THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume LIII, Issue 97, 2 August 1910, Page 6

THE STORYTELLER.

■ | THE MAN IK THE PICTURE.

' I 'wish you'd make a clean breast of ' the whole business, Hilda," said Iredale :to his sweetheart. The. girl's forehead ridged into a frown of annoyance. ''You speak as though my guilt were a foregone conclusion," she complained. "That is not fair to me, and " "But I saw you leave the shop myself, so " "You've told me that before," the girl cut in; "and I repeat that you were mistaken.'^

Irediale made an impatient gesture. "Am I mistaken in supposing that you know these things?" he asked, indicating a pendant and bracelet lying upon the table.

"You 'know I can't deny that, Jim," she answered, quietly. "You accuse me of unfairness," he remarked, .reproachfully. "Now, what are the facts ? I thought I saw you leave a curiosity shop in Adcoinbe street, so hurried to overtake you. 1 glanced into the window as I reached the shop, and, catching sight of a gold pendant which riv?*-"-! my attention, went in and asked i.- ...

it, instead of coming on. "The shopman informed me that he had bought it from a Miss Hilda Loraine, of 3, Allendale Gardens, and that she had just sold him a gold ibraclet, which was still lying on the counter. 1 bought both articles, then came straight here. On asking to see you, I was told that you had left for the studio at your usual time. I went there, but you had not arrived.

"Now, you admit that these things I boujght ba.dk are really tiie presents 1 gave you. In view of all this, do you still maintain that I am treating you unfairly ?"

"In spite of all this, I insist that I ■have not been near Ailcombe street today," the girl unflinchingly declared. "I have never sold anything at a curiosity shop. My absence from the studio is the only one point I can explain. I did-not arrive there till one o'clock, because I went to see the pictures at the Academy."

"Alone?" "Yes," she confessed, fully aware that the confession was damaging. "Then you are determined not to trust me?" Iredale asked, regretfully. "I have nothing to trust you with," she replied. "I am sorry to have lost two of the presents you gave me, but your insinuation that I sold them is a positive insult! If I were a man 1 would waoh my hands of an;; girl whom I thoiigli'; capable of that particular meanness.'''

■Her flat contradictions and the covert challenge in her last words ruffled hei lover's hitherto calm temper. "How can I believe what you say, Hilda, when the evidence is. so dead against it?" he helplessly enquired. "I don't ask you to believe it," she retorted., warmly, her color deepening with her indignation. "Almost your first words were to beg me to 'make a clean breast' of the whole business—your demeanor throughout has been one of condescension to the wrongdoer. Discussion on such a footing can only lead to recrimination—l have no desire to continue it."

"I spoke like that," retorted Iredale, inwardly acknowledging the justness of the accusation, "because I " "Because you had lost faith in me," hotly interrupted the girl. "Because you thdiigiht I could descend to falsehood and deceit!"

"You are wrong—" , "I am not wrong," she flashed, back, before <he could get any farther. "Your meaning was too plainly expressed to be misunderstood- Oh, Jimmy!" she suddenly burst out. "You have hurt me! I'd have stood by you in defiance of the strongest circumstantial evidence the world has even known. And yet you can think this of me!"

She sank upon the couch, and the bravely-restrained tears could be held back no longer. In a second Iredale was beside her. He would have taken her in his arms, but she shrank away from him. "Please go," she pleaded. "I want to be alone."

Nothing softened him quicker than tears, and, reviling himself bitterly for his harshness, he complied with the request. ■Next day events took a turn which completed his unhappiness. All the presents he had ever given Hilda Loraine were returned. A note accompanied them expressing regret for what had happened, and intimating that, as he had come to i regard her with suspicion and distrust, their engagement must end. It concluded with ia pathetic sentence of farewell. Iredale knew ihis life's happiness was at stake. He crushed the note into his pocket, boltedl out into the street, and, springing into the first empty taxi, was rushed off to Allendale Gardens. There his worst fears were realised—Miss Loraine refused to see him. He haunted the neighborhood for days, and met her at length in. the* street. She informed hdm that she had been to the curiosity shop and asked for a ! description of the person who had sold them the pendant audi bracelet, in the hope of tracing the culprit. The shopman 'had made the astounding assertion that she herself had sold them to him, adhering firmly to his statement in spite of her denials. With such ah overwhelming .weight of evidence, her protestations of innocence would be laughed to scorn; yet, until they could be proved, she resolutely declined to listen to his passionate pleas for a renewal of their engagement. Iredale found it impossible to settle down under these changed conditions. He had lost all power of concentration; .work was out of the question; his thoughts were ceaselessly wandering away to the girl he loved. The mental strain was becoming unbearable, when ■war broke out andi drew his thoughts in that direction. The dangers of active campaigning would give him little time to brood over this troubles; so, under the plain name of John Smith, Iredale became a "soldier of the Empress."

