ONLY A WOMAN.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 11714, 25 July 1901, Page 3

ONLY A WOMAN.

I, .n \ bad day with me. Tho picture iT Itin* wouldn't come right; aimless, I T,Tn2 drifted across my brain; tho f00 l 1 ! wrong; the subject bad. I ex--1,8 • 111 for once the bitter disappointment rrtist who aims higher than his ° Of course I should come out of the ' C of Despond-the thing is a mere SI 7 of time and temperament. Still, fhee twas-the day had been bad. In adSon I had lost my temper and given my * °°t warning-a servant Who had been 'tie nine years, a factotum■ who washed * Ches and polished my boots better • '7 «Io» I had ever had; but the best £U have their bad points, and the worm ■rill turn. top of all this irritation Nolly n„ the top of all this .mtahon Nelly ' Tlfed in She was a quiet little woman, Sth soft purring ways, abeautiful creature, .„ in her own way; big eyes, an. untidy Lnele of rich, red-brown hair that was always fluttering round the nape of her neck and - ' •t her eves, a, large, pouting mouth made ?? An* and a figure so slight that a With of wind might have blown her away. " a little woman created for love, idleness, fnd enjoyment. We had met at a .friend s . . fie, and I had asked leave to paint her, , ,°"he got to sitting for me so often that our friendship ■ soon ripened . into something deeper. She was very sweet, and as affec- !, ■ ' donate as a dog. Perhaps she was too affec-.!oDate-always » mistake on the part of women, and one of which some day they bitterly repent. . Anyway, when she babbled about marriage •nd talked of her respectable old father down - • ' ? Devonshire, and remarked how happy we should be together— didn't see it. My people expected better, of . me.,, ■ Xclly ; was- a dear, but sbo was only the little •' 'teacher of the schoolhouse near by, an riot a very learned one either, and she would never have fitted into the prim ways of the old oak-panelled manor house and ra mother's hereditary stateliness. That ; s 'the worst of coming of an old family: one must live un to its traditions: no shuffling, second-hand* kind of compromise will answer. So it is impossible, a mo?slbance (a word my' mother hated the sound of). is always a mistake. ■":.■:■ _»' . . So" I talked and reasoned as kindly as I , could, With my arm round. her wair.t and hey head on my shoulder, an attitude in which persuasive words seemed to flow easily. It wasted a groat deal of time, however, for 'he cried a little softly, and the tears had 'to be kissed away as they dropped with a flot) on her shabby merino frock. JCelly was dowdy (poor dear, she had not much pocket-money for woman s finery). Presently I began the thread of my arguments all over again. ,- , ■ , anA ~a The picture on the easel dried, and its *.«tt«' irrew more and more accentuated in • ho velTow atmosphere. Twilight began to fall "and there would be no time to put in inr fresh touches, as I longed to do. I rose abruptly. r Nelly sat on where I had let hV half crumpled together on the red velvet lofo like a little drooping flower, her small feet swinging petulantly to and fro, and her hands limplv clapped together. '-'■h "Oh don't look like that!" I said, coming - Kirk to her "Don't; it's not fair of you. my should you be broken-hearted? It's nothing, after all— mean it s irrevocable! 'Nothing. ' And I shall never see you BS ''Why not? . What is changed?" .•Everything!'' She spoke with conviction. Should Ido as she wished? I loved herrmildnYl sacrifice something to her wmms. ■ She locked at me with her great dreamy tes expectantly, as if she saw hope in the Sri It hurt me to dash those hop*;, to ich the flash of waited interest and ye. ' S What a hard struggle it is between ' love and everyday conventionality? If only I had been a genuine Bohemian and could Le borne off Nellie *to a country -cottage where we should have dined i happily and untidily off underdone .chops, while the maid- ; of-all-work ogled the milkman as she peeled the potatoes in the back kitchen! _ ■ _ . ■Nelly;" would • grow dowdier still in the \ vein to come, would wear curl papers and "ficwsv dressing-gowns in the morning., .1 ' knew'those garments well, the things women / war in ont-of-the-way suburbs, as they lean ' out of windows and gossip to their neighbours. And. I wasn't;.*, true 1 : Bohemian; 1 only dabbled in painting and-didn't live by it, owl that makes all the difference. _ _ ■ I liked Art for its pleasant associations, its dilettante: delicious waste of time, its brilliant accessories, its'rich subdued colours. - and the painter'*-'' shop" talk with; friends ore; the pipe-of peace. Povertv is lovely when it is aesthetic and the stock-in-trade "of an artist's studio, but , s"a in all its sober, sordid, uncomfortable -reality—-I knew myself 1 should nevei bo abU to endure it. ". Marriage with Nelly meant poverty, and "quarrelling with my bread and butter. No j man is justified, by whatever pleasant pas- j sions he may bo moved, in ouarrelling with Jus bread and butter. All this time, while I thought and trifled with mv brushes, p.nd th i light faded until -the tapestry haneings 'of my room jrrew grim and ghostly. Nelly sat there, sat like a little stone, motionless. "Nelly," I said, impatiently, manlike, angry at the silence T had myself created, "why. don't yon speak?" . "What is there, to say?" " Oh, a great deal; but you will be reasonable, won't you?" . " Was a' woman who loved eve» reasonable?"

