The Picture

Hawke's Bay Tribune, Volume I, Issue 208, 19 August 1911, Page 4 (Supplement)

The Picture

3x

Margaret Westrup

(Published by Special Arr.-ngc-ir.ent.)

I 1 RTISTi and authors ought neve: ro marry,” said a didactic yoiin<; j.srwn with a square chin. “Of course, ' . adiL.-d in ; Kindly explanatory tone, •“ when I say that, I’m sjxaking of th ■ capital A's." _ i waite*l uneasily tor tin* general d:>cvssion that followed to narrow down ■ into a particular and, to me, disagreeable on-?. It narrow cd slowly, cam ' down to—

’• Ono could not have a stronger m- . stance than in the case ol Michael Carr?' Ar.d 1 took up th. mi Igcls on • behalf; but tl °y were nc;V. y and I wa ■ -weak; 1 wielded them with little skin, and nit. red the issue not one whit. , They said that he it rd done no work elioc hi. - , marriage; that his wife wax palons of hi-s absorption iu his painttog. ami dragged him from it. They raid a good deal more; l.ut that was th. * g : rt of it. I wont home and accepted the invitation I had received weeks before from .Michael ar d his wife to go down and stay with them in the cottage they had tented neir Newlyn. in Cornwall. On ‘.lie wav down I tried hard to clear my mind of all the talk am! gossip I had i card about the Michael ( arrs. I was determined to mec* Slu da Carr, for tie? first time, as fl had hoard no word said about her jealousy and her bad m-

She was a pretty little thing, with a • delicate childish face; and 1 soon discovered that her adoration for Michael, of which 1 had heard, was true, and isotne-how my heart grew heavy I tried not- to notice when she turned the conversation from his painting; 1 maim excuses to myself when she combated a feuggeste*! visit to the studio—it was probably, as she said, because lamplight was cruel to his new picture. We went to the studio the next .morning. On the way Sheila confided to mo laughingly that Michael’s who!? li-T.rt and .-o il were wrapped up in this last painting. “ Ho think- much more of his picf ur© than hr clocs of me, she snid, her -pretty mouth pouting. 1 told mvsclt it was only fun and pretence. but 1 glanced anxiously at Michael’s careworn face; 1 noted the new lines in it that showed -o strongly -in the morning light. '* Ho doesn’t look at all well, I said -impulsively. . . A quick flood of colour sprang to her face: her eyes sought mine anxiously. *' You’ve known him always." she said. “ Does he look very bad? ”

f hesitated. , ~ . « J4o looks I began, then addl'd ’ntlv ■ Ke was always inclined to i-ar himself to fiddle-strings at times." She nodded. «• Now." said Michaeh “ I want your - And id opinion.” I laugh, d. , •'You’re ;• dear boy. lon know 1 '• now nothing of minting. Oh, hut it b beautiful! ” I added, as h- stonp-d u’o before a large, nearly finished plint;ng. “ Oh, it is splendid. His face brightened pathetically. “ Sheila doesn’t think it is very good.” he .said boyishly. I glanced at her sharply, and saw hei ~JlttSh. T *. ♦ "Oh Mike, it—it was only thnt .rater—l— oh, I do like it! You know 1 do n " I think that cascade of water is wonderful." 1 declared « close by/* Michael said, “Wo 11 take y*u to it later on ; it’s all flooded, vou know. I can’t paint to-day-—i -.ant sunlight." " Let’s forget there is such a bung ?s minting in the world! ” cried Sheila "'aily. “ I ehall lock up the studio and ‘ fdde the key.” ■'No— no.’’ Michael frowned, “I must come in hero —-there’re one or two littl<» things I ran do to it——" " What things? ” she demanded. •‘ Oh, well. I want to work on that tree a bit—and that colour has dried nt -1 orriblv —I wartt to oil it out. "I- I never get you away from your work,” she said, smiling, but I noticed -a little catch in her breath, and my anger rw-'- « Surelv an artist must never be baulked,” I said lightly. “ Burch’ the artist’s wife is the best judge of that!" she returned, also lightly, but her little face was pale and ntemer than I should have thought :t :ould ever lok.

