HIS BEAUTIFUL ANGEL.

New Zealand Times, Volume LXXVII, Issue 5474, 31 December 1904, Page 12

HIS BEAUTIFUL ANGEL.

By MARION WYMI3ORNE, 'Author of “Tho Secret of Sybil,” “Daddy and I,” ‘‘A Sinful Sitenoc." [All Eights Reserved.] ££& w£is jl little waif of tlio Bticot* whom nobody owned. One of those fragments of humanity which find themfx>ives in that vast Lost Bropeitj Office in London, and which are never claimed. Life was but a colourless existence to him. Tho shadows were so deep, nor did tho sunlight over full across his path until—and this is where tho story begins. She—for, of course, there is a she in it—was young and very beautiful, and fancied herself to ho an artist. That is, Viola played at painting, sojourning in tho world’s picture-famed places, studying tho works of Raphael, and Turner, until’ she grow discouraged with her own poor, small attempts. Then she turned to England with tho doar old grandmother. Bub the art craze was still upon her. She meant to do something great, which seemed more possible in London than it had boon in Romo. Viola grew very earnest and absorbed over what, she said was to bo hor groat lifo-work. Nothing, she said, must over come between it and hor. It should bo second to nono in her affection. Therefor© sho rent away tho man who loved her. Ho was only a doctor, and poor, while'sh© was rich. So ho buried his love deep down in his bravo heart, orccting over its grave the monument of tender memories. Then ho gathered together tho tangled threads of his life to smooth them out, and in doing so helped to smooth tho hard places from tho lives of others. Perhaps Viola felt a little sad when ho had left her. But soon sho set to work on tho picture that was to make her name. Thus it came to past that sho was painting Joe’s handsome Italian face, with its wonderful blue-black eyes. .Ho was a very lively model, whom it bored intolerably to sit still for five minutes together. Certainly tho picture did credit to Viola’s imagination, for no ono ever saw Joe with snob an angelic expression as aho depicted. Joe was not avers© to criticising the painting his criticism being often loss complimentary than candid. “If only you wanted to paint my foot 1” ho said onco, with a patient sigh, aching all over with tho effort of sitting still. “I can stand on my head for ’most any time an’ not get a bit tired.” Sometimes, to vary tho monotony, Viola would entertain him with accounts of his beautiful Italy—“ Land of tho Madonna!” —where the sky was always blue, and tho soft south wind sang of beauty and poetry and love. At such times ho would listen eagerly, with his strange, deep eyes fixed upon her face, drinking in the dear music of her voice.

“How pretty you are!” Joe said on© day. “Why don’t you draw your own picter?” “Oh, Joe, do you think I am such a terribly vain person?'' she said, shaking her lovely head at him in mock reproof. “I think you’re worry beautiful,” he /aid, looking at her seriously. “You’re like one of them angels as is painted on the church windows—l seed one once ever so long ago.” “But they are generally too impossibly ugly, so you are not very flattering,” she answered, laughing. Still, Viola rather liked the idea, and to him she was always his “beautiful angel.” Those hours when he sat to her in the pretty studio were the happiest he had ever known. Still, all bright and pleasant things tome to an end, and the picture was pery near completion. “After to-morrow, Joe,” said Viola at last, “I think I shall have finished with you.” “What, shan’t you want me agin—never no more?” ho asked, with a mute misery in his eyes. “By-aud-byo, perhaps. But not yet,” she answered, .ouching up the shadows on tlxe dark, pictured face, so that she did not see the sadder shadows on the real one.. She wore a bunch of sweet-smelling violets in lb© bosom of her gown that morning. As sho moved further away from the picture to notice the effect, the flowers fell unnoticed to the floor. Joe stretclfed out his brown hand to pick them up, hiding them guiltily beneath his ragged coat. He caressed them with his fingers now and then, to feel quite sure that they were safe, and was afraid that she would miss them. But Viola did not suspect such a vein of romance in this rough specimen of humanity, who was her model. It would only have amused her if she had known. Tor it is not for people like Jo© 1 o sea visions and to dream dreams. Somehow, the next day the picture did not make much progress Viola was beginning to feel that even ’Art was unsatisfying, and that there might bo a richer, sweeter reading of lifers possibilities than the one sho had set herself to discover. “1 don’t think I can paint today, Joe,” she said, laying down her brush frith a little sigh. “No, don’t do nothink to-day, then I’ll have to come again,” he said, stooping to pick up with almost reverent fingers something that had fallen from her lap. It was only a photograph of tho man who loved her. She gazed at it long and earnestly as it lay in her pretty, pink palm. "Who is he?” asked Joe, watching her strangely. “He is someone who once wanted to marry mo, Joe. But I said ‘no,’ and rent him away, because I did not think then that I was fond of him. Now—row it is too late. He is too proud ever to come back to me,” Viola answered, with a little sob. “An’ do you like ’im?” cried Joe, passionately, and snatching the poor carte-do-visit© he tore it into many pieces, trampling upon them with his bore feet. For a minute Viola was too amazed eit the audacity of her wild street arab to speak. Then: “How dared you 1” she said, very nmgrily. “Go away directly, boy; I .Will never speak to you again.” Joe walked meekly across tho polished floor to the door, where he paused. “Ain’t I to come no more?’’ he said, turning round raid looking at her wistfully. “No,” she said, stamping her dainty foot, “I never want to see you again.” ,

