THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIII, Issue 94, 29 July 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

AN UNGUARDED HOUR. She waited, Mademoiselle Xoemie Vignal, in the artist's studio, her mind in an April clearness as when, after a windy shower, a calm gleam of sunlight appears. So she had waited before, for many artists; hut this, somehow, was different. Footsteps sounding in the adjoining corridor brought a look of expectancy to her eyes, and she stood up as he entered the room, an eager color slightly shown beneath her veil. With, a few courteous words of welcome, Cassell Gray, whistling softly to himself, arranged his easel and materials the while 'Noemie partially disrobed and prepared to pose. Occasional glances she shot at him might have betrayed, to one looking on, the course of -her intimate thoughts; her quiet acceptance and appreciation of his manliness spoke eloquently in spite of her silence. It is possible that so much had passed between them, for he had long ago found himself to regard her more individually; less, on.e might say, as a study for a picture than as a p ; :- ture. A glamor was over his senses this afternoon; on their eyes meeting, a conviction of her extreme physical fitness, her mental capability, her equality with him on most essential standpoints pervaded him, and he' threw out wn'i a smile the remark, "You will not be so tired to-day?"—referring evidently to some past weariness incidental to a prolonged sitting. Thus he placed Her definitely on the same level as himself. She was, so obviously, si lady. To-day CasselPs fingers were not so skilful and steady as usual. He was restless. After half an hour of spasmodic painting, he suddenly put down palette and brushes with a hasty exclamation, and, lighting a cigarette, began pacing to and fro. i Relieved from her strained position, Noemie leaned back luxuriously anion* the Oriental shawls and cushions, regarding him gently from between her, halfclosed eyelids. Across the studio the young artist roamed time after time, until at last a little laugh escaped him, and .he seemed to take a decision. "Were you ever in love, Mademoiselle Vig'nal?" he asked, stopping opposite to her in his promenade, and poising his cigarette. Her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, ■and, although it eluded his notice, her shapely hand clipped the corner of the lounge until the knuckles went white, and afterwards, her .fingers plucked at the siiken tassels, while a slow flush stole over her face. , "In love, Monsieur Gray?" she echoed, with her pretty, delicate roll'of the "r." "I. think not." Gray laughed excitedly. ' ; "Then you ought to be . Love is a fine tiling, ma'mselle." * "Does it—does it make you' laugh, monsieur?" This she said smiling, with eyes downcast. "Ah, yes; it makes me merry, in the heart, you know," he replied tameiy. "Then I should like to" be loved and to love, for my life has not. brought me to laugh very much. But If thought that love sometimes made one very sad—even to weep; 'n'est-ce- pas'?" • "Then it can't be the right kind of love," returned Gray, with, the' decision of a man who thinks that because he has found wings—the wings of a sparrowhe can range all glorious places of the world. Then, falling back on description as something more tangible and easily managed than psychology, he 1 continued: "She is the loveliest, nrost adorable creature you can imagine, ma'mselle, this lady I love; her eyes have a liglit in them as of morning, and her hair is like night." "Ah," sighed Noemie, "she must De beautiful indeed," and fell to wondering. "■Shall I ever see her, Monsieur Gtaiy?" Gray hesitated, then picked up a largje hand-mirror that stood on a side table. "Yes—you' shall see her. Oh, ,ymr shall see her!" he saiid.

He gave the glass to the girl, and made her look in it. For a moment qhe ! mistook his meaning, and began to arI range a stray tendril of-her dense, black | hair; then, as he waited, smiling, at her ' elbow, she glanced up into his face, and, at what she saw there, flushed and paled. The niiirror fell to !the floor and cracked—Gray was to remember that omen afterwards.. "Is—is it true, monsieur?" she whispered. 'Vous, vows, moquez de moi!" | But his arm was around her, and she \ took his hand,, kissing it passionately.

