"SUNNY JIM."

Otago Witness, Issue 2734, 8 August 1906, Page 81

"SUNNY JIM."

By M. Creagh Henry, in M.A.P. Jim Jefferies was a "black sheep." That fact was known to everybody, for the locale of Jim's career was a small cathedral town. Poor Jim- had failed to make a respectable citizen. He had originally been apprenticed to a local lawyer, but in tvv-o months' time had tired of legal lore, and, slipping away from the bondage of red tape, declared his intention of becoming an artist. At the earnest entreaty of his mother he had been sent to study in London and Paris. With an indisputable talent — almost amounting to genius — and in spite of an indolence nothing short of criminal, "Sunny Jim" managed to win scholarships and paint pictures which promised well for his future career. His mother died some time before his first picture had been hung "on the line." Her death made it imperative that he should return* home to -look, after- his father, whose loneliness .and fast- failing . sight necessitated his son living with him. Mr Jefferies was a well-known member of the community, and had earned great fame as a wood-carver of -uncommon skill, and was devoted to his hobby. Jim's fellow students swore loudly that it was monstrous -to bury "Sunny Jim" in a pokey little hole in the north. Jim merely smiled complacently, and declared "a little hole in the north '«as as good as a big hole in th© south if there were room enough to live in it." His perpetual cheerfulness had earned for him the nickname of "Sunny Jim." Perhaps his philosophy carried conviction bocause Jim smiled. But he had often wondered 6inoe if there really was room enough for him to live in Northboroucfn. He certainly recognised himself as a ve*y square peg in a very round hole. One magic day there seemed suddenly to be more room for him- — the hole grew less round, or he grewi less square. Jim fell in~ love. The audacity of James ! _Jle fell in love with the Dean's daughter. Marian Romer was her name. She had just returned from abroad, and was as young and beautiful as a beautiful young girl could be. .They didn't meet as they- ought to have met—at- a tea or tennis party, — but they met in a field of corn and poppies wittiout any introduction. Jim sat sketching, when the Dean's daughter, suddenly jumping over a stile, 'landed in his field. Hhe turned to call her dog, who, intent on> drawings a rabbit-Burrow, remained deaf to her. entreaties. Abandoning him to his vices, she looked with loving admiration at the familiar landscape before her. Standing beside the golden corn in her light cotton dress and wide-brimmed hat, she made such a picture of fresh young promise in an autunm field as caused Jim's heart to .beat strangely fast. The water dripped* unheeded from his palette on to his knee as he gazed at the fair vision before him. . The girl had not observed Jim, nor probably would she have done 60, as her path lay in the opposite direction, had it not been for Tip, that irresponsible terrier, who, tired of rabbiting, pushed his way through the hedge and found Jim oblivious of his presence, presumably a being indifferent to any canine crime he might commit. Tip discovered in his hasty but comprehensive survey of the situation a succulent case of brushes lying on the ground. Here indeed was a delightful diversion. Tip seized it, and, trotting affably up to his mistress, lay at her feet and proceeded to crunch up brushes and case together. The crackling ■wood recalled Marian from her day dream. "Tip, * you bad boy ! What have you got there?" she exclaimed, stooping to wrest the strange black object from the dog's mouth. "Brushes!" she cried in astonishment. Picking up the moist and mangled case gingerley between her finger and thumb, Marian looked about h-.r. Theie in the corner behind his easel sat "Sunny Jim." "Oh, Tip, how could you be so wicked !" exclaimed the Dean's daughter, near 1 / weeping with woe at the mischief done Tip glanced up and wagged his tail with affected levity. With crimson cheeks Marian approached the artist, holding the mutilated article towards him. "I'm afraid this is yours," she stammered. "My dog has been eating it. I am so, so sorry." Jim jumped to his feet and stood hat in hand, smiling away all her dismay. "I don't mind a bit," he laughed. "I didn't want the brushes ; they were all too old to use." Was James a liar? The brushes had been bought that very day. Perhaps he forgot, for Marian's eyes were looking into his, Marian's voice was speaking to him. ] "It was too villainous of Tip, but, you ; see, he's a terrier, and was born wicked. ! Can you really forgive us?" ( "Please don't say any more," Jim , pleaded ; "I'm awfully glad they amused him. He may as well finish them," he ] added, taking the case and throwing it 1 with a mighty throw far into the next field, whither Tip precipitated himself in ] pursuit. j Oh, wily Jim ! Marian must perforce await her dog's return. ( "May I.look at your picture?" she said, , shyly. "It' 6 not worth looking at," he replied, j moving aside. \ The girl stood before it. i '"How beautiful," she exclaimed, after a > moment's silence, turning towards him a j face alight with enthusiasm. t "Do you really like it?" asked Jim, f flushing with gratification. "I love it — it's so true." ± Jim sighed. v "Is it? I call thLb field my El Dorado, v

