CHAPTER XXVII.

Te Aroha News, Volume V, Issue 242, 18 February 1888, Page 6 (Supplement)

CHAPTER XXVII.

IN NEW YORK. Walter, Lindsay nover evon began the series of drawings of the rivor Shannon, the cliief aim of which was that they should form a littlo exhibition by themsolvos, and bo enable him to invite Sabina to the Private View. But after he had been a little while in America, the idea recurred to him of getting together a collection of consecutive studies of one particular neignboarhood : and finally he betook himsel co the Adriondacks, remaining there all the winter, and most of the spring, suffering a good deal of hardship at times, but working diligently nevertheless. When he returned to New York he brought- with him a sufficient number of sketches and pictures to make a very creditable show in a room that he hired for the purpose ; and if there was no formal Private View, many visitors dropped in in a casual kind of way ; and the newspapers were kind enough to approve. The end of it was thab a railway Icing bought; the entire collection — to be set into a series of panels in his smokingroom ; thus leaving Lindsay free to renew his solitary wanderings. But on the afternoon that saw this transaction completed, he thought he would treat himself to a bit of a frolic later on ; and so, being President of a small society going by the name of the Monks of St. Grles Q\e had borrowed the title of a club to which he had been introduced in Edinburgh), he issued a summons to the members to meet that night at twelve ; and then he went to order supper for them at the hotel where they were wont to assemble. From thence he strolled along to a certain large theatre, where they were just then playing " Romeo and Juliet ;" passed in by ihestage entrance ; made hi? way through many intricate passages ; and finally gained admission to a room in which Romeo and Tybalt— in perfect amity — were dressing for their respective parts. "The Monks meet to-night; I thought I would make pure of you," he said to Romeo. " All rij?ht," the hapless lover answered (for a wonder he was a perfectly ideal Romeo — young, slim, well featured, wellmannered.) And then he turned to Tybalt— whb, by-the-way, was as handsome as any Montague of them all. " I say, Jack, you know we are not supposed to take anyone with us ; bub I'll make it all right with the boys. Will you (ro as my guest ? I'll lend you a cloak and hood." "I should like ib immensely," was the immediate answer. " One good turn deserves another," Romeo said, with a laugh. "Jack, why don't you go and get a domino and mask, and we'll get Lindsay on in the ballroom scene ?" " What, on the stage?" cried the victim of this proposal. " Why, of course ! Ib will be quite a new experience for you. You're nob afraid, are you ? Even if you should be, that will be another experience. Stage-fright is a delicious thing— when it is over, and you begin to breathe again. Besides, no one will see you, if you keep your mask up." " Bub what am I to do ?!' " Oh, anything you like. You can stand and talk to Lady Capulet. Or you may 1 1 in the Nurse. Or walk about among the crowd. Bub you'd better not wander down ' the stage much ; you might geb in the way —and those Capulebs are pretty quick with their weapons." " You may trust me nob to wander one inch from the place Tm pub in," observed Walter Lindsay, with marked decision. " You'll come off with the others, of course," his friend continued carelessly (indeed he was more intent on pencilling his eyebrows). " And if you care to sbay and pee the rest of the play you can sib in bhe firab entrance ; then we could all go down together to the Monks." Well, it was nob only a new experience, ib was an absolutely bewildering one. For no sooner had he donned bhe longbluo domino, f with its , belt and dagger, and taken .the scarlet mask in his hand, than he was led on the stage and placed by the side^ of Lady Capulet's chair of abate ; and then it seemed •to him as if he were lost in ungovernable chaos. How was this turbulent, amorphous crowd, with its picturesque costumes, and visors, and weapons, ever to fall inbo the reguUted harmony of a ball-room ? The air was thick with warnings, calls, and cries ; his efforts" to converse with the Lady Capulet were of the most inconsequent k^nd. Bub presently there was a sound slow 1 and melodious ; a huah fell over the varied i, throng ; and as the raising of the curtain revealed