THE MASTERPIECE.

Golden Bay Argus, Volume XII, Issue 45, 7 April 1910, Page 2

THE MASTERPIECE.

+ BY OLVIE BREE. She stood in the open doorway, smiling and entrancingly fair —an hour late. Her dainty skirts were gathered up in one shapely ungloved hand, her tiny feet, exquisitely-shod, were just visible. “Aunt Grisel couldn’t come,” she announced as she entered the studio, “so as it’s the last sitting and I want to get it over, I’ve come alone."

The young artist reddened. This wonderful-looking girl was his divinity, and her thoughtless speech hurt him. «

‘"I won't keep you more than lialf-an-hour,” he said, a little coldly. “If 50U sit we can start at once.”

She took her seat on the model throne and sat silent, her hands folded demurely on her lap. For a long time there was unbroken stillness in the studio. Meredith painted on feverishly, until at last he flung his brush down on the paint table. “There ! ” he exclaimed. ‘“That is all I can do ! ”•

The girl got down. She walked over to where he stood, then stepped back and surveyed the picture. It was a portrait of herself—nothing more. The artist had painted a faithful representation of faultless features, and a too-careful delineation of dress, but feeling and imagination were entirely lacking. She shook her head. '

“It's wrong-/' she said critically. “It doesn’t live. The technique is there, and! that is all.'' Meredith looked at her with a sudden eager light in his eyes. The embarrassment died out of them. He was with' the woman ho loved—and it might be the last time !

I know it's wrong,” he cried. ‘‘l can’t paint you till I understand you. You want me to put your soul on the canvas, and —” "I haven’t got a soul, my friend. But you might have portrayed the—what shall I call it ? —spirit. Look in my ej'es.” ' He looked. The dark depths seemed to draw his very soul aut of him. “I love you, Sylvia ! ” he cried out sharply, like a man Who is hurt. “1 love you. I can’t paint you till T’ve held you in ’ my arms—till I know that you are in truth a living breathing, loving woman—” She ptit out her hand and motioned him .back imperiously. "What do you mean ? she asked, her eyelids lowered. “I mean I want to marry you. I want you .to love me. Sylvia, I worship—'i

“Stop! You worship jrne ! You. want me to marry yon ? You think that I, Sylvia Halle could come 'to this ? ” Her eyes travelled scornfully round the studio. Her lip curled. -“Because I happen to be interested in art, because I pick you out, a tameless artist, to paint my portrait, youfgfchink you may fall in love with me ?,” “You are cruel,” he faltered.

She laughed again. “You’re a boy. You doq’t understand women. At least not a woman like me. Let me explain. I experiment—with hearts ! Long ago —for I am older than I 100k —I loved a man, but my love was scorned, trampled upon. Once I suffered, so that everything human departed from me. I haven’t a vestige of pity in my composition. I have but one amusement and desire. It is to make men love me—and suffer ! I live for that. It is to me a craving as insatiable as that of a drunkard’s. It is life ! I made you love me. You couldn’t help yourself. The day you were introduced to mo I thought, ‘Here is someone. He shall love me better than he ;hall ever paint. I’ll do with him —* ”

“Heavens ! ” cried Meredith, halfshrinking at the fierce torrent of her words. “How you can act ! ”■

"I’m not acting. It is you. You are melodramatic. I merely state facts. You love me. After what I have told you, do you love me still ? With a bewitching gesture she held out her two hands, her lips smiled, her eyes spoke. "Nothing could alter me,’.' he answered, hotly. "I love you as a man loves but once —with all my soul, with all the devotion of which I am capable. don’t look at me like that, Sylvia, unless you—” For she was bending forward, al? m'6st touching him, her lips divinely pouted, framed dor one perpetual kiss She did not move, not till he was within an ace of taking her in his arms, his heart drumming in hi 9 head, his lips on fire seeking hers. She drew back quickly, her demeanour changed.

