BALARIE'S PICTURE. BY HELEN LAKE. (From the Argonaut.)

Waikato Times, Volume XXVI, Issue 2161, 15 May 1886, Page 1 (Supplement)

BALARIE'S PICTURE. BY HELEN LAKE. (From the Argonaut.)

All my life I have been a dreamer, not the quiet absent-minded failuro that the word usually implies, but a dreamer >in the literal sense. My waking hours have always been characterised by nervous excitability, and iv my fleep my visions were always so distinct that to this day some of them take the place of realities in ray life. My childhood was 50 checkered by these freaks of imagination that my father was suro that I wuh destined to greatness in some one of the arts. I have nevor attuined greatness, but a frtcility for drawing, declared by my father to be inherited ffom his family," developed into a taste for painting which my relations and I persuaded ourselves wus genius. Accordingly I was sent to Paris to study art, and there I camo by accident upon a story that worked very powerfully on my imagination. It concerned & legendary picture by an ancient namesake of mine, and ran an follows : Before the revolution of '80, an artist named Balarie married a beautiful girl, who, after bis "marriage, nerved as his model for some of his most oelebrated pictures. As time , went on there were rumours of frightful scene* of insane and causeless jealousy on his part, ending at lanfc in her death at his hands. He managed to escape the penalty of murder, und from that time' he lived in seclusion with his two children, a boy und a girl, who were ignorant of tho manner of their mother's death ; and ha was never known to' take a brush in his hand. The girl grew up and married against hor father* wishes though ho gave a grim, consent, and on' her wedding-day he presented her with his latest' work, which had employed him secretly" ever nince his wifeV tragic end. > Ifr wai his master-piece, and so powerful ' that tho- bride fainted' at the sight of it. The subject' of thin picture I could not ascertain. ■ All Balarie's work was destroyed during the revolution, and though 1 I learned that his son ' escaped from, Franoe and founded' our race in America. I could not, after tho most patient research* discover any traces of the 'daughter's fate. What had become of that picture?' I thought about it by day and dreamed of it by night. What woo. it? What whs it? What did itrepresent ? i -Often in my dreams I thought I had found it, bur always when I approached it I pay either a blur or a meaningless ■ monstrosity,- such as ■ sometimes makes sleep horrible, I returned to America, set up a studio in one of the large cities, aud became moderately successful. I even became celebrated in a mild way, for an air of brooding mystery about my landscapes, which, gained jnemore, notoriety than buyers. How it came there I could not tell myself., It grew in spite of ma, and the more, L 'tried to reproduce smiling scenes, with tho bad fidelity of a photograph, the more did the atmosphere seem to be charged, with impending doom, the sun to »bino, in, cruelest mockery of the coming grief hovering, above the innocent farm-house or unheeding figures tbat I had introduced as simple adjuncts in composing my picture. One, summer. I went into the country on a sketching tour. I stopped at a tiny village, consisting of one short stredt lined vr}th horse-cbeatnuts and maples, ■ituated in the heart of a picturesque country of farm, laud, plaoid water, and woods. ' Tho first night of my arrival I spent in looking over what I had brought with me in the shape of books, picked up at random to beguile my intervals of work during my a^ay. By the light of a couple of dim candles I fluttered the leavei of a l|ttle volume of Dante, Jtowetti's poem until my attention was suddenly fastened upon two verses, called "Sudden Light": " I have been here before, But whea-orbciwl cannot tell ; I know the grass beyond the door, " The sweet, keen smell. The sighing luund, the lights around the , „ shore. "You have been mine before— ,

How long ago I njay not know ! But just when at that swallow's soar Your neck turned so, . Some veil did f*U— l know it all of yore." I read this over three time* be p ore I hccitno conscious of its fascination over roe', then' for the fourth time I fastened tho lines' 6u niy toemorj, Tho poem expressed in words a vague impression common to man^'of us;' and, letting the book drop, I entered on the tr»'n of thoughts it awakened until I tell i to * doze, and in that short dumber » drcaa

