness, and her gentleness, and her courage, and all the rest, he listened lespcutfully, it is tine, but did not betray much interest. "Of com so she has her faults," said Janie. "Oh, indeed," &aid he (thinking himselt \ery cunning). " Well, now, it would be something to hear of them. As everyone has nothing but piai&cs for Miss Zembra, it would be quite leficahing to hear unkind things said of her." Janio winced. That she should be thought capable, e^cn in jest, of saving unkind things of her dearest 1 Nevertheless she continued. "Oh, ye, she has faulty and plenty," she paid, cheerfully. " How could one love her if she were porieet ? Faults, oh, yes. For one thing she is a little too anxious to have everyone fond of her. She can't bear that anyone should be quite indifferent about her. She likes to be well thought of. 1 don't know that it is exactly _ \ anity— . for it is not her appearance she thinks of- -it's herself that .she wanto people to like. And more than that, she insists on it. If an illeonditioned biat of a boy will have nothing to say to her, you will see her deliberately neglect the whole, of tho family until she has won him oa er in spite of himself. Or an old woman. They distrust pretty eyes. Then you should see Sabie. Oh, she i.-> a hypocrite —an out-and-out hypocrite. But that is tho one thing she cannot bear- that anybody should be quite indifferent about; her. ! '"So far," said he, " Miss Zembra's faults don't seem to be very serious. Some people would call them virtues. 1 don't think it is much against a woman —and particularly a young woman — that she should wish to be thought well of. It seems to me quite natural. And as for wishing people to be fond of her, surely that is natural too ! The strange thing to me is that sho should expet ience any difficulty." She knew he would come to Sabio's defence — knew it perfectly when she began. And f-he thought she would reward him ; she had observed his eyes wandering occasionally towards a photograph that stood on themantlepicco ; she went and fetched that. "This is tho last that has been done of Sabie ; do you think ifc like ?" He took the photograph in his hand. •' Like — " he said, after a second. " Why, it's herself — her \ery self I And so natural and simple the whole thing— and so goodnatured she looks." "Would you care to have it?" she said with an air of indifference. She meant him to understand that she could have as many photographs of Sabie as she chose. He looked up quickly and eagerly. "May I have it?" " Oh, yes, if you care for it. I have plenty of others. Only a studio is such a public place — people come strolling in, and you would have to explain that it was I who save it you." " But do you think I would have it lying about? I can assure you, no. If I may have it I will lock it away as my greatest treasure."
" Why, she might hang it up in her room, it she cared anything for it at all. Or over there — she might hang it there — and it would be hcr.s all the same. Do you think you could induce her to accept it — if it was framed, and made a little more presentable?" " Oh, no, no, no, Mr Lindsay," Miss Janie said earnestly. "It's bad enough for a parcel of strangers to go into an artist's studio " " Strangers* ! ' said he. " But to plunder him as well, simply because you happen to say you like a particular picture '' "But you don't know," he broke in. ''Why, you don't know what pleasure it would give me if Miss Zembra would onlytake that picture. It's nothing. It's a foolish kind of thing. But if she sees anything in it— if bhe would take it—" " I'm sure she would not," said Miss Janie, promptly, " and I know I should get into sad trouble if she discoveied that I was the cause of your making so grenerous an offer. Bub— but -now, shall "I be frank with you ?" " Yes ; but be fiank in this way. I give you the picture, and you will hang it up in her room, ' paid he. " Oh, no ; how could that be ? But— bub — if you would make a small sketch of it — something that would not cost you too much trouble — I'm sure she would be glad to have that." "Arc you sure she would take it?" he said, eagerly. " I'm sure she would be very, very much pleasod to have it," said Miss Oanie, frankly. "But you bee how it is, Mr Lindsay; it's difficult for people who aie not artists to accept a valuable picture. It's all very well for artists, who can repay in kind." " Then you think there is nothing in winning approval — there is nothing in being able to gi atify a f riond ?" said he. "Oh, yes ; if everyone was as pretty as Sabie, I could understand it," she rejoined. " But even in her case " And then he grew bold. "Now I am going to tell you something," said he, ~" and to ask of you the greatest favour I ever asked of anybody. Have you heard of Borella, the new baritone? No? Well, ho has only sung at one or two houses, privately, as yob ; bub he is something wonderful, I assure you ; the quality of his voice is perfectly marvellous, and the skill with which he adapts it to a small room just as marvellous, too. Well, he is coming to my studio Thursday next week, in the evening ; and there will be a few young people there, and there will be a little music, and a little supper, and so forth ; and I was wondering if your mother and you would be so kind as to join the little party." •' I think I know,*' interposed Miss Janie, with a smile ; and although she was nob pretty, she could look friendly and amiable on occasion, and she had a little sympathy with this unhappy man. " I think I know. You would like mother to go up in the afternoon, and have a little^chat with Mrs Summers about the supper, and the arrangement of the flowers, and so forth ?" " Would she be so kind ?" "But as for me," said Miss Janie, demurely, "what use would I be? Well, would you like me to bring Sabie with mo?" , . He lowered his eyes, to lndo their anxiety. "Do you think Miss Zembra would care to come up for even half an hour ?" said he. " Borella is a very good-natured fellow ; ho told me that if he came at all it would be to sing for my guests. I think she would be pleased. I am sure she would be pleased." "But that's not tho way to pub it when you're talking about Sabie. The question is — Can she do a kindness to anybody ?" " I should consider it moi'e than a kindness," he said, in a rather low voice.
