THE STORYTELLER.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume L, Issue 61, 9 November 1907, Page 4

THE STORYTELLER.

THE LADY OF THE MIST. It was fighting against odds for an end which could never be gained. Stanley Hayton threw himself back in his chair and gazed into the far corner of his studio. On the wall hung numberless paintings—some the works of high-flown hopes, others of stern determination; the rest were mute appeals against obscurity, of hunger and despair. He rose, and stood erect in the centre of the studio, a hand on each hip, and looking from canvas to canvas, recounted how each had been painted and all had failed. The soles of his shoes were so thin that he could feel with his feet how threadbare was the rug on the floor. One gas jet out of twelve shimmered a melancholy Ught, picking out shadows and seeming only to intensify the foggy air. The place was desolation—an ocean of despair within four walls. llayton swung round and took three strides up to a table, from the open drawer of which he lifted a revolver and a small tin. From the tin he drew a molver cartridge. He looked at it thoughtfully, and weighed it in his hand.

, "It has cost me seven years agonv to live; it will cost only this " He slipped the cartridge into a barrel of the revolver and dropped the weapon into his pocket. Once more he stood and gazed at the pictures. He had watched them grow under his brush, cherished them with real tenderness, and nourished them with all his imagination. The world had said nothingnothing. But they were not less dear fof that, nor less hfs children. He drew on an overcoat, and, having ttrned the gas out, went into the misty night. He stood at the corner of the •treet, and waited the passing of a market cart loaded with vegetables for CoTent Garden market. He turned to the right and crossed the road. A policeman was the only person he met. Leaning on the parapet of the Chelsea embankment, his back •gainst it and his arms outstretched ri it, he tried to rekindle some of burnt-out hopes that he might have the courage to go on. He moved slowly to a lamp, in the %nt of whichhe examined his revolver. If It should fail, there was another way to the same -end rolling below 08"the other side of the para—f«fc He turned to walk beyond the light of the lamp, and started as he found himself face to face with a woman. His fingers relaxed as he gazed at her face, , pallid as his own, and the revolver fell heavily upon the pavement. Her face was not white from fear; there was nothing in her expression or po* suggestive ol fear. But her shapely mouth seemed to mutter an appeal to Hayton, and in the sparkle of ber fine eyes there was a challenge to Mm to be a m«n

He saw the woman's figure step into the road and rapidly fade away in the milt.

Then he saw the revolver lying on the pavement—a grim temptar. He gazed at it, then wonderinglyW the direction the woman had taken.

He buttoned up his coat, stepped forward picked np the revolver, and threw ft oat far beyond the parapet. He waited breathlessly until he heard the *tyiash" as the weapon struck the waters, and, turning, he groped his way liome.

Next day the air was clear, keen and bright. Hayton took a portfolio of ■ketches to a pawnbroker, and pledged them for thirteen shillings. With the proceeds he bought a canvas and some food.

Dayton's pictures were all of undoubted talent, and he might make a name bv them, if he could only attract attention. Critics thought well of his things, but passed them by because they were not uncommon in style, method and conception.

His last wort was different from them bIL It was bold—almost daring. It was simply a face in the mist, with the light of a lamp falling upon it. A beautiful face—just such as he had seen on that momentous night on Chelsea embankment. . In his picture he had hit upon exactly the same expression; and while he was painting, and the features seemed to mould themselves under his brushes, he used to "talk to the canvas just as he would to a woman that night had his Jnind not been unhinged. Ann a s the nfctare grew he came to love the unknown woman, and came to love the picture doubly, because it was his own. and the portrait of his love. He sent the picture to the Academy, with perfect confidence of its being hung, and priced it at 300 guineas—a prohibitive price, he knew. But he did not wish to sell it; it was all he had of tar.

On the third day of the exhibition he received a telegram from the well-known dealers in pictures, Messrs Grice and Co. It inquired his lowest price, for "A tice in the Fog"; reply paid. He tingled from head to foot with delight at this. Dealers' prices are inrariablv a long way behind the artists' prices. He replied to the telegram that the price was 300 guineas. In less than an hour he received a farther telegram from Messrs Grice. "Yes, we know," it ran. "But what jriS yon take!" Hayton smiled at the sarcasm, and threw the telegram away. He had hardly done so when another ielepiam arrived, making an offer from fc aty corporation. "Wni you accept £2OO for N. 237? Bepty paid."

Haytion iu astonished at this. It wu a rare thing for the art adviser* of .ft corporation to risit the R.A. within three days of ife being open; it was rarer atill for them to make purchases * BO toon.

He was writing a reply declining the effer, with many a sigh at the thought of what the money meant to him, when ■ third telegram arrived from the controllers of a famous trust created for the purchase of high-class works of art."