to him a vast space -beyond this ball-room in which he stood— a space dusky, and dim, and huge, and filled with orahgehued masses of what were apparently human Jseings-^-he found thatthese figures near him were gliding through the gentle movements of a minuet, while a chorus of voices somewhere kepb time with the strains of the ' music. Curiously enough, he was nob con- . cerncd about the audience in bhe least To Jijm they were non-exiabenb. They were eyeless, as ib were. Why should he heed 'those distantand'dusky rows- of inanimate fpbje^cts bhafchqcouldscarcemake out? IbwftS' here, in this actual and living throng, bhat. tall his interests were ; and 'it wais tetfange to be one of bhem — to be in [bhe midst of them — nob the' remote spectator of a theatrical display — b»b standing amongst the •guest?) in the glare and gorgeousness of a ball-room of a house in Verona. The whole thing became marvellously 1 und unaccountably real. There was the Lady Juliet. Well, he had the honour of a alight acquaintance with the young lady who was then playing the part, having meb her in one or two social circles in New j bub now he forgot all about that ; surely this was the real Juliet, in, her father's home, observer of all, and charming: all with her youthfuldand radiant beauty, her dignity, her gentle courtesy. A few minutes before he had been up in his -friend's dressing-room, chatting to him, watching the buckling on of his rapier, and thinking mostly about the Monks of St. ! &iles; but he forget all about that, too; surely- this was the retfl Borneo— the love4 lorn, ill-fated youth— here in this ball-room t_in Verona— whose vibrant voice now thrilled through the half-silenced music :— "Oh, she doth teach tha torches to burn bright ! Her beauty hangs upon the check* pt night • liike a rich jewel iv an Kthlop sear ; , Beauty too good for uh, for earth too aear I But this was only, (she beginning of his bewilderment ; but by and bye, when the .mlnueb wos.oyex, the Lady Juliet -was ,iree to move among her father 8 .bidden guwts, bestowing hero and thero a

gracious word or smile ; and bo his amazement he found that sho was approaching him. 41 Good evening, Mr Lindsay," &ho said. " Ob, you need not bo afraid, No one can recognise you. Jack told me who you wore. " " But I am afraid— horribly afraid," he said. "Of what?" " Of getting in tho way, or doing something wrong " " No, no," she said, and then she added, with a touch of gentle malice : " Won't you walk down the stage with me ? Will you give me your arm ?" "Oh, no, thank you, I'd rather not," was tho instant and anxious answer. " I feel safe where I am, thank you very much." And surely this was the strangest and most dazzling and puzzling scene that any human being ever found himself in, whether in Verona, or New York, or anywhere else ? Here is what his distracted ear 3 were listening to — including his own voice ; while his eyos would keep wandering from the Lady Juliet to her watchful cousin and her more magnanimous father :—: — Tybalt : " Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold it not a sin." Capukf : " Why, how now, kinsman, wheroforo storm you so ?" Tybalt: "Uncle, thia is a Montague, our foe. A villain that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night." The Lady Juliet : " Surely, Mr Lindsay, you do not think that anyone can recognise you ?" Walter Lindsay: "Not hitherto; but now all their opera-glasses are levelled at you ; and suppose I were to drop my mask by accident what then ? Tybalt : "It fits, when such a villain is a gMest I'll not endure him !" Gapukt : "He shall be endured ! What, goodraan boy ! I say he shall. Go to !" Tht Lady Juliet : " I hear you »re going to take Jack to some club to night. Don't let him 31b up too late." Walter Lindsay. "Oh, I will look after him. But he doesn't need much looking after. Your brother Jack u a very good boy." Tybalt : " Why, Uncle, 'tis a shame !" Capuht: "Goto! Goto!" Moro beautiful than whom Alcreus wooed. The Lesbian woman of immortal som ! The Lady Juliet : " Well, I will say good night now, Mr Lindsay, for I shan't see you again this evening. I don't like seeing people after playing Juliit : Good night !" ' Walter Lindsay (remembering his part, and bowing gravely) : " Addio, signorina." On the whole, however, ho was more content when the slow processhn filed off the stage, and when they found for him a corner from which he could look on at