I come here always while the poppies a.r in bloom." • -•---.. "Are you a wandering artist — or do yo live in Northborough?" "I live here." "Do you? I've never seen you Before.' Jim smiled. - - -" ''And I don't suppose we are likely t meet again; I'm not in the episcopal set they've no use for me, nor I for them — a far as that goes. Pernaps you know nr father, Montague "Jeffries?" • - "Oh, the splendid wood*-carver ! O course I do. ' Father took me to see hi work the other day ; it was lovely." Again Jim smiled-r-a radiant smile. "I am so jjlad," he said! "Why didn't we see you?" pursued th girl. "Oh, people who come to see the go vernor don't approve of me, you know I'm just a waster. My father's work shop is interesting, isn't it?" "Yes, very. It's wonderful how beau tifully he carves, in spite of being nearly blind. How proud he must be of you." " For once Jim did not smile. "No, he's never had any cause to bi proud of me," he replied sadly. Marian inspected the man before her * and wondered why his father- was no proud of him. "I dor like yotir work so much." Sh< spoke on some inward -impulse,' -and fillec an awkward pause. "Do you?" His smile brdke forth again and as he "looked at the girl he felt foi the first time in his life that he wantec to be, or do. something great. At this juncture Tip returned with mucl tail-wagging, having demolished botl brushes and case in the adjoining field. The cathedral clock chimed 4. "I must go," said Jim, • hurriedly put ting his things together. "Good-bye." He bowed to Marian as he slung hi* sketching-bag over his shoulder. "Oh, but I shall only say au revoir ; wt may meet again — in El Dorado, you know, if not in the Close." Now had Miss Marian any right to makt a suggestion to a total stranger? Well, Tip told no teles ! Jim haunted the poppy-field early and late, but" it was some days before he again saw his divinity. When at last she did appear, she shook her head playfully al Jim. 'Tve heard all about you," she laughed— "such a string of iniquities !" The radiant smile with which he had greeted her faded from Jim's face.. "Oh, don't Jook sad,;. I don't care what they say; I don't believe them— and I said so!" she declared. . ~ "God bless you," muttered! -Jim in a queer, choky voice; "but' they're right, you know— t&ey'xe «11 quite right — I'm a 'black sheep' and a ne'er-do-well." "That'® not true," remarked Marian with conviction. "I wish it weren't," sighed Jim."It isn't. You must believe in yourself," she insisted, with bewitching *risdom, "because I believe in you," she added ingenuously. "No one has ever believed in me before ; it makes me feel that I could do things '" They met almost daily, and spoke to one another simply and frankly as children might ; but they were grown-up children, and it was all a prelude to what must inevitably follow. Jim loved the Dean's daughter from the very moment she stepped into that cornfield and into his life, and as for Marian, "Sunny Jim" smiled his way into her heart despite all his shortcomings. . But the old proverb must be fulfilled, and the course of true love did not run smooth. When the Dean discovered his daughter's deplorable delinquency, he arose in his wrath and forbade her ever again to see the disreputable James. Life now assumed a very sombre ' and gloomy aspect for the 'foolish and infatuated pair. Marian was kept a prisoner, confined strictly to the somewhat narrow precincts of the Close, while Jim wandered disconsolately in the bare wheatfield, .whence the poppies had long since vanished. He tramped forlornly over the prickly stubble, dreaming of his lost El Dorado. } It was at this, period of the proceedings that the Very Rev. Dean of Northborough received an intimation from his father, the Most Rev. the Lord Bishop of- Sefton, to the effect that, on the recommendation of a friend, he intended to be painted for that year's Academy by the clever young artist in his (the Dean's) neighbourhood, James Jefferies. Mr Jefferies invited the Bishop, an old school friend of his, to do him the honour of staying under his roof while the portrait was being painted. Ho came — a, simple, friendly, whimsical old man. "Sunny Jim" liked him, and the portrait became proportionately successful. ... Now, the Lord Bishop's grand-daughter loved her grandfather devotedly, and into his sympathetic ear she poured her talc of hopeless love. "His father does not give me a good account of him ; he has been a sad 1 disappointment to Mm," the old man "said, stroking Marian'fe hand. '"He is not worthy of you, my child. Put him out of your mind, dear — put him out of_ your mind !" Was the Bishop young so long ago that he had forgotten mind and heart are two totally different things?. If Marian obediently dismissed Jim from her mind, he still remained safely enshrined in her heart. , The Bishop sat to Jim every afternoon, devoting the mornings to his correspondence and his constitutional. As the clock struck 4, Jim lay down hi& palette and brushes, and begging his sitter to entertain himself for a while, would leave the studio, reappearing in an hour with his habitual smile. Of late Jim's smile had grown almost pathetic in cantiast to the sadness of hi& face when he forgot to smile. The Bishop was interested in Jamos As the days went by'hf* -wondered what urgent business claimed him from hie work with such uufailuift legality. Tow aids

