A SHORT STORY.

Taranaki Herald, Volume LIV, Issue 13663, 30 March 1908, Page 7

A SHORT STORY.

CHARMED BY A PHOTOGRAPH.

[By John Patrick.]

Kitty Seymour raised her <eyebrows slightly,,^ contemplated <for ins£an£ her reflection in the mirror, and then carefully patted two stray hairs back into their places. .- "I do wish people 'wouldn't 'talk, w she told herself half-petulantly, and with a pretty pout, "as if I Could ever marry him!" She smiled lightly at the mere thought, and continued : ",As if I could eyer^lore a man with hideous, long hair ! I hate 'men With long hair I"

She stamped her tiny foot by way of emphasis. Then she turned back to the mirror and glanced over her shQulder. • "Every one seems to be agreeing with everyone else that I should marry him," she went on, her face growing strangely serious, j "and those who are> n't doing that are telling me." The girl, tossed her pretty head and laughed a musical peal of delicious laughter. To her it all seemed so utterly absurd. "I suppose," she reflected, after a moment's thought, "it is all because he daubs paint on canvas, and imagines I'm a glorified angel of light; -whose face will give him immortality. That certainly sounds very charming when you say it aloud, but^l can't see why every one considers I should feel so highly favoured." Kitty Seymour was a social butterfly, who flitted lightly from ono pleasure to another. She was twenty-two, and for three years had lived this life, caring for naught else. She had not lacked offers of marriage. She had only scorned them j and' none there had been who had, even dared to criticise , her actions. But now there had tome to worship at her shrine an artist of high renown, and her, friends were vainly endeavouring to impress her with the advisability of marrying him. There was only one., reason in all the world why she should not link her future with him, and that was a reason that her friends refused to consider. She did not love him. 1 She had yet to learn the exquisite sweetness and the eternal gladness of giving her whole life to another, and receiving love from j:hat one in return. She had never known loyo; and apart from cottages, cheap dresses, and general dowdinoss, sho was skeptical of; its very 1 * existence. To her love was nothing more than a mytk, beautiful to behold. Just something to be sneered at, that existed 'only in the fancies of, poets. . A. mystical-something unknown, and indefinite, to be invariably associated with, long hair.' The artist , ha,d. long nair-j And that was his greatest 'sin. The woman, had refused his offer of marriage, and scorned bis" many protestations of undying love. But that had in no way disheartened him. The two met often, and Kitty was not afforded the slightest opportunity to forget his existence. Nevertheless, she almost invariably thought of fam with something.strangely akin to a sneer upon her lips.' And so it was this particular *normng in her boudoir, as she admired her reflection in tho mirror.

"Of course, I should marry him," she continued, a slight touch of sarpasm in her tone. "Everybody is positive about that. I should weep oopions tears of gladness, and throw myself upon his breast. I should abandon aid joy and cease to take an interest in fashions. Should simply efface myself eternally. That's romance. And all this I should do that I ,may . be transferred to canvas. As "if Kitty SfeyMonr is anxious to havo people gaping' before her portrait three thousand years hence, catchiiig brain-fever in an' effort to rome'mb'er the name of the- longhaired genius thafr painted it ! As if Kitty Seymour is «nxious for anything save to do as she pleases." ""She* crosspcTloThor writing table. A I frw minutes later sho paused, with half of het'letters unopened before her,- to gaze out through tho open window, j