I felt myself Hush. “ Ok, I say.” interposed Michael. - never min 1 about that! You shall lock the St- 1|... little one You’re right—l shall coma to It .nth now eyea after a day’s rest.” Sh- slipp'd I.’ i hand within his arm. and smiled up at him ’ike a pretty baby. Aftemr-rds I’o spoke lo me oi h” work. Rh-ila n .i< not with us. " I’m b.'cn married over a year," i*uid. " and I’ve not done a thing th.r I haven't thrown aw. It’s —it’s d.vi .-•able? ”

He epsl > •j-.'.i end addixi ; ■* T b-el aomctiiiies .'s if I’m going •nad. You know. Sheila married m' r gainst lo'r peorde’s wishes She lias bscti m*"d to life of luxury—hud verytiiing she wanted. She throw it all ovci •ni m* Ami she’s .-.mhitious. I pi--wised her that at least I’d paint h.” Pictmes -he’s be proud of She’s irigl.tfnllv judge of pictures He broke "ff ;• rit sat 'tarin <mo >dd,. ’.to the f-r-I de’>’’ know what’s got into Ttachol. T can’t paint.” •‘Tiers’: that beautiful ti’:r: vou’r • d.dnw n-w.” 1 reminded him csgeil.'. . :vd !■ mv ••:::! dinned some v. >t-l-

srsnlcow 1 i' ota .' y-';'i- •'.’•■•r.' !>v th londscmno Dime Di d v ; ’’ Iv lower known 1 •'■■■'-. sensitive workei than Carr. Given right condition*, -nd ” A al.mgof the shonlde-s 1v» 1 ■ l,»sh*d his sent cnee. “ Is- ,;.s Sh -: I ,erv intercuto.-’ in r»-;r work? " I ask.- l tr nriltvr.slr. J at* th ‘ 'hi--’-, n-it.'d the In .-it.lti.»:i ; • -in * •

“ Ob- Tt • ” A''” T knew t’--f rhe g'-'i. I b'd : e"”d WAS +r>t'» ■W¥»a 1 hade h’m good-night he hold

my hand in hi-, and his eyes g.owed in JiiL pale fa—?. ’• Kaiiiel,” he said. “ if 1 spoil this list iinrg—if that isn’t good—l shall ebur-k naintiag.” *■ Ob* Michael!’’ I cxclaiinei agnasv. He give a mirthless Jictlo laugh. , Do 1 sound >ne*..Mirainatic? I’m torry. Only yo:i don’t know what it. iio go o;i — painting daubs —to — have ,Sheila see them —to fcuvw'she’s married a itoreriy-stri-ken failure — a fool vho c.’.n’t paint a decent picture for her. Can \ou non ier if she’s a bit sicl' ;d paint.ng. Site’s given up everything for me, and I— I can’t - ven 1,,:- h'?r. And 1 promised her ” ■■ Yom new picture.’’ I reminded lum

d.’spoi:’. , Y-a«.” Hr lifted his hmvl. “ There s licit. Do you know. Rachel, I feel that if I coni ! onlv pa’ it one decent thing, I ;•>■:!.i >!o others. I’vc ?ft?t all heart. i“it if o*dv that oi’e i- all right. 1 II g>’ dmll see. I’ll astonish the world! ’ His fa'-e w.is lit with enthusiasm. “ I’ve got it m me.’’ Lo said simp’--. " Good-night.’’

It tn; two days later that the cotlag-? buzzed with excitement over the suggested vi.-it of John Hardy, the great sea painter. Michael’s nervousness. his pitiful anxiety for the great man’s verdict on his picture, showed mo more plainly than before how far from well he was. He spent- nearly the whole day in his studio, hovering before his painting, putting a touch of colour or a dab here, smudging a bit there. On the evening before the painter was expected he said to me bughjngly: To-morrow I rise—or fall.

