CHAPTER XXXVII.

Te Aroha News, Volume V, Issue 247, 17 March 1888, Page 10

CHAPTER XXX VII.

Evcntt vi-LV, as it proved, it was the merest chance that throw him in vSabina's way. On the afternoon of his len\ing London for tilie countiy, whou hia painting-gear liad been packed and put on tho top of a lmn« .som, ho drove to Victoria Station. The place was busy and fclnonged; for it wanted but two da>s> to Christmas! ; and it was with an idle and yet interested curiosity tint he stood and watched tho holiday-folks while the porter was getting down his things from the cab. At this moment an omnibus was driven up ; and about the fust person to alight was a tall young woman, droned simply in black and partially veiled, who was carrying some parcels in her hand. Xow, any woman who Mas young tall attracted his notice ; it was a habit he had fallen into ; bub the moment, he set eyes on this black-draped figure, his heart jumped. Nay, as she stepped across tho outer platform and entered tho ticket-ofti.ee, his wild conjecture became a certainty — how could he mistake that graceful, easy walk, and the unconsciously proud set of the head ? Instantly he followed her — uncertain what to do or say — determined only not to let her out of his sight. She passed through the crowded ticket-office and went leisurely across the platform towards the book-stall. He causrht a side glimpse ot her faoe — and a thrill of joy and wonder and almost of fear flashed through his frame. Indeed thia was Sabina— her very self— pale, it is true — but as beautiful as ever ; he might have known it was she by the luxuriant, soft, golden-brown hair, that the small black hat and veil only served partially to conceal. "Mrs Foster!" ho said, rather breathlessly. She turned sharply and suddenly, with a frightened look on her face ; but she recognised him almost at once ; and then she gave him her hand, in a somewhat hesitating manner. " How do you do V she said. " I heard you had come back to England. I saw Janie thia afternoon." " I—lI — I am afraid I startled you," he said. " It was the strange voice — that was all," she answered ; and now she was speaking with perfect self-composure. " Let me carry your things for you," he said. ''No, thank you, they are quite light. Merely somo little piesents for two or three children I know. ' " Shall I get you your ticket ?" " I have a return, thank you." It seemed so extraordinary to be standing here talking to Sabina, about these commonplace trifles, just as if he had bade her good-bye yesterday in Kensington Square. And after that first brief shock of \ surprise, she appeared to be quite calm and collected ; ,it was he who was rather bewil- i dered and breathless and anxious to talk about agi eat man)' things at once. For he icmembered Janie's hint. The past was past ; and there was an understood compicb that it should lie buried and forgotten. It was the things of the present he had to talk about, in this interval of waiting for the t'"ain ; except, indeed, when Sabina was so kitid as to ask him about his travels, or ]»m intention 5*5 * as regarded the future. He left her for a moment to look after his luggage : and then these two went down the platfoi m together to the train— a strikingly handsome couple, at> ono or two of the bystanders appeared to think. The young widow was neatly dressed, too ; Lindsay, at least, \va? .sure that black became her pale complexion and her soft-braided sun-brown hair. They ro.tohed the carriages. " Good-bye," she t>aid, in a gentle and tiiandly w.iy, and she held out her hand. u But mayn't I come with you V he said, with evident surprise. ''You go to \Yitst?ad, don't you V Well, I am for Burford Bi idge. It is the samu train." "I am going third-class," she said, simply, and then she added, with a smile, " You know, I have to be very economical nowadays*" " You always were very economical," he answered, quickly. " And lam going third-class, too. Economy ! You don't know what is expected of us poor artists. 1 o-m afraid to walk along the streets with a decent hat on my head." •• Why ?" "Why? In case any of the art-critics .should see rue." Ho could nob explain afc the moment. Ho had to get his paraphernalia stowed ii.to the further end of a third • class <\\rr:aze ; and then he asked her to step in ; and then he turned to the guard who \\\3 coming along. "Look hero, guard, T have a lob of bi r >akable things here that I don't want moved. I suppose you can keep the compartment for us V A couple of half-crowns slipped into the gnaid's hand accompanied this inquiry; Lh3 next minute he was seated in the carriage, with the door locked ; and he was •a' one with Sabina. In order to remove any embarrassment, he took up his parable j»i;.tln — lightly, cheerfully, discursively, as if talking to her were the most ordinary and natural thing in the world. •' But it isn't because we are poor that we ■oitist-* ought to practice economy ; oh, no; the cry against us is that we are all so wealthy and pur&o-proud and prosperous. That is why English art is in its decadence. Did you know that English art was in ifcs> decadence V" " 1 should not have said so— nob in landscape, any way," she added, with a touch of flattery. " But it ia. You see, art always ia in its decadence, according to contemporary critics. Very well, then ; they have to find a reason for it ; and the reason at present is that in England artistß are paid too well. They live in comfortable houses ; buy brie a brae ; their wives wear satins and silks ; therefore the pampered sons of fortune can't paint. If they cared for their art— if they cared for anything bufc money and pro*. tu3ion and display — they would go and }i!v ■ the life .thafcJVHUe,b lived " ? * "J. F. Millet, you mean?" sfee asked — though she judged by hia manner that he,. was only talking to amuse her. j " Yes. As if Millet puinted well simply because he wan a feingularly unlucky man, and was badly treated ; or as if he wouldn't have lived a very different life if he had h,ad the chance. But take tho other side of the , question. If being paid for one's work-j-if , living in a decent hauae— or even being jre-, coived at court— w o f the $rtijjtV aims, how did Vandyke/ and Rubens/ and' Volaequez manage to paint at nil ? You i