the ever-beautiful balcony scene. And even here, standing in the "wings," amongst gasmen and carpenters and aceie-Bhifters, it was still that magic night in Verona that was all around him ; and it was nofc the young lady he had met in New Ifork society that he saw before him ; but Juiet her very self, in all her impassioned tend«rness, now startled and coy aud timid, now generously confiding and bountiful in hor love, and in her maiden charms. Nay, bo much was he impressed with the reality of the scene, that whoi Romeo, having uttered his last farewell, cime out of that moonlit garden, Lindsay, fom some kind of delicacy let him go by without speaking, and did not follow bito to his dressing-room. On the contrary, he merely sent him a message to say that he did not wish to stay the performance ou\; but would come back for those two when \t was over ; and then he wandered forth into tho busy streets of New York. To tell thp truth, he rather wanted to make this it frolicsome night ; and even a winter in the Adriondacks had not wholly hardened ip the sensitiveness of his artist's tempeiament; very well he knew that the tragic spectacle of Juliet's unnumbered woes vvus nofc the best beginning for a nierry bvening. And indeed, as it turned out, this midnight meeting of- the Monks -proved to be. a very gay affair, when each had donnsd his cloak and hood of sober grey, aid taken his place at the sumptuouslyfurnished table. At firsfc there was tlo kind of order in the proceedings ; the butf • ness of supper had to be got through witk ; quips and jests and anecdotes of more or less doubtful veracity were bandied about anyhow ; and, as the wine flowed, there was abundant laughter found for even a fish story. But when the supper things had been removed, and cigars lit, the President from time to time tinkled his bell for silence ; and in the pauses those who were able and willing joined in this or that old English glee—" Dame Durdon," " Calm be thy Slumbers," 1" Ye Spotted Snakes," "Here in Cool Grot," »nd so forth. Likewise there were many nigger choruses ; one especially being a favourite, for as each Monk had to . improvise a verseno matter what — there was , abundant occasion for all kinds of personalities, the sting of which, of course, disappeared, or was drowned rather, in the universal chorus of "Balm of Gilead, Gilead !" It was a' very careless and merry gathering ; bub the' climax ofitheae festivities was neither careless nor merry. At" a quarter to two' the, lights, were lowered. Bach' Moh*k drew forward his cowl, ' and sate with downcasthead. r<And"then, in the hushed silence, a powerful baritone began to 'sing— plowly' and with clear enunciation — that grimmest, and weirdest of 'all the "Scotch ballads, "The Twa Corbjes," while after each coupldt the wholer,nf ttie company took up* the fantastic and mournful refrain. It was the old air, which is curiously pathetic in its simplicity, that was sung ; and scarcely less gruesome than the words themselves'— Arid nae.ane kens that holiest ftio're ' But hia hawk and' hounds and 'hia lady fair, . was the >slow«ch'anted 'burden that fol-j .lowedr— ''. . ; ? t-WithafolJ*Mal,lallal,laUay> • ' ' ! JVitfr a facial !al,l»l lay. "^ % ;, „, And,- tifcnj when jbbe tragic w,a», .ended— ' ' '• - , - u Mony's the anchor him makes mano, • * But nane shall ken 'where he is gane ; Owre his white banes, when they ar« bare. The wind shall blaw" for evernialr. And when the last deep-sounding mournful notes With a facial lal, lal lal, lal lay, , With ailal, I*l lal, lal lay" had died into silence, they rose from t fche tjftble the .lights .werq turned up ;, ,ploaks and hoods put aside ; and somewhat sob.ered by this mystic rite— the Monks were free to go their several ways hbnie. . '*•'.' Walter Uiridsfty; however, had rooms in, this same hotel ; and ao, when the last of his friends had gond, he retired thither, drew in a chair to the fitp> cthab* Was; still burning* and took, from his pocket It had come that "morning ; it waa.from 1 Janie; and, although there was a good deal iri about her husband and 'their travels -in Italyy the bulk of it (as of yore) was all about Sabina ; and this' was wb*t Jhe wanted to read over again, in seclusion and, peace. '• Sometimes we were amused, sometimes wo were a little ashamed of ourselves," the ever-faitliful Janie wrote, "to $nd how often the same idea' wm in our head in 'going through thoM picture-galleries.