■„-.\ ".Ah, no: there you're right: but listen — ;; and T sat down beside her again. When one is in the. company c,_ 'he beloved object it i.« hard to keep the correct distance, unless on© has quarrelled' utterly, and I felt I could talk bettor sitting close beside her. ;, "Well?" she said, interrogatively, yieldias in© up a limp hand. "Well— me—there! Now, Nelly, y. , 'let's be sensible." I patted her little fingers 'i'\ comfortingly.' " Why did you lot me love youwhy did you—oh! why did you?" Suddenly she wrenched herself from me, a"cd \rocked to and fro with passionate sobs. ; : "My darling! ?<elly. my little woman don't, don't cry; I. can't stand this! By; . Jove, i can't!" ' , A wan never can stand the sight of tears H;~ °'' which he i.i tho original cause. She straightened herself up at last. liven > woman can't cry for over. Kin that your last word?" "My last word—what last word?" "You always said you loved me bettor vV. than <,m life— wo were—" '" God, help me ; what a. lio it was ! ' To be- > together alwsys, always! Tovi .called me | ! ; your little wife: it was.a shamwhat wasn't I t a sham? And now you say. it can never i bo, when you've got all the heart "out of j ■■.v.'.-'.- me."'. ..-..•■•■ -. -, - !

"Nelly!" :•■ ,!, , ; ' No, won't stop; it's my {urn to speak now; and if it's for the last time I must «y the -words, that an* burning in my throat. Ive loved you, God' only knows -how v I've '< • loved you, and now it's over— over." ; ** Nell}-, we must hay© patience." 1 Oh, as far as I'm' concerned it's over 1 y...v.- lor me.. Lam poor and dowdy and a ( nobody. I know, and you'll do better fot ! yourself in tho future, and some day -you'll - . forget." ■;. .:,- > '■■"■... ; ""I swear I'll never forget you, Nelly." ' "Oh, well," remember or forget, it's nil ' pretty much the sura-) when the play's played : out," and she laughed a horrid little .pcclr* ' of a laugh: "it doesn't much matter where I m noing." ' r_" Where arc yon going?" Visions ',[ the Embankment grim under the gas lamp's light, and echoing with tho tramp of a lonely policeman, always too late to see the flutter- !> ing of a petticoat flinging itself into the cold water, rose before me. "Nelly, you won't —promise me von. won't—" . ;'What?" * "Do yourself anj harm?" • "No," she said, and her lips curled contemptuously as her eyes seemed to grow hard and glittering. " No, I won't even cause you that worry. I'm going to' my father." Unutterably relieved that my forebodings "wero only the foolish outcome of my brain (after all, people don't go and make tragedies, a« a rule, out of a simple love affair), I answered lightly. Ah, well, go and sea your father a little, and grow calm, and .then come back, Nelly, for I don't know /what I should do without you." "I thai! evoi come buck." " Oh, yes, you —yon couldn't be so cruel, so heartless! Besides, what should I tic for a model? See hero—and here," and ; , I pointed to the pictures and sketches that ', stood about the room—all studies from Nelly. i I had drawn her in aa many different poses ■j ' and moods as Romney pninfed Lady Hamils , laughing, moody, sad, bright, and changeable as April weather, but always lovely. " I don't want to be liked as a model. I'm lot a model." " No, of course not, only—you know what '. , I mean, an artist ,juts his love into every- '[■ 'thing, and you are my love." • "No," she said, quickly, putting her hat on her head and pulling on her gloves (when ■Joe* a woman, even in the most awful moments of misery, forget the due respect !'J her appearanco?). "No, you hare never "loved menever—and qow if* good-bye." I ■ "You'll think better ol this." I mechanically took the hand she held out to me...'. I'-"", i •'