c the end of the week the old man could restrain his curiosity no longer. v "My friend," he said, as the clock chimed 4, and Jim laid down hie things, "will you forgive my inquisitiveness and! , tell me -what it is that takes you away at this hour with such unfailing regularity?" ? Jim smiled and hesitated for a moment, > then be said simply, "Com© and see." 9 He led the way. across a damp, unkepfc T courtyard, took out a latchkey, and opened a door on the opposite side, through which * the Bishop followed him. They stood in 5 a long, low room, a large casement "window at one end, through which fell a golden flood of sunlight. Wood-carving o,f every description filled the room. All showed J the touch of a master-hand. On. the deal table before the window, with, toctls and - mallet beside it, lay an unfinished piece . • of carving— a weak, feeble attempt* The room was Mr Jefferies's workshop. The old man had sat and worked all ■ day with shaking hands and dim eyes, and» r the result of his work lay on the table, pathetic in its feebleness. Without a word Jim seated himself on the bench but i lately vacated by his father, and, taking up the piece of wood, proceeded -to carv,a , with- strong, firm stroke's tne pattern th,e •j old man had 'attempted to cut. Steadily . he .worked,, unmindful of the Bishop. i Suddenly Jim raised his. heads. A- step [ had caught his ear. Quick as thought hi* ■ rose, replacing the tools as he had found , them, and stood nonchalantly beside tire ~ • table, examining the carving as the door [ opened and his father entered. , "Who is there?" inquired. Mr Jefferies* „■ t vainly endeavourin" to distinguish Jim's i figure in the now fading light. "It's only me, dad." "You — ah, as I might have expected," . said the old man querulously ; wasting - your time as usual. What are you doing , in here?" "I'm looking at your work, dad." , "If you did your own work instead of, ■ looking at mine, you might be less of ai failure/ sir." ' , "I'm afraid I was born a failure." "Born — fiddlesticks! No child of mine .. could have been born lazy.. Look at me, sir, in spite of my failing eyesight — look at the work I do. They tell me it's better than I've ever done — that's ' because I ' ■ ] worked ; as a lad I worked, as a young man I worked, and now/ as an old man, ' I stiH work. You could have done the same, but you chose instead to drink and -gamble, and talk of things you have never ,' accomplished.' "Does,- anyone realise thejr dreams, I wonder?"' murmured Jim sadly. "Dreams — bah ! what are ■dreams.? Wake up, man, and work. Go back, to your studio, and don't let me -discover you. wast* * ing. your time in here again. I am, going .to find the. Bishop. , - ' - The B : sbx>p remained silent in his corner. As the door closed behind Mr Je^fferies he came forward to Jim, who stood -with bowed head beside the - £abje. Laying, his httnd kindly on the young mail's, ■hoolder, he said: "Dear lad, dear lad> I anr.glad I know ,your secret." In silence Jim sat down again and proceeded* to finish his self-allotted taak — the work which his father's fingers would trace over lovingly next day, the work which would bring a smile of satisfaction to the din* !"•» <».nd winse the old man to mutter to himself/ ''My hand has not yet lost its cunning" ; work, too, which would help to increase his contempt for the son he had never undj|rstood. The Bishop was closeted with the Dean for a full hour. At the end of that period he emerged from a v^prdy warfare, weary but triumphant. Jim's labour completed, he rose from the bench, both physically and mentally dejected. The work was done, and well done, but to-aay even the satisfaction of that was wanting. With bowed head and heavy heart h* - passed across the courtyard and entered his studio. The last rays of the setting 6un streamed . in at the open door, and sitting there alone, with the sunlight falling on her fair head,- was Marian Romer. , Jim's heart gave one great leap when he saw her ; then, assured it must be only a vision which rose before his tired • eyes, he turned and fled away to the bare cornfield over the hill. There .pn. the. damp brown earth Jim threw himself down, and wished the poppies might spring .up once more, and, . with .. their - gracious gift of slumber, woo' him -to a sleep- from which there should be no awakening. "Jim — Jim !" Marian's voice ! Was this a dream ? "Jim, look up, dear." Jim raised his head; to find the girl he loved bending over him. "They have given us back our El Dorado to live in always, dear," 6he whispered, "and grand-dad opened the gate!" A f>mj}e illuminated Jim's face, a smile which held the sunshine of a world of joy- ________