Short Story.
- JUST A FACE IN THE STREET.
It w&8 fighting . against odds for m end which oould never be gaiaed. -Stanley Hayton threw himself back in l | his ohair and gaaad into the far corner of i his studio.
On the walls hnng numberless paintings—some the work of high-blown hopes, others'of stern determination ; the reßt were mute appeals against obscurity, of hunger, and despair. He rose, and stood erect in the centre of the studiQ, a hand npcn each hip, and, looking from canvas to canvasi recounted how each had been painted.) and all had failed.
The soles of his shoes were so thin hat he could feel with his feet how threadbare was the rug upon the floor* One gas jet out of \1 shimmered a melancholy light, picking out shadows" and seeming only to itensify the foggy air. The place, was desolation—an ocean if de«pair within four walls. Hayton swung round and took three [strides up to a table, from the open drawer of which he lifted a revulver and J* small tin. From the tin he drew a revolver cartridge. He looted at it thoughtfully, and weighed it in his hand. "It has cost me seven years' agony to live; it will codt only this—"
Ho slipped the cartridge into a barrel of the revolver, and dropped the weapon into his pook«t. Once more he stood and gazed at the pic'ures. They were hie [children, fie bad watched them grow under his brush, cherished them with a | real tenderness, and nourished them wiith all his imagiuation. The world had said nothing—nothing. But they were not less dear for that, nor less his children. He drew on an overcoat, and, having turned the gas out, went out into the foggy night. He stood at the eorner of thestreetand waited the passing of a market cart loaded with vegetables for Convent Gardea Market:
He turned to the right and crossed the road. A polioeman was the only person ho mat. Leaning on the parapet of the Chelsea Embankment, his back agninsfc it and his arms outstretched upon it, he tried to rekindle some of his burnt-but hopes, that he might have courage,to go on. He moved slowly to a lamp, in the Mght of which he examined his revolver. If it should fail there was another way ;o the same end rolling below the fog on !he other side of the parapet. Ha turned to walk beyond the light of the lamp, and started as he found himself face to face with a woman. Hia fingers relaxed as be gazed at her face, pallid as hia own, and the revolver fell heavily upon the pavement. Her face was not white from fear; there was nothing in her expression, oa poße suggestive of fear. Bat her shapely mouth seemed to mufctar an appeal to Hayfon, and in the sparkle of her fine, eyes there was a challenge to him to be a man.
He saw the woman's figure step into the road and rapidly fade away into the] fog. -
Then ho saw,the revolver lying on the t lavement—a grim tempter. He gazed at it, then wonderingly in th« direotion the woman had taken. i
He buttoned up his coat, stepped fori jward, picked up the revolver, and flung it out far beyond the parapet. He waited patiently until he heard the "eplunch" as the weapon struck the waters, and, turning, he groped his way home.
Next day the air was clear, keen and bright. Hayton took a portfolio of •sketches to a pawnbroker, and pledged them fur 13s. With the proceed* he bought a canvas and some food. flayton's pictures were all of undoubted taleut, and he might make a name by them if he could only attract attention. Critics thought well of his things, but passed them by because they were not urioommon in style, method, or conception.
His latest work wan different from them all. It was bold—almost daring. It was simply a face in the fog, with the light of a lamp falling upon it. A beau'iful face—just such as be had seen on that momentous night on Chelsea Embankment. -
In his pic ure he had hit upon exactly the same expression, and white he was painting and the features seemed to mould themselves under his brushes, he used to talk to the canvas as he would have talked to the woman that night had hiß mind not been Unhinged. And as his picture grew he came to lore the unknown woman, and came to love the picture doubly—beoanße it was his own, and the cloture of his love.
He Bent the picture to the Academy, with perfeot confidence of its being hung, and priced it at 300 guineas—a prohibi itive price, he knew.. Bat ha did not! wish to sell it; it was'all he had of her.
On the third day of the exhibition he 1 received a telegram from the well-known dealers in pictures, Messrs Grice and Co. It inquired his fewest price, for," A.Face in the Fog"j reply paid. He tingled from head to foot with delight at this, Dealers' prices are invariably a foug way behind artists' prices. He replied to the telegram that the price was 300 guineas. In less than an hour he received a further telegram from Messrs Grice. "Yes,owe know," it ran. "But what will yon take?" Hay ton smiled at the sarcasm.* and threw the telegram away. He bad hardly done so when another telegW arrived, making an offer f rom a city cotpQratidu. 1 1 - t i « Will joaaoiwptlwohanare* for No. 237?'Beply^aid. w y, ( ;.' Hayfon wm astonished at this. )i was a rat© thing'for the art advisers of a,oor W*osl %W!&'fate &s&**>
third telegram arrived from the rollers of a famous trust ofeafced f ( purchase of high-class works 6f art. "If No. 237 not sold, Wtniy it at j price," the message read. "Sold I "he gasped. It was gone from him. Thsfe wi refusing that offer, for the terms his own. He had offered it.fo guineas, never dreaming it would that;but it had, and the oontr&e binding. ' The price, the apparent ( riess of picture-buyers to eeoure his —it was no consolation to him just He had sold the tfioture he loved o 'woman he adored. He took up a pen, and accept* offer in these terms: " No. 237 i to you."