When one saw Helmar's picture. "Left Behind," it was easy to understand why

the critics declared it to be the picture 1 of the year. There was a powerful real-1 ism about it that made the blood leap I and the eyes smart. ! Stretching across the background of the great canvas was an army in retreat, the line of march strewn with abandoned material. Flung athwart its rear, evidently holding in check the pursuing foe, mere the remains of a .battery of artillery, right in the foreground of the picture.

In a setting of broken wheels, overturned limbers, and prostrate men and horses, two guns were still being worked. Between them, bareheaded, calm and stern, looking out with a challenging gleam in his wonderful blue eyes, stood a young officer, a ruling spirit of the storm.

There was a weird, magnetic power about the whole thing. It seemed throbbing and palpitating with life and movement. One could almost hear the roar of the guns, see the tongues of flame leap from their black throats, and hear the cries of the gunners, hoarse with thirt, Are and smoke, as they slammed the breech-blocks home.

But it was the officer, standing out in striking prominence, and his expression of superb defiance, that held spectators in thrall. He and his men had been "left behind"—sacrificed to bar pursuit and save the retreating army. And one knew that he would fiercely .fight the remnant of his battery through to its inevitable doom.

A pretty young woman had come to a pause before the picture, but she had hardly raised her eyes to it when she gave a violent start. .She looked again, then tapped her friend's arm, and made her way somewhat awkwardly through the smartly-dressed throng out into the street.

"What's the matter, dear?" asked her companion, anxiously, as they stood a moment in Piccadilly!

"I—l can't tell you—that picture—it opened an old wound," was the disjointed reply. "Let us get away somewhere, out of the crowd."

. They crossed the road and went down into the Green Park. The girl who had been so strangely upscet appeared to have forgotten her companion, for she walked steadily on in silence till they reached the street again. Here she once more shrank from the noise and bustle of the traffic, seeking refuge in Hyde Park. Her friend let her go on till they reached some chairs; then she interfered.

"My dear Hilda, I insist on you sitting down," she said. The other meekly obeyed, but sat watching the dappled sunshine and shadow like one in a dream. The tender green and gold and the glory of the bright May morning held no charms for her.

"It was Jim,*' she declared at last. ■ "Jim?" repeated her puzzled compaii ion.

"Oh, you don't understand," sighed the girl. "If you wish me to understand, dear, I'm only' too ready to listen." The tone was one of sincere sympathy. "If it's a sorrow that can be shared—with one who has known sorrow " She left the sentence unfinished. "Yes, I think I'd like to tell .you; there's nobody else." And there, in the whispering shade, she unfolded the story of five years ago; telling of the mystery that had led to the loss of her lover, and how, after all this time, she had dramatically met him again in the central figure of Helmar's famous battle scene.

As the tale was told, a careworn look dulled the eyes of the listener. "I—l'm sorry," she forced herself to say. "I never knew you had been—engaged." "One doesn't talk much about such things," Hilda Loraine smiled sadly, rising to her feet. "Shall we go home. I want to think." ; As they left the park her feet dragged heavily along, and in some subtle way the burden of-her friend's unveiled past seemed to have been shifted to her shoulders.

■ The soldier saluted and stood to attention.

"You sent for me, sir?" "I did," said the Colonel. "What's your real name?" "John Smith, sir," answered the trooper, after a scarcely perceptible pause._ "Nothing verv distinctive about it/ criticised the officer. "I have an idea it is assumed." ' "I have always endeavored to do my duty as a soldier. Why should this be brought against, me after five years' service?" ...» "I am not asking out of idle curiosity, declared the Colonel. "If you refuse to speak, I shall leave your identification to one you will find it impossible to deceive." 1 A ru&tle of silken skirts followed, light footsteps sounded in the doorway, and a faint breath of delicate perfume filled the place. The soidier gave one swift glance aside, .then. quickly returned to attention. "This lady has'something to say to you," intimated the officer, moving [towards the door. ■'■'.■.'•■:: - I The trooper swung round to the lady, and Hilda. Loraine was once more gazing into the eyes of the man whom she loved with the love that'comes but once in a lifetime—eyes that had looked death in the face a dozen times since they had last seen her. "I have come on a strange mission, she presently summoned up courage to sa y_»to beg you to do an act of kindness. A girl is lying ill at Allendale Gardens, who is 'continually declaring that she has committed a sin which you and I alone can'forgive. She wants to see you. Will you come?" "What is her name?" | "Barbara Kussell. She is an actress. You wouldn't know her, but I can tell you about her on the way." j On acquainting his superior with the urgency of his visitor's errand, Iredale was granted permission to go off duty! immediately. The journey westward, with the girl, whose'very touch thrilled him, was a joyous experience. Probably he was the happiest man in London as he sat there listening to her soft voice relating the events that resulted in her visit.

