The Stop Teller. CHINA PAINTING.

Wairoa Bell, Volume V, Issue 200, 2 June 1893, Page 7

The Stop Teller. CHINA PAINTING.

A NEW YORK STORY, Mrs Barbara Best was one of the sweetest, most peculiar old ladies in the worldTo begin with, she was very lich. That in itself is, perhaps, not much of a peculiarity But then she was spare and crocked and withered up like a crab apple which has hung too long upon the tree, and she wore a little black satin cape and cap trimmed with ribbon bows, such as were in fashion half a century ago, and she walked with a gold—headed cane, a la Fairy Godmother : and her eyes sparkled weirdly through gold spectacles, and her hands were covered with little knitted silk mitts. As she sat by her drawing-room fiie drinking chocolate and talking with another witch—like little old woman, they made a very funny pair indeed, f Yes,’ said Mrs Barbara, nodding her head, ‘ I couldn’t endure it any longer. I told her she must either give up me or give up her everlasting dabbling in paint and varnish !’ ‘ Dear, dear,’ said Mrs Fansliaw, the second witch-like little old woman. ‘ A trifle more sugar in my chocolate, please, dear. ’ * For my part,’ observed Mrs Barbara, ‘I dont know whnt the world is coming to. In sny time, we used to leave that sort of work to the tradespeople. But Gladys has an odd notion about independence, And she inherited some of that artist blood from her father’s family. There’s none of it in the Bests, I’m very sure.’ * To, to be sure not,’ said Mrs Fanshaw ‘ And I told Gladys plainly that I would not tolerate it,’ said Mrs Barbara. ‘ Choose between us,’ said I. ‘Be a lady or a grubbing artist, whichever suits you best. Because,’ said I, * if you don’t consult my wishes I shall disinherit and cast you off ! I know of another young relation whom I can adopt, and who cares no more for art than I do for the Egyptian obelisk.’ ‘ And what did she say ?’ asked Mrs Fanshaw, contentedly sipping her chocolate.

‘ She told me to do just what I pleased,’ answered Mrs Barbara, in an aggrieved tone of voice, • Beciuse, she said, she intended to take the same privilege.’ ‘ What shocking ingratitude 1’ commented Mrs Fanshaw, heaving a deep sigh, ‘ Of course we parted good friends,’ said Mrs Barbara. e But Gladys knows very well that I never shall see her again. If she lias wrecked her own fortunes, she has only herself to thank for it.’ ‘ And where is she now ?’ asked Mrs Fanshaw. * In a studio somewhere on Sixth-avenue,’ solemnly answered Mrs Barbara. ‘ With a sign cut : ‘ Art Salesroom,’ and ‘ Painting and Decorating Done to Order.’ ’ ‘ Did you evc-r 1’ said Mrs Fanshaw. And, by way of answer, Mrs Barbara only groaned. ‘ But I like Lovel very well,’ she added ‘ He’s a splendid young fel'ow, although I sometimes find his college bills high and his flow of spirits rather overwhelming,’ But he’s a gentleman. A real Best 1’ ‘ Does he know about Gladys ?’ Mrs Fanshaw asked, in a mysterious whisper, ‘ Certainly not,’ said Mrs Barbara, ‘ there is just enough of the Don Quixote about him to make him go to sea or take to terse writing or some other preposterous business if he thought he was standing between Gladys and her fortune—which he isn’t !’ Mrs Barbara added with emphasis. ‘ The money is mine, to leave to whom I please, and he is just as near a relation on the side of the Best 3 as Gladys is on the Mait lands’ !’ ‘ Dear, dear, how silly young folks are !’ said Mrs Fanshaw ‘ All I want them to know is that I am not to be trifled with,’ said Mrs Barbara, with the air of a Nero, in black satin and little corkscrew curls. In truth, Mr Lovel Best was a very frank, loyal-natured, handsome young fellow. He liked Aunt Barbara because Aunt Barbara was kind to him, but he rallied her to her face, teased her parrot, made her pug bark, laughed at the stiff old portraits of the dead-and-gone Bests, that hung on the parlour walls, and kept astonishing her perpetually. But all the time, Aunt Barbara knew that Lovel was foul of her iu his heart, and jt warmed her