That same evening Gray spent with his friend and confidante, Mrs, Verver, witfi whom he had been "chummy" before her marriage and since her widowhood. After dinner, as they chatted over j the coffee and cigarettes, he put some leading questions that he might ascertain her opinion of the thing he had done. "Of course, Cassell," -said Mrs. Verver, "artists have fallen in love with their models—But they- don't usually marry them. What are you driving at?" "Rossetti,' retorted Gray, ignoring her query. "Doesn't prove anything. What's ra the w'ind, boy?" "Have you seen that charming- little French girl who is sitting for me?" "Yes, I think so. I fancy she came once when I was at your studio. You've not gone and fallen in love with her, Cass?" "I—l really Mieve I have," replied Gray, folushinga- little at the confession. Mrs. Verver gave a small, nervous laugh. "My dear boy—my dear boy!" she exclaimed. "Why not?" "How long tave you—loved the lady?" "About three months, I suppose. Anyway, I asked her this afternoon to marry me. Deliberately!" 'Mrs. Verver's hands went up to herface, and her slhoulders shook. "Oh! you can laugh," growled Gray angrily. But those white, clever jhands did not fall, and there came tiny, pathetic sounds which made him ispiring across, and try to draw them away;

"Lou," he whispered—"Lou ? Anybodywould think you were in love with me yourself, my dear girl!" At that she looked up, and he could have cursed himself for his careless words —for her love , for him flamed in her eyes. It flashed upon him with a blinding radiance that his "love" for the girl at the studio was the purest of shams, and that here, in this room, the passion for which, if a man is wise, he will wait half his life, had suddenly burst into flower. This dear woman-friend, chum, comrade, with whom he had discussed philosophically love in the abstract times, without I number—here she was, sobbing miserably, and he—idiot that he had been—was standing before her shame-facedly, tongue-tied, and desperate. "Lou," he said at last, "why—how was it I didn't know?" She leaned back in her chair, pale and exhausted. . "I didn't mean you should know—yet," she faltered. "But you—you sprung it on me. I couldn't tell you—a woman can't, can she, a nice woman? I wanted to watch you work- yourself up; you were .going on so beautifully, and 1 though interference would spoil you, distract you. Oh," she went on, "I've loved you a long time—it doesn't matter now." She said the words sp sadly, that Gray simply bent down and took her hands in his, Being a man of peculiar strict ideas regarding honor, Gray married his model in due course, and Mrs. Verver was an 'unseen spectator of the wedding. The luxury of tears, after that first dreadful evening, had been denied her, but her heart seemed .near to breaking. The next few months punished her until she was forced to obtain the advice of a physician, knowing all the t>me n«w useless it would be. Cassell and his fortunes, since her husband had died, had formed her especial care, and she had grown to watch over him, at first in a sisterly, friendly fashion, afterwards with an eagerness which none but herself knew had its origin in a feeling' infinitely stronger than friend-

ship. This marriage, after two years of looking forward to the day she had deemed not far distant when she might lead him up to a critical moment and allow the love ■ to' shine from her that a woman could do, but more than enough —this marriage of his with a strange girl simply struck her down; she faded as a flower whose roots have been poisoned. Sleep forsook her for night sand days, and when it came, only brought sweet dreams that suffered a bitter waking. I And the tortures of a vivid imagination' were hers in the long hours, of dawn and twilight; the man who might have lore*, her—-wtho did love her, she was surebound to another woman! She sickened gradually. ':, . '•''.' .! Six months after the wedding, Gray and his wife came to pay her their first visit together, by her invitation. Gray was profoundly shocked at the change in his friend. Still exquisitely dressed, still beautiful, still' vivacious, she bore in her fac-c a story of agonies' repressed, of a body starved' and! a soul, frantic, beating the cage to 1 pieces with'its strong, stormy wings. 'Her' eyes were terrible. Mrs. Gray lingered upstairs, and for a minute: Mrsi Verver and Gray were alone. •He went up to her, his eyes blazing. "Why didn't you tell me?" he said, clasping one-hand on her wrist. "You're ill; yori look" positively awful." "My dear Cassell— l may still call you that?—don'* be hysterical and uncomplimentary. There's nothing' to tell." She disengaged herself and walked to the fireplace, resting one foot on the fender. that can.be told—to me, you mean. Have you seen » doctor?" "Oh!" i Shte gav'e> a gesture of impatience. Men always thought that the doctor couldcure every fining. Her breath came quickly; she had imagined that trie sight of her old friend wonld be a relief, and she had meant to Brave it out so well; but the sobs were rising in her throat..