"Enough of this,”' she said, a trifle wearily. "I’ve had all the novelty I want.” Her eyelids narrowed. "I will say something to console you,” she purred. "If you still love me I will marry you if you can achieve greatness—real fame. I say this because—” She stopped. "Because?” he echoed wildly, his heart fired with a sudden hope. "Because,” she smiled, "I am a good judge of painting and unless a miracle occurred I am safe in saying you will never bo in a position to claim my promise. Good-bye.” When she had gone, Meredith stumbled'*' to a chair, and sat with his head buried in his hands. Like some tremendous force this woman had come into his life, and equally as suddenly she had gone out of it, leaving him in the horror of outer darkness. In love, for the first time he did not pause to analyse. He only realised that she had gone, gone! The light began to wane, still he sat on, his brain in a tumult, his hopes, bis love, crushed, despised. ! ''Owen { ” He started at the light touch*' on his arm. "Owen, j dear old boy, something is wrong with you. Has—has anything happened ? " Owen looked up drearily at the girl who had come into the room. , She had been his little playmate, and they had been brought up together, almost as brother and sister. As artists they had studied together.j

no& they shared adjoining flats. 'All his life this girl had been his confidante. He had told her all his boyish dreams and ambitions—all but this. This most wonderful passion of his life he had seemed unable to tell her of. She was too young to understand.

“It’s nothing, Glad,” he answered. “At least nothing I can tell you about."-'

For a moment she looked at him very earnestly, then she slipped her hand into his. “You needn't tell me because I know,”- she said, gently. “It’s love.” She laughed at his astonishment with affected lightness. “A fellow-feeling makes us guess the truth,” she misquoted. “Come, Owen, I'm not a child.. Tell me.” Impetuously he poured out the whole pitiful story. The woman’s character, his love, her promise. As Gladys listened her face showed no emotion, but her eyes blazed —blazed with hatred for the woman who had scorned the man she I‘oved. She had seen Sylvia Halle. She could have painted her correctly because she understood. <

“Poor boy,” she said, with a little break in her voice when he had finished. “It's wretched luck. But it will turn. One can’t go on loving for ever without —” She was stopped by a sob that choked back utterance. ®

'■'And you, too, Glad,” said Owen, 'trying to forget his own woes. “You must tell me about yourself”— She swallowed bravely. “Oh, mine's a commonplace affair,” she smiled . “I love somebody and somebody doesn’t care for me. At least not in that way. No, you've never spoken to him in your life,” she parried.

There was a slight pause. Owen got up and stooping a little kissed her on the forehead. The twilight hid the rosy glow that flushed her face. “Pray, little Glad,” he said solemnly, “that things in their own way may come right for you and me.” “I pray that every night,” she answered tremulously. She forced back the tears that had risen to her eyes. “Come,” she went on brightlj, “let’s put away our dismal sorrows. “The kettle’s singing, the muffins are ready, and I’ve got' some pate de fois gras sandwiches ! ”

Owen was very, very ill. The doctor held out but scant hope. Brain fever must take its course, and he had the best of nursing. The studio, converted into a sick room, rang with his cries, and Gladys, white-faced, patient, nursed him day and night. It was afternoon. The fever was at its worst. All the morning he had been raving about the picture and fame delayed—the fame that Sylvia had said would never come. It was true. Even the patient watcher understood that, even if Owen lived, he would never achieve greatness. His powers were limited. It was not in him to cross the boundary line that separates fame from mediocrity. Suddenly he sat up in bed his eyes turned towards the picture of Sylvia. “If I could paint you as I see you,” he muttered, “then it would be great. Then the picture would live—andi I could claim you, Sylvia— I could.” He sank back weakly, wandering once more. “If I could paint you as I see you,’j repe a ted the girl. “If I could —>l can ! ”

An inspiration seized her. Swiftly she rose and bent her lips down to the sick man’s ears.