She told him that, while at Burlington

House viewing the pictures with her friend, she had recognised him in Sir John Helmar's battle picture. She confessed shyly that the incident had somewhat lessened her interest in the other exhibits, and that she had felt bound to explain matters. Her doing so had a strange effect upon her companion. She had become lost in thought, and was so preoccupied on the way homo that at a busy crossing she had stepped right in front of a ear. She had received injuries of a serious nature, but had regained consciousness', and begged to see him.

"Therefore I had no choice but to set out in search of you," the girl continued. "I went to Sir John Helmar and asked for your address, thinking you must have given him sittings. He admitted that you had done so, but only after a great deal of persuasion, consequently he hesitated about giving me the information I desired. However, I put him in possession of the facts of the case, and 'he reluctantly consented. "Your colonel was kind enough to arrange for me to see you without being seen, because, of course, I was not quite certain that the man in the picture was you."

On reaching Allandale Gardens Iredale was taken straight to the sick room. He saw the invalid's face brighten as he approached the bedside.

"There! I've bearded the lion in his den, Sir John Helmar; I've interviewed a colonel and taken a soldier captive," began Hilda, in a cheerful tone. "Now you can confess, and we'll soon absolve you. I don't believe you've done anything half so bad as you imagine." "Oh, it's bad enough," was the quiet reply. "But it .was for his sake—my husband's; and I couldn't tell it would end likes this. His people were very wealthy and he married me against their wishes, so they cut him adrift. He obtained employment and we were very happy; but he could not get out of his extravagant ways. He spent all his own salary, and I gave him more of mine that I could properly spare. "One day he told ine that he had taken some of the firm's money, and that if it were not replaced within a week it would mean imprisonment. The thought of that was terrible to me, yet I was helpless to help him, for I was almost penniless.

I "Shortly before this, you and I had ' become friend's," she went on, slowly, looking at Hilda. "You had invited me into your rooms several time, and I had noticed on your dressing table various articles of jewellery. Driven to desperation by the dishonbr threatening my husband, I resolved to steal them. During my next visit to you I pulled the key out of your door —apparently by accident, really by design—and took, a wax impression, from which I had a duplicate made. Then, when you had left fof the studio one morning, I entered your flat, put on a hat and costume of yours, and took your pendant. Going bs.dk to my own room I 'made-up' as much like you as possible, then went to Smart's in Adcombe street, and sold the article I had stolen, giving your name and address. I went through the whole hateful performance again, taking your gold bracelet that time. "I ■saved him, but I wrecked your happiness in doing it," she faltered. "He ia dead! Can you forgive me?" "Certainly I forgive you," said Iredale kindly. "And perhaps we can persuade the one who has suffered most to forgive us both."

"Oh, if I could see it all come right!" she murmured, a wistful earnestness in her feebly-spoken words. "All my wickedness undone—before "

She turned away from them r but Hilda sank on her knees -at the bedside and threw her arms around her.

"Don't cry, Barb I" she said, onsteadily. "It was better that Jim and I should part for a while—he had lost faith in me. It will all come right, dear, now we understand."

Taking that assurance as a sign of submission, Iredale knelt beside the girl he loved and kissed her. "Will that do ?" asked Hilda of the invalid,- a deep pink flushing her cheeks as Iredale drew her head down to his shoulder.

A look of peace came into the girl's great,, dark eyes, and a weary smile wreathed her pale lips. Hilda's breath came in a quick choke, and Iredale's arm tightened around her. A few minutes later they crept quietly from the room, for the patient had fallen into a calm sleep. When she awoke a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley stood on her table. No gift from the lovers could have pleased her more, for, in the language of flowers, they stand for "return of happiness/ and she knew it.