‘‘An’ you won’t forgive mo even if X aro sorry?” ho asked, meditatively. “Never, never!” very emphatically; “new go, before I have, you turned out.” “Vos, I’m agoin’, an’ I ain’t sorry —not a bit/’ he said, in a tone that would have been defiant only for tho dumb pain in his eyes. “I ’at© ’im an’ ’is ugly phiz, an’ I ’ud do it agen, I would.” Then Joe crept silently downstairs and out of the house. His angel had closed tho gates of Paradise to him. His brief, bright dream was ended. Viola felt rather ashamed of hor anger when sho was alone. She picked up the bom, soiled pieces of tho photograph,'and afterwards carefully mended them. Then sho took down tue nearly-linishod painting, that was destined never to ho completed, and pub it away. Joe felt very miserable. I’m* tho next few days h© took to haunting the neighbourhood of that earthly paradise where dwelt his beautiful angel. Ho had a faint hope that if he might only seo her perhaps sho would relent ami forgive him. One morning as ho stood by tho area railings, the carriage in which Viola wont hor daily drivo with her grandmother carno round to the house. “Isn’t that tho boy whom you were painting?” asked the dear old lady, catching sight of Joe’s dark face as sho came down tho stops leaning on Viola’s arm. “Oh. that boy!” said tho angol, and remembering hor anger against him she turned her head away. Joo was very lonely and heartsick. His angel still guarded Paradise with tho flaming sword of hor righteous indignation. Ho turned away from tho grand house and went slowly citywards, slouching along on tho lookout for anything that might turn up. Ho remembered some of the nice littlo moral stories that ho had hoard at Sunday school on tho rare occasions when ho went. About tho old ladies who dropped a bag or a purse, and when it was restored to them by some especially ragged littlo boy, adopted him henceforth and made him happy. But there didn’t soom any nioo old Indies about that day. Instead, what ladies there wore only looked at him suspiciously when ho passed near them, putting their hands involuntarily over their pockets. It was a dull, dark December day, and as Joe was crossing Oxford street his foot suddenly slipped, and he foil just as a cab was close upon him. Ho felt a confused sensation of darkness and pain, then everything was a blank.