Then he went straight off to the demy and feasted hia eyes on his p« Oould he part with it ? Strictly spe he had. But perhaps he could ; get purchasers to withdraw their offer, would try.' '' He want out, and took an omnlbi the offices of the purchasers. He courteously received by a comfor looking m»n of middle age, and ph into business. «« Do you really want my picture !* askod, almost appealingly. " The i is, sir, I intended to put a proliilj price on it; I did no* want to sell picture.
■" My dear sir, if you don't want to your pictures, you should prevent en writing lika that about 'era I" He ojf ened a higa class weekly j m |nnd pushed it towards Hayton. But [artist was too worried at the moment [read the uotice*
"Yes, yes. But won't you withd your oiler?" he said, "1-wW'gli compensate the trust by allow you to choose aoy of my other pictui The suggestion of a bribe nettled comfortab e looking gentleman, became aus ere at onco. " We offered you your price, Mr B ton, and you acotyted it!" be said. Hayton perceived it was utelesJ argue with this man ;so he left. | At tne first newspaper shop he <Sai aorosg he bought a copy of the jouti which had been shown him, and stat in« in the busy street, he read ft hundred words of unstinted praise- of picture.
One picture alone should prove woi ft hundred a year to him: f If Mr Hayton can portray anybod face as startingly fifelike—one c almost see the nostrils distend wi breathing—the course of a year or i should find him in the premfer, ph among portrait painters." " Thai ought to get me sottie perfcraj Jtodo," Hayton muttered, as he clos the paper. «* What a splash I fa] made 1"
But under the glamour of his succe I was themueryof having sold his pi ture. ' ._. ■
He passed Burlington Ho-tae on 1 way home home to Chelsea. He wi stopped at the entrance by a fasnai ieaviog the oourtyavd. Hayton glana attheo.cupantof the cab, and starte She was the woman who had saved ai made him. It was the same b-!autif face he had portrayed, except that wore a devpiy thoughtful expressifl and something of sadness. She did a
Bee him. j Hayton sprang into a cab, and tJ the driver to follow the hansom. £ the maa was „o slow that the chanoe ij lost.
Next day Hayton want to ih Academy. But there he learnt aotbin| As he walked round the courtyard o leaving, a tall man of about thirty e across the square and sjopped him at H
gateway. "ttiyton," he said, extending hi hand.
" Bruce," said the artist with surpri; ["Where did you spring from? I h, given up hopes of ever seeing yi again."
"And I have been wondering fo monthß past where you were buried; Mr Bruce replied. "Your picture gat* me a clue, and I ewe huTe to find tfi your address. Dear old chap, l'i delighted to see you { Quite like> ol timesi I say, that's a Bashing fuv picture of yours. It's getting quite ft fashion to rave about it and weati romantic incidents around Mr HaytoJ Who's your mode;? Lucky dog If There was a touch of quizziness in h/j manner. "Well, we can't Btop here,'' be added hastily, before Hayton could speak. " Will you come round to diunei At eight and tell me all you've bees doing? I should like to introduce you td my wife. As an artist, you'd «4mirt her."
Q Hayton accepted the offer eagerly, arid! t when they bad exchanged cards the/] separated. :] Mrßruoe met Hayton in the hall «f, the flat in. Knightsbridjje, with joviality , which grated on the artist's nerves. He' , opened a door and gently encouraged. Hayton to enter a haadßomely furnißlW ; drawing-room. Hayton started m the door closed' , behind him and he stood looking arlha face of his mysterious love. She was sittiag in the yellow light 6t f «.. Iwn Pf »nd, tut she turned her face' toward* him she recalled to him mote i forcibly than his famous picture had ever done their first meeting oa Chelsea JSmbankmeat.
•Hajton," said Bruoe, extending »' hand towards her as ifaj rose, *» I think you have seen thia lady before." * Hay ton bo*e4. He bit his lip to stifie t»e Bry m his heart,
• • I b£ve had the pleasure of seeing fier before," he matured, bowing, again.- «Bot not the honour el knowing her. 8 .«^ P °h° * *«* » w ifraoe safdi ', T b * n if* »• »«»*>fle you. My wife's GoriW. Idy wit* ,wul be down in a minute." " I '". « " .- '. '' ; Everyone agreed that the marriage |port»itpainter,'you £no» »-*& flthel the only pofcsible ooftbnfion ißnt zoarnage »m *«t ,th« wmfiloMoa'coi fta happy,coritipqation... yl ;. "' ~ <■*> v,
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https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/WDA19020211.2.18
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Waimate Daily Advertiser, Volume IV, Issue 164, 11 February 1902, Page 4
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1,868Short Story. Waimate Daily Advertiser, Volume IV, Issue 164, 11 February 1902, Page 4
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