Sheila watched him broodingly. " If —he didn’t like it ’’ she hogan. Lut Michael broke m, speaking with unusual roughness to her. " I should go to the devil! ” ho said. She gave a little shiver. “ It mean-—all that—to you?” she said in a low voice. “ All that—and marc," lie answered

curtly. I rose and left the room hastily, murmuring an excu~e about a book. The eottao-o was small .and in my room above I could not help hearing the sound of sobs ; then I:is voice, low', and, 1 could guess, infinitely tender. I walked up and down, my heart aching for the two of them; for in these few days Sheila’s charm had worked upon me, and my anger had given phve to sorrow. Arter ah. who v as 1 that I should sit in judgment on a soul cursed with the cruel blight of jealousy? That she was morbidly jcalou; oi his work 1 could no longer doubt; that his sick soul was striving pitmfidlv to point what he thought worthy’of her was obvious; that tnc thought of failure drove him almost to mrt'livos was also obvious; and uuu in work meant a very large part of his life to him was obvious too. Mechanically I began to put away tb-j outdoor things 1 had shortly befo.• • taken off. L was hiuiging up my coat when 1 remembered now distinctly from that cupboard one could hear the vo? in the rc.onj beneath. There was a lull downstairs •hist now, but I drew Imek, and as 1 did .so 1 heard Sheila’s Dees is m<-an nothing to you that you wool i still have me? Thu rat-ion in her voic-* startled mo. I lifted my hand hastily to disentangle mv h*c_ cuff from a hook in a hanging skirt. Lit before 1 could get away J hear I Michael’s wevy answer: ■ Oh. my darling, you must not be j'aloits'c.f my work.” 1 jerked my arm away, tearing the lace, and banged-to the cupboard door, and then I started miserably pacing the room again. The painter was to arrive at Pen-zaii'-e by the 3.15 train, and Michael w.t- to go and meet him. In the morning lie was in such a stale of tension that Sheila invented an imperative need and .sent him into Newlyn on his Licy-le. He had been gone for about hatf-an-hour, and 1 was sitting luxuriating in the unwonted frivolity of rcaitiag a novel in tin- morning, when the door was opened aud Sheila came in. I put down my book and rose hastily. ”My dear child, are you ill? What i. the matter? She looked at me with a curious littie smile on her pale lips. “ 1 have cut 'his picture to ribbons,’’ she said ; “ slashed it across and across with a knife, just as they do in books."

I stared at her aghast, then without :i word 1 rose and made my way out to the adjoining studio. It was true. 1

at. once that it c.s true. The stretcher still stood on the easel. but the canvas itself hung in ribbons, slashed. a* she had said, across and across with a knife. For a while I dared not tru-t myself to go ba -k to her. but at l.v-t I returned to tlio sunny little room irli' io I had been r-ading. She was still .'tending by the window whore I had left her. She looked at me with a iiitle .'hirer as I came in. " Doesn’t it look horrid?” she said. I don’t quite know what I answered ; 1 know I 'poke cruelly to her, and I kiwv that 1 was crueller than 1 had m ' >nt to be. because my words seemed to have no effect at all. She just stood ti-.'re, such a slim pretty thing she vand stared at me with beautiful ! lank oyes. I realised at I;.'-! that 1 was heating against an insensibility that was as impenetrable a.' stone, and I stepped.

" I wish w-' could l-'t him have his lunch before ho knows,” she said in a q’i'et little voice. 1 Jumped. “ Yon—vou--don’t vou rctdi.se at all idii’t you have done? “ I’onld vou act well cnongh. do you think? " she went on. ‘‘ His appetite is *■> bad lately. Perhaps I Could have a headache, ami go and li«' d«wn. Yon so-', ho at-? scarcely any breakfast." ” Y,..| should Imv-' thought of that before.” I said grimlv. She looked at mo seriously, her brow wci n A led dis tre -sod ly. " Idiero was no other time. Yo-> see. he must know it before ho sneaks cf h’ = picture to Mr. Hardy, or there would h ive to be such a lot of horrid explanations.”

“ They would be rather unpleasant for ton, I .should think.’’

”<>.ddn t you act well enough, do vou thin? 9 ”

“ i 'Hon'dn’t think of trying,” I sakl tartly.