chill old pulses to hug this knowledge to her ! ‘ He’s a wild chap,’ she said to herself; ‘ but he’ll come out all right, The Bests always do, when they have had their fling. He has none oi Gladys’ -obstinacy about him.’ And Gladys ? Well, that headstrong young votary of art lived on the smallest possible amount of money, and dreamed rapturously over her sketching board. She had very little money, which her mother had bequeathed her—about sufficient to rent the little studio and pay the gas and coal bills. ‘ As for eating and drinking, what does that signify ?’ said Gladyes. So she taught a clase daily in Miss Mincher’s Academy, to furnish the bread - and-cheese part of the business ; and very tedious work she found it. ‘ But I shall sell some of my plaques and vases soon,’ said she, hopefully. She did not, however. To be a successful artist, one must have an appreciative public, and the public never came near poor Gladys Maitland In vain she decorated the doorpost with signs ; in vain she hung out her prettiest paintings and most spirited sketches ; nobody came to buy. The agencies represented themselves as overcrowded when Gladys came blushing in with specimens of her work, and our little heroine began to wonder how long this sort of thing was to endure. ‘ Even Rosa Bonheur didn’t get rich all at once,’ she comforted herself by reflecting. But one day there came a gleam of hope athwart the Cimmerian darkness of her prospects. As she was working at her easel footsteps stumbled up the semi-lighted stairs, and a knock sounded at the door. ‘ls this Miss Maitland’s studio V demanded a cheerful voice. ‘ Why,’ cried Gladys, drawing a quick breath, ‘ why, Lovel 1’ ‘ It’s Gladys !’ exclaimed Lovel. For the young cousins had met once years ago at the sea side, and they never had forgotten one another. ‘ Why,’ cried Lovel, * rubbing his forehead as if not quite certain but that he was dreaming. ‘ I thought you were adopted by some rich woman here in the city !’ ‘ Art is the only mother that I know,’ Gladys answered laughing ‘I hope you’ve brought me an order Lovel.’ ‘ But I say,’ persisted the bewildered law student, ‘ why don’t you come and live with Aunt Barbara ?’ ‘ Oh. I’ve tried that,’ said Gladys, shaking her head, ‘and we couldn’t get along at all together,’ ‘ Speaking of Aunt Barbara,’ said Lovel, mysteriously, opening a paper parcel on the table— 1 behold !’ Half a dozen bits of china fell out with a chinck and a clatter. ‘Oh 1’ cried Gladys, stiffening with horror, ‘ It s Aunt Barbara’s painted china. Oh, Lovel, how did this happen ?’ Mr Best smote himself pathetically on the breast. ‘ Like George Washington,’ he confessed, ‘ I cannot tell a lie—it was I ? I was doing my gymnastics in the storage-room — Indian war-clu"s and all that sort of thing, when, all of a sudden, I lost balance and tumbled over the pile of boxes. Down they went! Aunt Best keeps ’em packed, you know, in case of accident, and, of course, the china must needs be under nil the rest, and got the hardest thumps. ‘ Wluit did she say ?’ cried Gladys, with uplifted hands and eyes shining humidly. ‘She doesn’t know,’ Lovel answered, with twinkling dimples around his lips. f Do you suppose I’m going to ‘ fees ’ before I’m obliged to ? I seized a pattern cup—broken in not more than six pieces—and fled frantically to the nearest china-shop. They recommended me—here. To Miss Mailland, No , Sixth Avenue. But I never dreamed that I was coming to my old playmate 1 Now, Gladys, lam at your mercy. Can these ruins be replaced or can they not ?’ Gladys frowned, half closed her lovely limpid eyes, pursed up her lips in the intensity of her attention, and finally nodded her Head. ‘ Yes,’ she said. * But it will be, oh, so expensive 1 First, we must order the china manufactured in just that outre, ancient shape ; then it must be painted, piece by piece.’ ‘ Let us hope,’ said Lovel, earnestly, that there will be no grand family iestival to use the china before——-’

‘ Aunt Barbara never uses it s ’ said Gladys. ‘ She only unpacks it at intervals to dream over the grandeur of her ancestors. Courage, Lovel ; I think we shall save you yet ! ’ ‘ But, Glady’s,’ said the young man wistfully, ‘ mayn’t I tell Aunt Barbara that you are here a’one ? lam quite sure she would invite you to her house if ’ ‘ Glady’s coloured to the very roots of her hair. ‘ If you do, Lovel, I never will forgive you. No. Neither of us wish to see the other. Let things remain as they are.’ ‘ But 1 may come to see how the china gets on ? ’ ‘ Oh, yes,’ said Gladys, brightening. * You may come. But, mind, not a word to Aunt Barbara.’ The important business took time, as all such things do, but it drew to a close at last, and one day the box of china—new, yet such a perfect imitation of the old one that Aunt Barbara herself could not have told the difference—was safely smuggled into the back door and up to the storage rooms. * Now,’ said Lovel, laughing, ‘ I shall breath freely at last.’ He gave Gladys a cheque for a hundred and fifty dollars, but as she took it he looked earnestly at her. Gladys, darling,’ said he, ‘I can’t keep my secret any longer, I love you ! * ‘ I knew that, long ago,’ said Gladys, in the sweet, solemn way she had. ‘ And you, dearest ? ’ ‘ I love you, too,’ said Gladys. ‘ Isn’t it the most natural thing in the world ? But I am not going to burden you with a penniless wife. We must wait until lam a great artist, you a prosperous lawyer.’ Lovel Best secretly made up his mind that nothing of the kind should occur. ‘ I’ll go home and tell it all to Aunt Barbara,’ he resolved. * And if she consents, all right ; if she dosen’t, all right, just the same! Gladys is better than a dozen fortunes 1’ But when he reached home, the servants came to meet him with pale troubled faces, Aunt Barbara Best had been found sitting dead in her ehair. Her will, all signed and sealed, left all that she had to Lovel Best. Gladys Maitland's name was not once mentioned, But Gladys was co-heiress all the same as Lovel’s wife ; and, perhaps, had the old lady known it, she would not have Jbeen displeased- For corning death lifts the veil off our hearts, and Mrs Barbera had more than once wished that she had net been so sharp and stern with Gladys Maitland. So they were married, and lived happy ever after. And Mrs Barbara Best never knew that her precious china had been broken, and risen again, so to speak, from its own ashes.