ciime to me as vivid as any of those that had been the ecstacy and the terror of my childhood. It was only a seene — a wide expanse of fresh green grass, a background of elms, a broad, grarelled sweep before a low, largo house, the front doors thrown open, the summer sun flooding the great tessolated hall, and down the generous staircase came the figure of a woman, known yet unknown, young, beautiful, in a ti ailing dress of some tbin black stuff, through which her neck and arms shone veiled with white. How long the dream lasted, bat suddenly, without effort, I awoke, broadly, completely, but the influence of that sunshine and that woman was with ma still. I rose from the sofa where I had fallen anleep, and went to tho window. Deathly stillness from all human ■ounds reigned profound. The chirping of the summer insects only accented the deep solemnity of the silence, the stars burnod in the dark midnight heaven, the quiet water gleamed under the setting moon. Then the bell from the church in the village tolled the hour ; its few vibrations seemed to echo for minutes after the great iron tongue was still, and in a strangely peaceful yet presnveful frame of mind, I made ready to exchange for bed the hard horsehair sofa that had nevertheless given me that vision of light and life. The village people were hospitable, and a stranger was a God-send to them. In a short time I was on the best of terms with them, and they were continually doing something for my amu.«otnent— and their own. Among other schemes, one of my entertainers suggested a drive to GilChrist's, a family living in a pretty place three or four miles beyond the city. I was only too delighted. I liked to meet stranger* — to be tangent as it were, to the circles of so many new existences for tho moment without the responsibility of future acquaintance or friendship. For impressions of people have always curiously interested me ; they are generally as unlike to the true character and habits of those meeting as most dreams to realities. I met people with tranquil pleasure, and parted from them without regret. But as we turned in at the gate of the Gilchrist place, my breath came short and I experienced a strange sort of eagerness, that seemed to be outside of myself and unaccountable to my consciousness. We rounded a turn in the avenue, and— I had been there before. Yrs, there wefe the lawn with the flickering elm shadows, the gravel sweep, the open doors of the wide hall, and with her foot on the last descending stair stood Agatha Gilchrist, just as she had stood that night in my dream. It seemed to me that I knew her well— better than I knew her home. That I had only seen once before, but she was like an old friend, and even her voice sounded familiar. Her father bud been dead a few .months, and she lived alone with her mother, they had told me. It was curious that this sensation of previous knowledge did not extend to Mrs Gilchrist, who received u» with gracious courtesy. My name evidently struck her and awoke some strain of thought, for she presently said to mo : •Mr Balarie, have you ever taken any interest in tracing genealogies ?" With the exception of my own, there was no subject in which I took less interest, but I made a non-committal reply. "Your name," she continued, "is one that I have never seen anywhere except on an old picture that has been in my husband's family for generations." As she spoke my heart gave a great bound, and the muscles of my throat stiffened. The eager interest I expressed gratified her, and she went on : "Agatha has puzzled over it again and again. I wonder if you could help us." » **If I might ieo it, perhaps," I hazarded. " The next time you come," smiled Miss Gilchrist, "we shall have it ready for you. It is in the lumber-room now." My curiosity over the painting led me to repeat my visit before many days hod gone by. I wondered why such a fine painting as Balarie's must be should have relegated to a lumber-room, and I made been a few mental comments on the American characteristic of supposing anything old to be worthless. But when I stood with Miss Gilchrist before the can.v.iB I saw why it was refused a place of honour in the house, Excepting the name and date, it was one black daub, leaving no hint of the original subject. The date, however, was confirmation of my hopes. This was tho artist's lost, best work, tho picture that had haunted my dreams, that was to cast a spell on my life. And as we stood before it together Agatha told me what seemed no new thing to my bewildered consciousness. She was the descendant of the illstarred Balarie's daughter, who, not daring to destroy her father's gift, had caused it to be covered in this way front all human sight, and her children and children's children had respected her act. " But I cannot see the use of hiding a great work of art any longer,'' concluded Miss Gilchrist. "You are an artist; will you take the picture and see what you can do towards restoring it ?'' "lam afraid it is almost a hopeless undertaking," I answered, " but I will do