When we went into a new room we almost invariably made first for the most prominent Madonna subject. Philip would stand looking at it for some time. Very curious ; none of them quite seem to have her expression. 'There's something about those eyebrows a little like.' Then I (in sweet simplicity): 'But who is it you are thinking of, Phil ?' * Oh, you know well enough. As if your beloved Sabie was ever for a moment out of your head ! And of course I've got to think of her sometimes —so as not to feel lonely ; you can't always be wandering away by yourself.' But really it was he who began it, even boforo we were married, for he took me to the National Gallory, and we went over all the Madomas carofully, but not one would do. This one vas too cold and wooden ; the other simpering ; and so forth. Nor did we get on any better abroad. There's one in the louvre, tho Vierge aux rockers, that has something of the calm look of Sabio's forehead ; but her hair is more crimphd than Sabio's ; and then you remember there is a little trickiness in the smile of that woman that Loonartlo used to paint. Tho most boautiful onowo saw, 'The Assumption,' in Venice— yes, that was very beautiful— but it was quite different from Sabie. She is so much more human, to my fancy; and looks at you so straight. But if we failed bofore, you may imagine whether we are likely to succeed now. Phil and I went down the other day. Dear friend, 1 wish you could see her, if but for a moment. There is a look in her face that was never there before, even in the old days when she was at her happiest. I think she has quite given herself over to despair — though she would never complain — and I never wrote much to you about it, for I had not the heart to do so ; but now that she finds there is some consolation for her, and some call for her love and sympathy, and a constant interest in her lonely life, she seems overcome with a kind of wondering gratitude. If you could only see her stooping over the little bed where the child lies, and see the hnppiness in her face, and her delight in showing you all the little bits of finery and lace that she has made with her own fingers, you would understand how deeply, deeply thankful we all are that something has happened to make her life a little more bearable. Poor Sabia ! Who could ever have thought that this would be the end — living almost alone in a cottage away from all her friends ? But in spite of all her shrewdness and high spirits, she waa always romantically generous; it was invariably 'Give, give' with her ; and so to make up for a trumpery accident she gave herself! That's what I call it ; and many a time my heart was very sore about it, when I saw the result, though I did not tell you everything ; but now I am glad to write and say that she is a little happier. She laughed once or twice the last time we were there— it's auoh a long time since I heard our poor Sabie laugh. When Baby gets a little older, Phil is going to ask a friend of his who is a very skilled photographer to go down and take a group of mother and child ; and if it turns out well, be sure you will have a copy if you care to have it ; and aa for me I know I shall far and away prefer it to any of tho Madonnas we saw abroad. " We keep the house and studio as neat and pretty as we can, and occasionally have a few friends ; and often enough, when T see them seated at the table, I think of the night that Sabie came to your supper party, and looked so pretty as she sat next J to you. I wonder if you remember the Indian silk dress, and the fichu of yellovr lace, and the forget-me-nots ! Poor Sabie, there are no more such nights for her now." That waa all that Janie had to report at present. And if it never occurred to her that she was doing a remarkably ingenuous thing in writing out to Walter Lindsay to inform him that Fred Foster had been presented with a son— we,ll, that did not occur to Lindsay either. It was as Sabie's child lhat both of them regarded this new comer ; Janie rejoiced to' see that at last some measure of happiness had been meted out to one whose life had of late been loveless enough,; Lindsay wondering, in a vague sort of way whether Sabina had I ever heard of the pet na.me that the High- | land mother has for Her infant—" the lamb of my heart. " But his thoughts and fancies | went far further afield. During those solitary months in the Adriondacks, ho had been a good deal given to looking into the future, with no kind of despair or discontent .whatever, but rather with a curious apathy. The long, forthcoming years' looked empty, somehow, and not very interesting : that was all. But with this letter of Janie's lying on his knee— and as he 1 sat far, into the morning with the fire in the grate slowly dwindling down— other pictures began to form themselves. Strangely enough, neither Fred Foster nor Sabina was there ; he had forgotten them, > he did, nob see them. But he caw a young lad, talU for his age, and fair, with clear brown eyes,,and a bright and gracious smile ; ana he saw himself, grave and grizzled .and elderly, and yeb half admiring the „ lad 'a -audacity and ioolish opinions, walking by Mb :side. This was in Galloway. ' They" had .fishing-rods in their hands. ' And. \i the 'Mf, proud-featured, bub gentle-lfpped ybtith 'had been talking wilful perversity in politics, now he,waß all grave submission aa hia .elderly companion began .to select flies fo ( r,him and show him where were the likely casts in the stream. :• And nob in (3allo\fray>ione (though the'boy would j know- *ttta* he was heir'to a little estate in thab*co un ty)r^'"Miffht not.Menbor an'd Tselem»ch'uB-Aa^ys^ with their rods and fly-books ( accompany ing ( them-7-enjpy manir devious' arid distant wanderings,' with lunch on the or the rlver-bariky "antf evenings before thefire in the cosy room of •the.tan ? tv ' v , < I i tt For, Sjjtrlnj? J'd-m^ftt by. Tweed or Ail, . And Summer by Looh Assyntfs deep, And Autumn in thatjlonely vale ..^ Where ,^«4ded A-toni westward sweep. 1 ' O. wheri, amid the empty fields, , , Among the brackea of the' glen, * Her yollofr wreatfcOctober; yields, . U<■ Tocrowhlthe crystal brofrs of Ken.* , „ < The elder. ,ot«feßsse: two <ingeparable,~cont panions— whom he saw in r £bos,e , visionajy pictures— was himself.' "Arid the other?; Well, the lad had Sabina's eyes." ' !