"It 237 not sol 4, we buy it at jour t price," the message read. I "Sold!" he gasped. ] It was gone from him. There was ( BO refusing that oiler, for the terms , were his own. Be had offered it for i 300 guineas, never dreaming it would go < for that; but had, and the contract I ■H binding. The price, the apparent eagerness of picture buyers to secure his ■ work, it was no consolation to hiin just lfr«v He had sold the picture he loved ; of the woman he adored. i He took up a pen, and accepted the Offer in these terms: "No. 237 is sold to you." Then he went straight off to the Academy and feasted his eyes on the picture, Could he part with itt Strictly ■peaking, he had. But perhaps he could get the purchasers to withdraw their I offer. He would try. He went out and took an omnibus to the offices of the purchasers. H<" wa a courteously received by a comfortablelooking gentleman of middle age, and plunged into business. "Do you really want my picture?" he almost appealingly. "The truth M, air, I intended to put a prohibitive price on it; I did not want to sell it." "My dear sir, if you don't want t» sell your pictures, you should prevent I critics writing about them like that!" He opened a high-class weekly journal and poshed it towards Hayton. But the artist was too worried at the moment to read the notice. "Yes, yes, But won't you withdraw your offer?" he said. "I will gladly compensate the trust by allowing yoii to ctoose any of my other pictures." The suggestion of a bribe nettled the eomfortablc-looking gentleman. He became austere at once. 'We offered you your price, Mr Hayton, and you accepted it!" he said. Hayton perceived it was useless to argue with this man, so he left. At the first newspaper shop he came arrow he bought a copy of the journal which hail been shown him, and. standing in the busy street, he read four hundred words of unstinted praise >■! his picture. One sentence alone -hmild prove worth a. {hundred a year (' I

■'lf Mr Tlayton can portray anybody'* face as startling lifelitce —one can al-1 most see the nostrils distend with breathing—the course of.a year *>r two ehould find him in the premier place amongst portrait painter 3/' That onglit to get mp some portraits lo do," Haytin muttered. a» li« closed the paper. ''Wi.it a splash T have nude!"

But under the glamor of his siicce=s was the miser)' of his picture - „ He passed Burlington House on ins way home to Chelsea. He was stoppej at the main entrance by a hansom I.mv Sng the court yard. ITayton glanced at the ocupant of the cab, and started. She was the woman who had saved him Ud n»d# U». It was the sains be 111 tilt

iul face he had portrayed, except that it wore a deeply thoughtful expression, and something of sadness. She did not see him. Hayton sprang into a cab and told the driver to follow the hansom. But the man was so slow that the chance was missed.

Next day Hayton went to the Academy. But there he learnt nothing. As he walked along the courtyard on leaving a tall, handsome man, of about thirty, cut across the square and stopped him at the gateway. "Hayton," he said, extending his band. 'Bruce!" said the artist, with surprise. '"Where did you spring from? I had given up hopes of ever seeing you again." "And I have been wondering for months past where you were buried," Mr Bruce replied. "Your picture gave me a clue, and I came here to find out your address. Dear old chap, I'm delighted to see you! Quite like old times! I say, that's a slashing fine picture of yours. It's getting quite the fashion to rave about it, and weave romantic incidents about Mr Hayton. Who's your model! Lucky dog!" There was a touch of quizziness in his manner. "Well, we can't stop hero," he added hastily, before Hayton could speak.

"Will you come round to dinner at eight, and tell me all you've been doing? I shouid like to introduce you to my wife. As an artist, vou'll admire her."

llayton accepted the offer eagerly, and when they had exchanged cards tin'/ separated.

Mr Bruce met Hayton in the hall of the flat at Knightgride, with a joviality which grated on the artist's nerves. He opened a door, and gently encouraged Hayton to enter a handsomely-furnished drawing-room.

Hayton started as the door closed behind him, as he stood looking at the face of his mysterious love. She was sitting in the yellow light of a lamp, and as she turned her face towards him she recalled to him more forcibly than his famous picture had ever done their first meeting on Chelsea emßankment.

"Hayton," said Brube, extending a hand towards her as she rose, "I think you have seen this lady before." Hayton bowed. He bit his lips to stifle the cry in his heart.

"I have had the-pleaWMTrf"secTng her before," he muttered, "but not the honor of knowing her." "Spoken like a book!" Bruce said. "Then let me introduce you. My wife's sister—Miss Ethel Gordon. My wife will be down in a minute. *

Everyone agreed that the marriage between Mr Hayton—"The celebrated yrtrait painter, you know"—and Ethel Gordon was the only possible conclusion to "anything so ridiculously romantic." But their happy marriage was not the conclusion of the romance —only the happy continuation.—Fenton Downo.