"I guess the doctors Save given me| up." ■ ' ,-" ! "What!" exclaimed"Gray, astounded, j "Can't they cure' you?" "Tbere isn't any cure,"' she replied, "for my disease." Her'husband broke a. little as she- spoke, and Gray laid his hand on hens-., / - I"My poor Lou!" he sa'id, misunderstanding. "At least?*' she-continued;, softly, "there 4s only one cure, and that—no money can buv."' Her ibrimming eyes met bis, and; once more, tHere were immensities of revelation .in the meetings'—vistas o\ "might-have-beens" glimpsed as a landscape m a ligtthing flash, bl'crtted out instantly by dark' reality, wi'tK but* their memory left. "My dear," he whispered. "My dear." Both of them had forgotterf everytMngl else. He stooped to kiss kiss of il sorrow, of pity,'.of reverence; she kissed \ him, deliberately, as it migWt be for the last—and, alas-!' the first—time. And Cray's- wife, -.pushing aside the curiam that hid the door, saw them. She went back quietly, au-1 gave- no> flint of what she ihad seen, save",.perhaps, by an unusual silenee. But that night, when her (husband, was* talking about the pictirre he proposed 1 to- 'begin on the morrow—talking, with Bis thoughts elsewhere—she brought him sharply to grips witft the actualities of the present. 'How long,"'sihe said suddenly, "bave you loved Mrs. Verver?"" Gray drew a long breath, and flushed. j "You—you saw?" be stammered, utter-; ly taken abaek. ; "Do you Tove 'me'?" sfte asked iii heri quaint manner.One of Gray's little prides in her had 1 been her pretty, unexpected way of qires- | tiomng him. I "Yes, I db, Noemie," he said; ami he he meant it. ' ! "But not like that?" abe suggested. j He noticed the ihardftess of her voice, and she fixed her regard on him so that lie could not possibly prevaricate. ■ "No," lie said-, sadly. "What can 1 do, Noemie?" • .She paused a- miniate, as if thinking i deeply, tllen: "I shall kill myself," she said calmly, as though sihe were stating that she should take a walk; "Nonsense; T swear to yo« that was the only "'

"I have no need, now, to live," she interrupted. He reasoned with her, and brought her weeping to hU aims, and thought that the promises and entreaties he uttered had won her to forgive him. He suggested that they should cast aside all engagements and take a long voyage together. She consented ,and the following week they sailed for Egypt. He sent a brief line of farewell to Mrs. Vever. On the fourth night at sea, Gray and his wife were standing on the stern rail watching the phosphorescence. He left her for a moment or two to fetch a book. When he returned, she was gone. The alarm was raised, the ship searched and stopped, and boats sent out in a circle, in vain. Xo one had heard a splash nor a cry. For a while Gray almost feared madness for himself—the thought of never knowing whether accident or design had sent his wife to her doom'haunted and unnerved him., From Cairo he posted to Mrs. Verver a brief, explicit account of the affair, "I shall stay ihere," he wrote, "for a long time—perhaps I shall travel farther; perhaps I shall never come back. The thought that I may have killed her—practically—is with me all the time." Mrs. Verver wrote to him an answer so short that it did not fill half a sheet of the notepaper. She expressed no condolence, wasted no words. "You did not kill her. But you can kill me'hy never coming back. Come back in a year; I shall want you." She despatched the letter herself. When she stood before her mirror that night, she found a light in her eyes that was newly-born, arid for a few moments she mused. Then her lips moved. "He will come," she murmured. "1 can wait." *