11 He le s grown so thin,” she mur-murt-d vf 'chedly to herself, and, ridiculously, ■' felt a brute. Wo did not sneak any morn. She stood there in the window quite still for another half-hour, then suddenly we heard Michael’s call—the call lie always gave on returning, so that Sheila should hear and come to him. Then she turned and ran to mo, her face white, shivering from head to foot. I am frightened." she whispered. t: Oh. I am so frightened ’ " She lifted her eyes. wide, with fear, him awav ■ Oh, I am fright■ ••!- cd! Don’t let him come in! lla.ch<l, ho—he—eb. don’t leave mo! ’’ she moaned. '' Don’t leave me! ” She 'lung to mo. shivering. Michael’s voice echoed round the cottage :

“ Siwilii! Sheila! I've got the steak ' ” You tell him! Oh, go and toll him! I—l daren’t ”

1 pushed her from me, ;i Xo one must tell hirn but you," I said firmly. “ N.a one but you must be there when he loarns what you have done.”

I looked down into the pitiful littl white face.

“ He —loves you," 1 said gently. “ Yes, and I—love1 —love him," she said in a quiet voice to herself, and drawing licr.-eif from me she left the room just as Mii liaei reached the door.

“ Oh. here you arc, you unkind little tiling! Why wouldn’t you answer? Oh, my darling, it's such a glorious' day, and I've been thinking, and the picture is good, lou wait and sea how .I’ll paint when the great man has told me Dju a marvellous genius! V, hat’s the matter, swc-.itheart? Headache? I expect t'jit’.i my fault —worrying you almit the picture. Com? into the studio, and I’ll send it away. My poor little sweethcal-t ” i?is voice died airpy. J knew that in the dark iittlc passage hu had not been aldo t;> see her face. When they iiarl gone it struck nv? with shame that I had been listening. 1 had never ihooglit of hun-.ng aw-iy from my place near the door.

1 womu-rvu what v.ns happening in llic stiidio.

It. was quite a long time before it struik me mat 1 should ii'—.ir no cry or sound. 1 had been standing in a tense attitude, ■ waiting, but the silence was broken only by i-iio evo>-yday cheerful .sound; niuao oy the somewhat noisy muni getting places and dishes together in tlie kitchen lor luncheon. 1 remcnibend tfien that it is only in plays and books that .one hears a ,s< ream or a groan, <>r tho thud of a falling body. 1 heard nothing till three-quarters of an Lour later, when Michael and Sheila came in to luncn, and Mlemiei was say- ■■ L feel as hungry a.s a hunter.” I realised then iliat the boy I had Known and loved from childhood was a man with a man's screiigtli and a man’s love, and that he fieri pa.-sad beyond icy in:d< r-i.;uiding. Ho looked much th-.--same as nc had at breal-iu-i; perhaps ho was a lit tlo pater, ais eyes a little brighter, <:•?; tainiy he was more tnhnitivc, anil when ho looked at .Sheila there w :i,s such a wonderful protecting (endei'iies.s in his face that foolish tears ro.-o to my eyes, and 1 dared not trust my voice to speak. Sheila’s face 1 found it difficult to read; she was very j a.e, and she had obviously been crying, but sho seconded l>is efforts at talk bravely; her eyes hardly ever left his face, and their expression was very beautiful. I do not remember much of John llardy’s visit except the strain of it ? and his hearty taitli in Michael.

“ Been doing rubbish for a year? Oh, that’s nothing, my dear boy! You’ll find yourself again ” " He has just painted a beautiful thing," Sheila put in quietly, “ only it got destroyed." I inw a flush rise to Michael's brow. ” Oh, it was nothing! " ho said hastily. “Il fell into the fireplace—don’t let’s talk about it.”

“ Hard luck,” the painter said, deeply sympathetic, and said no more; but to my surprise Sheila seemed unal.de to keep away from the subject. “It was beautiful,” she said.