After all, it was only an accident that happens very often in London. The small crowd which had collected soon dispersed. Somebody picked Joe up and drove with him to tho Royal Free Hospital. When he recovered consciousness he found himself in bed, with a doctor bending over him. He could not restrain a low cry when ho recognised tho faoo which he had seen in tho photograph. -“Root ' old boy 1” said tbe doctor gently, thinking it was the pain which made him exclaim. “We will soon have you nice and comfortable.” Presently a nurse approached the bedside. She was a pretty girl, with a superabundance of health and strength, and a voice that seemed to go through Jack’s head. They talked together for a minute or two. “Then it’s U.P. P” said the girl, glancing towards Joe, not troubling to lower her voice. “Hush 1 I am afraid so,” answered tho doctor. Joe caught the purport of her words. When the doctor came back to him, ho said, “Are I goin’ to die, please sir?” “You’ve got some nasty bruises, old fellow, but perhaps we shall pull you through,” said the doctor cheerily. “I wish I could see her again,” murmured Joe, rather faintly. “Who?” “My beautiful angel,” said Joe dreamily. “Who?” said the doctor again, thinking ho had misunderstood him. Then Joe told him all about Viola. The doctor’s sensitive face flushed when he heard the episode about his photo. “So you want to see your angel again?” he said when Jo© had finished. Tho doctor knew there was no time to bo lost. Joe was hurt. internally, and would scarcely last through the night. Well, it didn’t matter much. What does the future hold for such ns him? Only the same dreary tale of poverty, hunger, and woe, until the end comes as it was coming to Joe now. Joe, poor little Joe; I think Heaven will be made doubly beautiful for you, and those like you, whose lives on Barth have held so little of God’s best Sunshine —Happiness 1 Thus it was that over Joe’s' death-bed Viola and her lover met again. But in tho presence of the darkwinged angel of the .Land of Shadows their own hopes and sorrows seemeQ to pale. A bunch of faded sweet violets lay besido Jo© on the pillow, which had dropped from his ragged old coat when he was undressed. Viola recognised tho ribbon with which they were tied, and then I think she understood. “Dear, dear Joel” eh© said, smoothing back the dark, damp hair from his brow as she sab beside him in the hospital ward. “Oh, how I wish I could our© the pain for you!” “It ain’t very, bad,” he said bravely. “Leasfcawaya, I don’t mind it s’long as you’re here. You ain’t agoin’ to leave me yet, are you ?” “j.\o; I will stop just as long as you like,” said Viola tenderly. “Shall you finish that there picter now?” Joe went on, after a pause. “I do not know,” she answered, her eyes filling with sudden tears. By-and-bye Viola’s lover came to the bedside. Joe looked at him curiously; then he turned to Viola. “I’m sorry I tored his picter up,” he said, with an effort. “My 1 you was awful angry with me, wasn't you ?” “Dear Joe, do not think of that now,” she whispered, stooping to press her red lips against his check. The electricity of her caress sent the blood throbbing through his exhausted veins. It seemed to revive some of his. old strength for the moment. “Ain’t you glad my beautiful angel likes you?” ho said, looking up at the doctor. “I wish sho did,” said the doctor, softly, looking down at Viola. “She does, she said so,” said Joe, impatiently. “Is that true, Viola?” asked the doctor, involuntarily, stretching his hand across tho coverlet to her. Her own. went out to meet it, and so their hands were joined in a union that would last as long as life. Joe watched them with jealous eyes. Presently bis hand stole up to the dead

violets, cuddling them against hi.s cheek. Ho was going very fast. Bach moment his feet were slipping nearer the dark River, tho depths nor width on this side no man knows. Viola began to toll him in her low, sweet voice, and in such simple language as lie could understand, of the Heaven to which h- was going. She spoke, clasping his hand tho while, of the streets of shining goid; the walls of jasper; tho gates of precious stones; of the wlntc-wmged angels; of their harps and cymbals and their rapturous songs. But Joo turned restlessly away, whimpering a little, eating that hi.s head ached, and. all the, music would only make it worse. Disappointed, Viola tried then to describe tho fountains of living water; tho rich and beautiful flowers: how there would be no light needed, for God Himself is the Sun thereof. Still Joo was not soothed, meaning wearily that he was tired, so tired, and all the light and beauty would make him tireder. Then Viola gathered him into her arras, pillowing his aching head upon her breast, kissing and crooning over him as mothers do over their babies. Bub not as his mother had ever done to him. “I like this best, my beautiful angel, ’ Joe murmured contentedly. “I want to Ho like this always. Don’t put mo down again.” So tho minutes sped on, but Viola’s arms did not relax their hold. Suddenly there broke on tho dull darkness of tho night tho sound of iho Christmas hells. Outsido was mirth and music, in the hospital ward a soul was passing away. Nearer and clearer came the sound of the hells across tho muffled roar of tho city, carrying to mankind that glorious message of peace and goodwill, and Joo opened his eyes. “Aro you there, my beautiful angel?” he asked, putting up ills hand weakly to touch hor face. “Yes, dear,” she answered, wiping tho death dew from his brow. Tli© doctor stooped down to put some cordial between his lips. “Good—bye—my—beautiful— angel,” ho whispered, struggling for breath pitifully. Even as Joe spoko his -head drooped upon Viola’s shoulder. He was dead. They laid him gently back upon tho bed, and Viola placed the dead violets, whose fragrance still clung about them, within tho boy’s brown hand. Tho doctor drew her nearer to him. They looked at tho still face on tho pillow. The glorious Italian eyes were closed for ever—here. On earth they would never see again his beautiful angel. Viola said softly, “I wonder if woman over had a truer little lover?”