"You shall paint her, Owen,” she whispered quickly. "You are going, to paint her now. Lie still. You can do it better where you are. So!” The insistence of her voice seemed to penetrate his consciousness. "Yes, yes,” he murmured. "I will paint her here. I can see her quite clearly from here.” Gladys went over to the easel. She squeezed paint on to the palette, prepared the brushes. "Now, you are starting, Owen,” she called a cross the room. "First you are painting out the dress and some of the h a rd lines.” With every stroke she talked, Owen in some random fashion, following her, calmed in the belief that he was painting. Gladys stole swift glances at him as she worked. His expression was contented. Perhaps so, she might save him. Dear God, if she only could ! / With a magic touch born of love and natural talent she was altering the portrait beyond recognition. The cruel lines were effaced.

"Now you are doing the face, Owen.”

"The face,” he repeated docilely. "Yes.”

"You are painting the mouth. The lips are not so smiling—more set, a little cruel. ’A’ tigerish suggestion.” "A tigerish suggestion,” he echoed. "It’s quite true. I never noticed that before.” "Now the eyes."

On and on she painted, till the light began to wane and the picture was done She stepped back exhausted, the spirit that had inspired her departed as suddenly as it had come.. She looked on the work as a stranger might have done. Palette in hand she surveyed it and then knew—that it was good ! It lived now, as malignantly beautiful as she who had inspired it. Owen moved restlessly. Gladys put down the brushes and palette, and went over to him, laying her cool cheek against his.

"Listen, dear. The picture is done It is good. It will be hung. So you hear ? Bourlet, the agent, shall fetch it for the Exhibition to-morrow. It is not too late. You shall be fa-mous-famous as she could never have dreamt. By the picture, you will be able to claim her promise, and you—” She stopped. For the first time for a week Owen had fallen quietly asleep. ;)

"So I am really quite - famous !” The girl nodded. She had done all she could, Owen was well again. "I’m glad you didn’t sell the picture, Glad,” he went on. "I want to see it. The funny thing is that I can’t, remember—”

"How could you? ”*she broke in, "You know you did it when you were quite delirious. It’s back now. It's in my studio." .Owen «?J

pression that she did not. understand. “You’ve been a wonderful nurse*, Glad,”- he said. “That month at the sea with you and the knowledge that I have done something worth doing have made a new man of me.” “Here is another notice,” sai<J Gladys. “The press-cutting agent sent it by this morning’s post. I’ll read it.”

“Quite the portrait of the year, given the premier place by both the critics and the public is the “Portrait of Sylvia, from the brush ol a young artist, Owen Meredith. It is a remarkable achievement, and even if it is not followed up the painter may rest on liis laurels as the creator of a superb method of portraiture.” • Owen laughed.

“I want to see it. Do take me to see it, Glad. Of course I remember Miss Halle. I wonder what she thinks about it.” He changed the subject as if it had no interest for him. “I say, Glad,’’ he continued, “You’ve always been the most ripping pal a fellow could have, and I want to —”

Gladys laid her hand on his. When Owen saw the picture he would remember his love for its living prototype ! She must be brave. “Come and see,” she said.

“But won’t you let me ask you—” he persisted, as he followed her down the stairs and into her own studio. She stopped before a covered picture. “That is it, Owen.”

Her breath came in little gasps. She was to witness Owen’s old love reawaken. She had to say good-bye to her own life’s happiness. , Courageously she drew aside the cloth covering the picture. There was a long silence. She dared not look at Owen. \ “So I did that !” he said, and looked at it with his curly head oh one side. Gladys put her hand towards a chair. She wanted to steady herself. Weeks of nursing and mental strain had made her neyvous and stupid, she told herself. She clutched at a near support. Owen’s voice came,to her as if ft-cfn a long distance through a roar of seething waters. “I’ve got it right. There’s spirit in the thing now. I say, Glad, does it not seem queer I once imagined I loved that woman ! If I were to see her now I should hate her face more than I hate that beautiful, insolent, representation. How could I ever have looked at her, with a woman like you near by. I must have been mad. Oh, Glad, Glad, let me say it, dear. Don’t you know that I love you—you only ! ” - v The seething waters rushed hack and were silent. The darkness that had been coming over her grew light “Owen,”, she faltered, “Owen ! ”

With a triumphant cry he took her in his arms, and she nestled there like a child, entered into her woman’s kingdom of—love requited !