what I can. At any rate I cannot spoil it, and I have as great an interest in the discovery as yon have, for I am a lineal descendant of Balarie's son. The same blood flows in 1 your veins and mine." " For various reasons I preferred to experiment in cleaning the picture without removing it. Agatha and I were constantly together, and her mother was indulgent. Perhaps it was juxtaposition and her beauty appealing to my artist's eye that worked upon me first, for she was not the kind of woman who had ever before attracted me; but before the summer was over I knew that I was irretrievably in love with her. During that time all my efforts with the picture were unavailing. I only succeeded in bringing to light a few blotches of colour that afforded no clue to the subject to which Balarie had given so many years in winking out. Fortunately for me, Agatha did not make my failure a reason for refusing me. Within a year we were married, and I began life with her in the Gilohrisfc house under tbs shadow of Balarie's picture. An impulse stronger that myself made roe insist on its hanging in the studio fitted up for me, where I could always see it, hoping that some day I should know what was behind that black coating, though I had long ago given up tampering with it. The violence of my feeling for my wife was a shock and a surprise to myself. I did not know that I was capable of such absorption in another being. At first I made her the model for innumerable sketches, to be finished later when I should be more in the mood for hard work, and as she sat below that picture I resented every turn of the bead, every look of the eyes, that took away her interest in me. I remember once tearing some work out of her bands, that had, as I fancier!, kept her from speaking to me for ten minutes, and then curving myself for a brute as she grew n little pale and received my clumsy confession of the reason with an uneasy laugh. She seemed so quiet and so strong in herself, so full of interest in many things besides me, that I longed to rouse her to some outburst of passionate feeling either for or against me, I <ared very little which. Then she found a book — she was fond of reading — and that book the carried ab~ut with Iw day and night. It wa< a olleotion o* critical eis^a, and X can rem.om.ber tlw

blackish -green colour of that book to this Lour. She read it every moment that I would spare to her — they were not many I confess. She talked to me more thnn erer, bat it was about her book. I grow wildly jealous of it. The thing came between her and me. It was the book, not I, that was her first thought, and on* night while she was asleep T softly took it from her table and thrust it in the fire, and never left it until it was a heap of prey ashes turned cold and scattered over the hearth. She nevf r know what became of it, for when the told me it was lost I was the more diligent of the two in search for it. As a feeling of triumph swept over me that I had got rid of it so cleverly, I happened to raise my eyes to the pic* ture, and was startled at the change In it. Were my chemicals beginning to take effect at thin late day f For the patches of colour stood out brighter and the black bad changed to the dull dark brown. Tho next event that canned me acute pleasnre was the death of Mrs Gilchrist. For causes of which I was completely ignorant she had chosen to regard me towards the lost with mistrust and dislike, a great change from the affectionate oonfidence she had shown me during tbaaarlj time of my life in her house. Now on* more extraneous claim on Agatha was loosened, and sho would be obliged to de* pend more entirely on me. When her first natural grief for her mother had worn off, our real happiness would begin, I was indnlgent to her iv that way, I know, though I often felt that her sorrow was extravagent in depth and duration. Still I said nothing, for 1 saw that she struggled to compose herself and not annoy me with paraded mourning. Just as my life was beginning to be what I had dreamed and planned for so long, the child came. Again I was patient. I was aware that the helpless creaturo at first depended on its mother for everything, and I was willing to wait a few months until it could be handed over to someone else, out of my sight and hers. And yet, while I was exercising superhuman self-control in never com* plaining at being second with her— my rival, for the first place, such a pony, wretched, unintelligent object— she complained for the first time in my know* ledge of her ; complained that I did not care for my child. Then I spoke. |I told her atl that I bad earned about me in silence : told it with a vehemence that bore all .before it, that drove the blood from her cheek and shattered the rigid self- central she had