———»————■ —^■^■^^—— " Good-bye." , •," It's not good-bye." ,; "Yes, it is—as I've loved-you, I want to, i keep tho memory of 'that lova green and sweet for ever—so I leave • you." Mrs. Browning's,? lines, .which I never understood before, rushed to my mind —"I love you so, dear, that I only. can leave you. Was "that the way.-woman loved? How unpractical they were,' how—the door shut with a bang. I was alone. Nelly had left me. The room was dark and eerie. I shivered and struck a light; then I lit ray pipe, man's instinctive refuge and consolation; then I locked my door. I would not be disturbed any more that evening. My nerves were tingling and unstrung. I 'J' lioved she would come back. I believed she would not live without me, and oh! fatuity of man, I treated all her words as idle heroics. Still it was not pleasant. She had said things to me I did not like to hear, she had left mo in a determinedly cold and irritating fashion. ' ■ Then, like buzzing flies, all the annoyances of the day returned upon me—the unsatisfactory picture, the servant's look of concealed rage when told, him to go, away— by-the-by, where was he? He ought to have lit my lamp. I heard nothing stirring—tie must have gone out, or, worse still, perhaps he was drunk, boozing in the kitchen; he had had some liquor when I spoke to him. Suddenly tho loud report of a pistol startled me, and rang out sharply on the still air. My house lay back from the street in a littlo cul-de-sac, a veritable bachelor - box, shrouded; in mystery and quiet. No one lived in it except myself, my servant, and bis wife, who was away for the day 111 the country. . - „ . .. What did the shot moan? As these thoughts occurred to me, suddenly I vemembored Nelly! I glanced nervously towards my writing-table, where lay always, a precaution learned in my rough camping-out American life—a brace of loaded pistols. The case was empty. She had taken it and shot herself. Good heavens! she must be saved, perhaps it was not too late. I sprang to the door and fumbled with the.' lock-heavy «««*"» steps.were coming up slowly;-then I heard another step and a heavy, body el with » thud against tho door. I was locked in and some devilish work was going on that I knew nothing about. I turned, the key and tried to push the door open. It would no move wedged in by the unyielding mass that leant 3 Nelly-no. It could not be Nelly's body -weltering in its blood outside those 2m 01 wood, while I stood helpless and despite within. "Nelly!" I called in a shrill ngonj. "I, it von: why do. you frighten me so, child? "For God's salve, tell me what 1. is. No answer. The silence was • awful. ■_ 1 ran to the window, tore it open, and looked out. Not a soul was passing below. Oh. to have my little Nelly bark again,. to, hold her in my arms and tell her that she had conquered, and that this sickening anxiety gripping at mv heart had taught me how I loved her! Would no one come,' I had neither whistle nor rattle, nor any means of attracting attention; if I throw myself down I should be smashed to Atoms, unci do nobody any good. At last, after moments of agonising suspense that seemed vc-ars, a firm, steady tread fell on the pavement, the reassuring step of an honest man, the step that gives thieves tho alarm and sets them running from the sceno of menmisdeeds. "Police! Police!" • The guardian of our , peace, ever serene and unhurried, looked up. A man's face, white and scared,'beckoned him from the first-floor window, but -he .hesitated.- to act •until he heard exactly what had happened, and if anything- was unduly required 01 him. ', , .'-. " Look here," I gasped, lam locitou in, and , there'.- murder going on; here's my 1 latch-key." I dropped it op his head and j it rattled with a clang oil' his helmet ou to j the pavement: "Force your way in, for j God's sake! Make hasto, or you'll be too • Into!" 'Housed into action at last, the pouceman picked tip the key, fitted it into the lock, which yielded, and then ; entered... For a few minutes I heard no more. After a'little ! the man came out again and blew his whistle, j i Ho /wanted help. . Evidently something awful j i had happened. : Volunteers and curiosity- 1 I liuntors "promptly appeared on the sceno; j the little lane was filled; with gaping faces. , "What is it; what : ha* happened?"; they ?sked of one another., "Murder—is it murder? Lord save us, where's the wretch as done it? A woman, did you say? No, it's a man—two of them r ' '<--, Olosor, and closer still;they pressed— Lon- . do.-i crowd ldve3: horrors, and all tho time I waited.'.-':- ,- ", '-■:■■:- , Then came a scuffle on the stairs; men's steps and voices. Lifting, dragging something away. * ; The* strain upon my door was removed. * I opened it and crept out. Downstairs on the kitchen table, under the flickering light of an ill-lit oil-lamp, it .ay — all that remained or my beautiful Nolly, her face ghastly white and frozen into a great | horror;: her merino dress opened at the j neck and bedabbled '' with blood, which j trickled on to the floor, where, his head sup- | ported by a policeman, lay my servant still breathing. « " Ho don© It," said a bystander, pointing to him:"" poor young woman, lie killed her, and then ho tried to kill himself." J "You wretch!" I sprang forward. At that instant I could have throttled him gladly with my own hands as I felt the wild natural impulse of lynch law surging through my veins. • "Stand back, sir," said the poli<fc.nan, authoritatively, clutching me firmly by the collar; "he meant'to kill you; we have all the necessary evidence from his own iips; he confessed, and if ho lives ho will be haneod." ' f ■ . The good mau feared that I should cheat the law of its own. ' I staggered and would have fallen, but for tho kindly outstretched arms of a workman in shirt' sleeves', who had dropped his pipe to make one of the group of interested spectators. ..' ■• *v v; - ' I understood it all. My Nelly, the woman I had spurned, had given her life for me! That was all. Hers was the queer kind of love only a woman . understands.