“ He’ll paint another as beautiful,’ In* answered kindly. “ Don’t yon worry.” " Will he, do you think? Now that ho has painted one fine thing, will he

go on ? ” ” Bound to. The spell's broken. It’s always like that. You get into a sort of groove of bad work, you lose heart and pluck —get tentative —timid ; then something beautiful is stronger than you are, and you do a good thing, and there you are, don’t you know! Your pluck comes back—.you go at a thing headlong, and you’re all right again.” Michael nodded, his eyes shining. “ That’s what I feel,” he said. “I’ve funked it lately—now, I don’t.” I left them the next day. When I said good-bye to Michael nt the station he looked at me very kindly. “ Don’t you worry. Rachel,” he said. 1 burst out foolishly, uncontrollably: “That beautiful picture!” For a moment longing shone in his eves; he moved restlessly. ' “ It was beautiful, wasn’t it? ” he said wistfully.

I nodded. “ .More than beautiful,’’ I said fervently.

He smiled. “ I’ve got the thought of it,” he said. ” Nothing can take that from me; it gives me courage, makes me long to start m again.” He paused. . ” 1 wonder what Hardy would have thought of it?” he jerked out eagerly. That it was beautiful —splendid—■ the best thing you’ve ever done! ” I crie<l. ” l-'tili ot poetry —of beauty, and wonderful colour-—oh, it was, it wax, Michael! ” f was not sparing Sheila. I considered she was being spared too much. Ito seized my hands in hi°. “ Good old Rachel.” he said. “ Was it ready all that'.' ” 1 nodded. “ Then,” he said, I’m off this morning to paint the old mill.” " You needn’t wait till my tram starts,” I said. He laughed, and opened a door for me. I got in; he followed. You know, Rachel.” he said earnestlv. “ it was my fault — you know v.hat I mean —about that picture—

It wasn’t,” I said, irritated into rudeness.

“ Mine absolutely,” h? said “ Poor little girl I 1 was a brut-?. I’ve felt rather seedy lately—that’s all the excuse I’ve got.” “ Train's going to start, sir.”

“AU right. Rachel, you don’t understand. It was entirely my fault —” "Very well." I said soothingly. ”Now go and paint your old mill.” He jumped don n to the platform, laughing. “ Wait till von see it on the line at tho E A. next May.” 111. It was ?. month oi so later that 1 met Orme D’gbv at a dinner party. SV--> hadn’t goi fm-thor thin tne fish who-i ho began to t.a'k tn mo of M'vhnAl Carr; a good many p-vaple were talking of him and t’ e picture he had just exhibited at the- Acadcmv.

j ” You don’t know what a relief it is I to roe," he said. “ I always had a tre-

liiendous faith in him, and then he v ent to pieces. Queer thing; he lost power of judgment, too. Did you eve.” sec- a picture of his —-a six-footor— - foods down at his place? Stream overflowing? ’’ “ Oh, yes," 1 said uncomfortably. '* Well, wasn’t it a ghastly thing? And ho thought it was good, you know. 1 was staying down there, and he asked me to give him a crit." He paused. “ Seen that new thing at Daly’s? ” lie said.

You don’t change the subject very gracefully.” I observed. a And you certainly do it too obviously ’’

Ho gave a little laugh. ‘‘ It struck me I was gossiping, don’t yott know,” he said ingenuously. " I’ve never ‘alked about it before; only of loiirso you’re a sort of--relation—■ —” " Mother,” I suggested.

He smiled. “ I, at the mature age of ten. held Michie! in ny arms when he was a week old,” f sairl. *’ Now won’t you go on p.knit ihat picture? I know a good deal. I was staying with Michael and Sheila when--when ”

“ 'flio thing was ruined? Oh, were you? Jolly good thing too. You know, he thinks it was a masterpiece. Best tiling that could have happened to it, because of course it was hopeless, and now he can always think of it tenderly. I’ve never let on to a soul what a rotten thing it was ; no one else had seen it Awfully sensitive artist, you know; frightfully susceptible to outside influences and all that sort of thing.” “ His wife thought it was beautiful,” f said defiantly.

“ Not she! She's too good for that. Why, roil know, when he asked mo to come and give him a crit., she mot mo first—beastly for her—and warned mo that it was not up to his usual work, and begged me to—well, to let him down lightly. She said he was ill—that he needed encouragement. She was awfully upset about it. She thought that if T encouraged him he’d make the thing all right. He’d not got ver" far. you know.”