" Oh, bub you must not say ?uch things,' said Miss Janio, laughing. " And about the studio, Mr Lindsay, I hope you did not think it rude of us going in the other day ?" " It was the most awful piece of .bad luck that ever happened to me that I should have been out," he answered. " And Mrs Summers not to have offered you tea. She's a dreadfully stupid woman, that woman," " But I suppose she was so frightened by our boldness," said Miss Janie. " Yoxi see, it was such a temptation. Sabie had never been in a studio before. And then mother happened to bo with us ; and it was really her doing j for when Mrs Summers said you were not at home, mother said : ' Oh, that's all right ; we'll go and rummage over tho place.' And Sabie said: 'Oh, he's so good-natured, he won't mind.' And you should have seen how interested she was — especially in the embroidery ; and she wondered who could have taught you to pick up such things. Yes, and the picture — you should have hoard what she said — " "But which one?" he said, quickly; it was all music to his ears. "The one on the easel -you know — the one with the church and the trees and the river — the evening one " '•Did she like that?" "Oh, yes ; you should have heard. And when Sabie likes a thing, she tells you." "Miss Wygram, would you do me a very, very great favour?'' wild he. "Do you think you could get her to accept it ?" "What?" "That picture. Do you think Miss Zembra would take it? I should be so glad if she would. It is a fair exchange. I have her portrait. Do you think she would take that drawing, if I finished it and had it framed for her '!" "But what would she do with it?" Miss Janie said ; she was a little bit frightened, thinking fcho had said too much ; and she knew that Mr Lindsays pictures fetched very large pi ice?, for \ watei-coloms.
" Oh, I'll bring.Sabio along,!' Miss Janie ' said cheerfully. " Will you V He- said. He looked' up. "It is a promise,, mind. And. you know Mis 3 Janie" (for he-psrmitted himself this familiarity on rare- occasions), "lam going to insist on your taking .that sunset sketch as a prosent from me. Oh, yes, you must. When I have offered, anybody anything, then it is no longer mine." " But, good gracious, Mv Lindsay, -what should I do with such a valuable picture ?" said Mis 3 Janie, frightoned again. "]t will become valuable if you aooepfc it," said he, gently* "And there is the very place to hang it,, over there j and if Miss Zembra would care- to have a little replica of it, I should be very happy to do that for her at any time. " He rose and took*his hat. j "I will send your mother a little reminder note about Thursday next week," said he. "And I hopo you won't iougeb your promise about Miss Zembra." - " Oh, I'll bring Sabie along," was the confident answer. ' ' Good-bye. " Dark had fallen over Kensington now : but for him the grey melancholy that hung about the dismai.streets was filled with all kinds of brilliant and happy visions. Sabina was comiag to his little party, : and now the question was as to what ho could do, and plan, end contrne for the entertainment of this radiant visitor. Neither Mrs Summers nor Mrs Wygrain, to begin with, was to be entrusted with the supper arrangement ; he would go forthwith to a famous confectioner and bid him, do his best, sparing neither cost nor trouble. And he would call on the #reat baritone, and make &iuvo of him. Then, whatever Covent Gardcw could produce in the way of flowers would make that one night swes?t and memorable ; with this proviso, that while the florist might exercise his fancy as he pleased with regard to the little b»uquelb or button-holes placed on the table for the guests, he— that is to say, the host himself — would reserve for himself, and' for himself alcne, the devising of the bouquet that Satina would find awaiting her !
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Te Aroha News, 26 November 1887, Page 6
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3,659CHAPTER III. Te Aroha News, 26 November 1887, Page 6
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