don'fc suppose that Titian starved, or Raphael, or Michael Angelo ? Turner did not die a paupor. Sir Joshua Reynolds pain bod some passable things, too, though ho did not live in a garret. Well, you know, alt that is the Grub-street notion of the arts. And yob lam not sure that Grub-street has done so much, after all. Shttkspere didn't livo there — ho bought houses, and land, and tithes. Milton didn't live there, nor Pope, nor Dryden, nor Wordsworth, nor Byron, nor Sholley, nor Scott, Indeod, lam not so certain that our critics, who exhort us to livo in a garret, and cultivato literature and painting on a littlo oatmeal — 1 am not quite certain that they livo there themselves. On tho prossday at tho Acadomy, I know I have seen more than one brougham drive into tho court-yard of Burlington House. Now that's wror.gr. That is vory wrong. If a mai\'s work goes to tho dogs when ho gets woil paid, how about a cntio in a brougham? But perhaps they don't think it matters much what becomes of criticism ; and .so they may have their houses in Kensington, thuir boxes at the play, their tine dinner-parties, whilo we aieordorod ofl'toj make water-colour drawings at forty francs I a-piece, or else be denouncod as traitors to our art, and huckstors, and panderers to fd&hion. It's a little though, isn't it?" "They would be quite pleased to fee you as you are now," Subina said, with a smile, " in a third-class carriage." "Yes," he said. "I must manage to have it put in tho papers— they put everything in the papers nowadays. However, thuro was' not much of serious malice in this mock complaint of his ; for indeed the critics had boon very kind to him, as far as he knew; and sometimes had even gone out of their way, in their usual pessimistic wail, to make oF him an especial exception, as one whoso work showed undeviating high purpose. It was merely the tirst subject that had suggested itself on his getting into this third-class carriage ; it? served its purpose of removing any restraint between Sabina and himself ; and by the time he had completed a whimsical contrast between the lot of a critic in London, living in luxury, frequenting his clubs, gossiping through Private Views, and perhaps even seated at tho Royal Academy banquet, and the lot of a poor devil of an artist in the Canadian Wilds, with half-frozen fingers cooking his own meals and sleeping at night in a shivering tent — by the time he had put these two people before her, and sought to enlist her sympathy on behalf of one of them, they were rattling away down into Surrey, with the dusk of tho Decomber afternoon stealing gradually over the and. In his heart he thanked Janie. It was ever so much more satisfactory to be talking about the merits of English portrait-paint-ing than to be offering sham condolences ; and Sabina showed that she wa3 nob at all shocked by his apparent callousness, for she was most friendly and pleasant towards him. That was until they reached Witstead ; there her manner changed. For now the dusk had deepened ; and of course he said that he would get out there and escort her horne — making his own way to Burford Bridge on foot ,• and he waa a little surprised that she should so earnestly ask him not to think of such a thing. "Oh, but I must insist," he aaid. " What, do you think I am going to let you walk away alone through the dark !" "I assure you I am quite used to it," I she pleaded. " " Please don't let me put you , about so. Do you know how many miles it is to Burford-Bridge ? ' " Yes, I know very well, Here, guard !" " Yes. sir," " When you get to Burford Bridge, just give those things to the station-mascer, will you, and toll him I will send for them this evening ?" "Vory well, sir." Of course, when she saw that he was determined, she forebore to protest any further ; and she relinquished to him the parcels she was carrying ; then they set forth together, along the desolate road and through the ever-deepening and darkening twilight. He did not walk fast—though Sabina was a notable walker, and liked brisk exercise. He wished this solitary way were thrice as long. And it was ao strange to find himself alone in the world with her, as it were, in the silence of the night, with one or two sfcar3 just becoming faintly visible through the thin mist that lay all around them. Now and again a parcel that he carried would touch her dress. That was being close enough to Sabina. That was nob like being some three or four thousand miles away, halfdreaming, over a camp-fire, ot England and of a woman's face set round about with an aureole of golden-brown hair, and shining with benignant eyes. And he wondered why Sabina had been so anxious that he should nob walk with her from the station. Did she wi-h him not to see how small the place was in which she now lived ? Ifa ; that was not like Sabina, who was simplicity itself in such matters. And as if it could mabtor to him, where Sabina lived — in hovel or in palace — so long as sho was his friend. " You will bo distributing your presents to morrow, I suppose ?" he said (though the silence and the light sound of her foob-fall on the frosty road were delightful enough). "They can hardly be called presents," she answered, bimply. " The fact is, Janie and her husband have sent, me down everything that could be imaginod for my own little boy; and as I bad bo bo in London I thought I might as well bring some bib 3 of things for a few of the children about Bub why to-morrow ?" " sfou will spend Christmas Day ab home?" he said, aba venture." " Yes, I shall/ she said. •* But you forget — my home is here. " " I meant London," he said. " I thought perhaps you might be going up to your trienda— to the vVygiams, for example." "No," she said, shortly. "I am nob going anywhere ab presenb. And you — where shall you be ?" He could not help smiling - though she did nob see. For well he recognised the old abrupb manner — the straightforward frankness thab used to startU him a bit sometimes And highly pleased was he to find her placing him on the old friendly foob"Oh, I?" he said. "Well, one or two people have been! so kind as to bake pity on a forlorn bachelor ; and I was thinking of going to bhe house where there were bhe most children — for bhey make the fun of Christmas— bub, do you know, I really think I shall stay ab Bitrford Bridgo." "Christmas in a hobel?" she said. " Won't you find that very lonely ?" " Loneliness and I have been pretty constant companions since I have lott England," said he, <4 and we manage to get ou very well toother. VJTefre on the ,be.Bj», .of U?smB,,and-hard}y ever tire of each oth<^r, But if I should v tfnd Bupford Bridge juiit,^, .brtfle too dull on Christmas Pay. I may walk over and call, on you for a .quarter of an hour. You know, 1 want to' make the acquaintance of your little boy." * ' i She answered neither yes nor no, and; it was too daVk for* him to see by' her face-how she took, the' proposal. Presently, she said rabherly ajowjy : \,' " ' '* ! ' "I think, if I were youj I would accept one of t4ioae invitations. • It hardly seems 'E»gUsh-Uk&t<* 4p«h&- Christina? in a hotel,,. And there must be many of your friends*