tried to assume when I hegan. And when I saw her white and shaking, how I hated that child for having brought my beautiful, strong Agatha to such a pitiable state. She had just strength enough to leave the room and reach her own ; and the baby's nurse, who I believe was in a plot against me from the first, kept me from seeing her for two days. I knew whir* she was though ; she was locked in htr room with the child. The third morning Agatha came (nto the studio as usual. Sho made no allusion to the scene wo had had, and behaved in every way a* she had done in our earlier married days, but I observed that her even wero heavy, nnd when I appeared not to notice her she was watching mo anxiously and furtively. The child and its nurse were moved to another part of the house. I was not troubled by the sight of them, and Agatha was with me all day loner. At last I was satisfied and happy. She never took a book in her hand*. Sewing she had sometimes, of what dpsrription I could not make out, but she always laid it down when I spoke, and never reemed to take any interest in what she was doing. The only thing that worried me waft I thought she was irrowing thin, and had lost something of her frpih colour, but that wa« only caused by the languorous heat of an unusual summer, I said to myself. Shn often laid down on my sofa while I worked, and I gloated over her beauty, and wondered at the ease and depth of her slumber— in the daytime, too, for all my life I had been a restless and uneasy sleeper, and was in the habit of taking opiates, that being my only means of obtaining a sound night's sleep. One night I awoke and missed her. My heart stood still for an instant ; the next and I had hastily thrown on some carments and gone in search of her. A streak of light far down the hall attracted me and I softly stole towards it. The door was slightly ajar as if to prevent its creaking and betravinsj entrance or departure, and I looked in. There was Agatha brooding over the child asleep in her arms. She had tricked me then. She had pretended to give up everything for me, and all the while she was spend* ing her nights with her child, and making up her lost sleep when she was with me. I crept noiselessly back, determined to prove to myself whether my suspicion was correct. Two hours latter I felt her coming back, but neither by look or sight did I allow her to guess that I had fathomed her duplicity. I waited the next day for night to come with a feverish impatience that made her look at me uneasily several times. Once I lifted my head and fixed my eyes on BalartVs picture. Slowly but surely since I had lost noticed it. the forms and colors were coming to light. Now I could dimly discern the outline of what might be a man's figure. A little more, ana perhaps this masterpiece, restored, would make our fortune. I called Agatha's attention to it, and she went close to it and examined it with me, bat we could neither of us make anything more definite. That evening I throw away my usual sleeping draught which she always prepared for me and left in my diningroora, and I lay down to conterfcit a deeper, more tranquil sleep than nnaided nature had ever blessed me with. My quiet, regular breathing deceived her com* pletely. She rose, slipped on her wrapper, and left the room. A few minutes later and I was following her. I passed the studio on my way, and there flashed upon my memory the fact that among my artists' properties was a carious cross hilt dagger that my father had given me years ago. Once dead, that child could not come between Agatha and me—nothing more could. The moon was bright in the studio, but in the agitation of my new resolution it was not bright enough for me to find what I wanted. I made a blaze of light and snatched my dagger, then I rusbed in upon her. She was near the door, with the child in her arms, talking to the uurse, who saw me first and gave a cry. Quick as thought Agatha flung the child to her, saying : " The door ! Lock the door 1" then threw herself npon me. Through the shock of sheer surprise, I was forced by her out of the room, into the hall. I heard the door locked behind me and it maddened me. My brain was on fire, the blood surged in my ears. I looked about me, and found myself in the studio, with Agatha still clinging to me. I know there was some hurried, smothered words, then I struck her anil sho fell. The hot, thick blood spouted up over my hand, and I railed my arm to strike again when I stopped, transfixed. The lost thin film had lifted from Balario's picture, and there lay a woman in white, dead on the floor, and there stood her murderer, struck stiff with horror at his deed, his red right hand clasping a dagger lifted above m*. head. And the woman's face was Agatha*, w4 the um'i wu mint,