“ What happened? ” I asked. “ Oh. I don't know! I felt an awful fool. 'iking was ghastly, and ho couldn’t sen it—the man was ill. I did what I could—seized on any good point I found and worked it to death, and disappointed him, of course 1 was pretty glad when I could decently clear out." 11?? girl on his other hand asked him to settle some point of dispute about Iho colour of an actress’s hair, and I sank into troubled thought. I thought for two days, then I wrote /to Sheila and asked if I might come down foi a week-end, Michael met me at Penzance. I realised with a frosh shock how ill he must have been when last I saw him. ‘‘ You look a different man I ” I exclaimed.

“ Do I? Oh, I’m awfully fit! I say, I’aehel. I've got something to show you this rime. I want to hear what you think of several little things I’ve been doing.” “ Won’t yon over realise, I wonder, what a hopeless heathen I am about pictures? ” I said bitterly.

He muglied. He had never believed ii. He did not believe it now. •* You miw ali that was in tho one that—that 1 lost. 1 shall always be grateful to you for that,” he said. 1 eras sitenc.

It we.s not till the next morning when he was cut painting that 1 found file opporlunity I wanted. I was akmc x.ith i-iixeila. I said abruptly: “ ,'sheila, why did you destroy that picture of Michuel’s? ” She lifted t startled face. She had teen stickingra linger comically throug'i hole in a sock sho was going to darn. She sat staring at me, the huger pointing up cut of the sock.

I—l don’t want to talk about it,” she raid.

‘•_But I do. I thought, of course, it was in a 'it of jealously.” Sho nodded. “ Please talk about something els-?,’’ she said pathetically. 1 eyed her thoughtfully. She looked so young and pretty and childish. Surely she was not capable of the self-sacrifice ] had been inclined to ascribe to her? Yet—-

" I believe you did it to avoid John Hardy’s criticism,” I said clearly. She flushed scarlet and sprang to her feet • her eyes blazed at me.

“Be quiet! How dare you? He—he might have come back and heard you! ” Sb? sat down again suddenly. ‘ Hew did you know? ” she said wearily After that wo talked She came and knelt beside me, burying her head in my lap. She began to cry after a little ’.rtiilc, and ciung to me pitifully, pouring out the burden of these last months.

“ I think it would have killed him. end it was my fault—his very anxiety to work for mo was paralysing him. He was :ll—ho needed some great encouragement, and somehow he grew to have nn almost uncanny faith in that picture. It would have hurt him so horribly. and I know it was bad —and Mr D’gbv knew it too. It came to me suddenly the night before, when he told in? not to bt. joaioiis of his work. “Jealous!” — she gave a queer little laugh" 1 was always trying to get him away from his work because I wanted him to rest and get a clearer view of it, and ho thought I was jealous.” “ 1 thought, so too,” I confessed, ashamed.

“ Yes, I know. I was so grateful when you said his picture was good.” “ lie never can realise that 1 know ■nothing about if,” I said impatiently. “ He is doing splendid work now,” she said.

“ Da vou think it was worth it? ” I asked. “ Yes.” she said simply “Shall you ever tell him’?’’ She moved restlessly. “ How can I tell? I do not think so. I want him to keep his faith in himself. If ho knew- how wrongly he had judged that —he might lose faith again.” “ Was it right? ” I asked gently. “ I don’t know.” “ Your love for each other—have you realised the hurt you are doing that? Making him think you were, capable of a petty cruelty? ” She wrung her hands together, Lut answered quietly : “ I know.”

1 looked down at the pretty head in my lop. and my soul rose in revolt at the sacrifice sho was making. I tried onco more:

“ Aren’t yon making a fool of him? ’’ I asked harshly. Ah—don’t? ” she whispered. “ Aren’t yon?” I said. She shrank away from me, then smith nlv she fa •<_(! mo

“ Why uro you so cruel? ” she cried passionately. “Do you think I don’t blow? Do you think you can understand? You understand better than I what it m-nns? Oh. I know! I know it all? And,” she finished qniet.lv, “ 1 do not regret one of those slashes across the canvas!” “ Sheila ’’ I said, ” forgive me.”