delighted to wolcomo you after bo long an absotico. " "Oh, I think I shall keep to Burford Bridgo," he said, cheerfully, "if I don't pub the good people about. I should be a Hlrangor, now, if I went x>o anyone's house. I shall do very well by myself. " Thoy wero arrived at the front gate of tlio little cottage. •• Woll, whether you go up to town or not," she baid, " I wish you a Merry Christmas. " "I wish you a Merry Christmas, and many, many, many happy New Years." Perhaps tliero was just a brace of too much earnestness in this spoech ; for she somewhat distantly said :—: — " Good-night. I am sure your friends must be glad to see you looking so well." And them ho shut the libtlu gate ; and also bade her good-night ; and direutly aftorwards was making off to the southward as last and a* joyfully as ho could go — his footsteps sounding sharply on the hard road, a dim mist hanging all around, the Pleiades overhead allowing merely as a small faint patch of silver haze, a largo planet burning more clearly in the south. Then thoie was dinner in tho comfortable little hotel ; and there woio big logs piled on the fire of his sitting-room ; and his pipe was lit j and there were visions there — not in the least of a mournful character. His mind was going back over many things — tho evenings of former years ; and he wondered if she somotimes recalled them too. And most of all he lamented that he had no keepsake or souvenir of these happy nights, as linking her memory of them with his. The only thing ho possessed that was associated with Sabina was the chalice of rockcrystal out of which sho had sipped to pleaso him ; and he thought ho would have that brought down for Christmas-day — not to drink out of, bub fco grace his solitary table. If only she had given him some small trinket in these far-off days ! A rose, even at Mrs MoUord's ball : he would have had tho leaves embalmed in a small gold casket, that ho could have attached to his watch-chain. That was tho night she had come into tho hall as if in a cloud of radiant white ; that was the night she had gone with him into tho half-lit supper-room, with its festoons and beds of roses, and had lain lazily back in her chair, with the one diamond in her necklet flashing from time to time as she breathed. Or perhaps he would have been more fortunate if he had prayed for somo token of remembrance on the ovening she spent at his own house ? She was moro than kind and complaisant that night — as thoy sat at table together. He remembered some versos of a ballad of his own county— of his own country, indeed — " O din on ye mind. love Gregory, When we sat at the wino, How wo changed the napkins frae our neck 3? It's no sao lung siusyno. And yours was prude, and gudo enough, But no sac gude as mine ; For yours was o' tbo catnbriok clean, But mine o' tho silk sao lino. And dinna yo mind, love Gregory, As wo twa sat at dine ; How wo changed the rings frao ouv fingers, And I can show thee thino ? And yours was prude, and glide enough, Vet no «ac good aa mine. For yours was o' tho rod, red gold, But mine o* tho diamond flno." Cambric or silk, gold or diamond, it would have mattered little to him what this trinket might bo, if only Sabina had given it to him, as a pledge of remembrance. And here now was Christmas come — when friondly gifts and souvenirs were permitted according to common custom. From her to him ? — that was hardly to bo thought of. From him to her? — well that was a matter for long and cheerful consideration, as the yellow logs and roots blazed up in tongues of crimson fire, and his pipe was lib again and again, and the slow half-hours crept on.