"He speaks of love as if such a thing actually existed," she said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it is a disease," she reflected. "Perhaps it even has symptoms. In fact, I might be in love and not know it . How terrible!" Then she laughed merrily. "The idea is perfectly absurd!" she told herself, turning again to her letters, "for Kitty Seymour will never fall in love." Among her correspondence there was a packet from her photographer. She knew that it contained a dezen photographs of herself,' but she opened it eagerly, to ascertain what the finished portraits were like. As she spread the contents out on the table an exclamation, of surprise escaped her lips. One of the photographs was that of a man. She counted the portraits, to find that there, were only eleven of herself. Through some mistake the dozen had been made up by the inclusion of a, strange portrait. "What hideous hair!" was the girl's first remark as she took up the photograph of the man to examine \% more closely. Then, for some moments, as if fascinated, she gased at it with a peculiar look in her eyes. It was a strikingly handsome »and powerful face that looked' out from the picttire. Despite the mass of hair that fell loosely over 'the high forehead, and melted into the inky blackness of the background, there was an indubitable attractiveness and an inexplicable distinction connected with every feature that spoke eloqueutly of oultured refinement. As she gazed into the large dreamy eyes that seemed to be looking into the innermost recesses of her soul, there surged up within the girl's heart a strange, new sonsation, the like of which she had noVer before experienced. For the first time in her fife, Kitty Seymour felt mean and paltry. The calm repose behind that face Brought her to a sudden realisation of the fact that her life was nothing more than a gilded sham. ] - She stood the photograph up against some books, that she might admire it % from a distance ; then hurriedly wrotti a brief note to the photographer, explaining the .mistake. Very /carefully she folded the sheet* of paper and selected an envelope. "Why do some men wear their hair long?" she asked herself. "And why, I wonder, was ever a mere man given such wondrous eyes?" Having addressed the sealed envelope, she took up the wrappers that had enclosed the photographs, and leaned across the table. "I wonder who you are?" she said, gazing once more into the dreamy eyes. Then a strange thdught" flashed upon } her. With her righf'hand clutching at her. breast, she leaned more heavily upon the table. ■'> "" ' "Perhaps you've 'got me," sho said, almost in a whisper*. "Perhaps you'll keep me." fl Then scarcely conscious .of what she did, the woman reachod for tjie note she had just written,' and tore, it into fragments. ' T ' ' "' "I'll wait and Sfft if you send me back,'' she said to th> photograph. Thus it came about that the portrait of an unknown man, with long hair, came ,to stand conspicuously upon Kitty Seymour's writing table. s A month went by, "but 'there^ came no letter fr6m the' ph6t%apher.; 'fore by day as the 1 woman, /moved b\y\ s.6*h& strange ijhnulse had .sat iii'J&er . >oudoir, and looked upon that/ purposeful face; she had come %q feel more aftd, 1 more f infcijghificant. r Although she waV , unconscious of it, she , was changing. She knew her life had been a wasted ejffprt. The old pleasures satisfied her vuo longer, and she grew suddenly tired of .the incessant whirl of 'social life. The artist threw himself in her way on every possible occasion ? and pressed his suit with renewed vigour; but the young woman no longer flirted lightly with him as of old. Instead, she studied, to avoid him. The more intimate of > her friends told her openly that she was in love, discussed her in secret, and looked hopefully toward' the artist. But no one knew, least of all herself, that the secret ? of it all lay with the portrait that stood udoti her writingtable. When her birthday came round a girl friend, by way of a trifling joke,* sent her a dainty volume of exquisite prose, "The Way of Loye,"< written by Cyril Denton, '■ whose, fame as poet had gone forth over land and sea. This book, though in parts it soared to heights unknown where she; had never, trod, found a deep and true response in 'Kitty Seymour's soul. How. many times she read.it she could never tell, but when at heart she felt tired or lonely, she Would steal away to the privacy of her boudoir, that. she might look into the eyes of the stronger whose portrait was there, and read the chimerical fantasies that bore 1 the title, "The Way of Love." One glorious ftiorning sho sat at her table, opening her' letters/ while the sunlight was streaming iii' through the open window. It was three months since tho day that the strange portrait had come Jnto her life, and still there came no word from: the photographer. Tho girl drew two "At home" cards from their envelope, and contemplated them with distant jndifference. They seemed almost like a pall from her past life ; and yet how far away all that old gaiety now seamed. Tho woman ' had clranged so much that it were, almost possible to believe that the past had over been. She tossed the '?At homo" cards aside, aAd, casually, her gaze came to' rest upon, the strange portrait. For a montdnt she pondered, lost, in thought. ,The old life had gone, and what had sbo in its place? Just that photograph of a man unknown, and at her heart a fooling that at times Was deliciously s'.veet. She gazed fixedly at the 'photograph, \mtil a dullj gray mist gathered and obscured her vision. Then -she clutched wildly at tho laiie upon her dress, and something like a sob escaped her. What could be the meaning of that strange feeling at her heart? Could it be love? The thought set her brain in a whirl, and the blur of the mist gradually faded until tho .portrait became dimly visible again. Her face grew slightly strained,,, a^id her eyes wandered to the' patch ot sunlight upon ' the carpot. ' Sho shank wearily buck in nor chair, .and contemplated the 3 photograph. Slowly, tho sun crept across to the writ-ing-tablo. Thon tho woman sprang up, her eyos blazing, and her ehofkjs aflame. There were red, telltale circle^, around her eyes' ad slife $$ disordered hair'.'.hapk. frbni'lifer'to^ehedl. ■ N . 'i'lt'.s all yoii!' J she cjriedjto ,tho photograph. "Oh, how-I iiat^yoo!" •". She reached 1 for tho phonograph, to tear- it in pieces,. but tne dfljpjh «ad look in tho xvondcons ejvas..cpwflviea > ed her sudden -outburst 'of "passmn.* Her hands closod lovingly ,uyon it. , "I lovo you," •ah?* wiisricrrn softly, and, moved by a sudden Irupul.sp, she raisod it <o hor lips. i And so llu» strange portrn.it still remained in tho place of honour on Kitty Seymour's writing-table. . A woek later Hire .was among hor correspondence -a jfrr^asingHyvitation to spend a few weeks with a friend. Laura

Weston, who bad been- at seaool, with Kitty, resided with her widowed mother in a secluded part of Boston, and, as Kitty Seymour was tired of everything, to Boston she went. To beguile the four liours of the railroad journey she read "The Way of Love," and when, late in the afternoon/ she was* resting in Laura's boudoir, she turned to that little book. again. "Gracious! You don't mean to say you read that stuff?" Laura said, chancing to look up. ; • "It's just too lovely," was Kitty's reply. * "Lovely rubbish!" "Have 3 r ou read it?" "I should think not." < "Then how do jou.know it's rubbish?"

"It was written here," was the answer. _ -

Kitty Seymour sat up on the lounge. "By whom ?>','. she asked, a note of incredulity ia her tone. "By Cyril, of course." "Cyril Denton?" "Oh, how silly of me!' 1 Laura exclaimed, throwing aside her work. "I am forgetting that. you do not know of the cousin who has lived with us ever since he was a boy. He is supposed to be very clever, but I think his poetry and his books are just rubbish. Wot a bit interesting. But he must be very famous, for persons from all over the" world call and ask to see him or his study, or the place where he thinks, or I something equally absurds Every day, he gets dozens of letters asking for his autograph. As if Cyril's signature were worth anything, except when it'a on a cheque. Ana people send him flowers and\ajl kinds of little presents. .It's a positive nuisance." "I'd love to see to/is study," Kitty said, ignoring her friend's concluding, remark. •. "How silly of you !" ;. . "I?d like to be silly, Laura, dear," said Kitty. , , "Cyril never lets a stranger see it," Laura said, after a short silence, "but if you are sure you'd really like to, I'll let you have a peep. It doesn't interest me very much, for I been in*, side the door for six months. He's out this afternoon. You're sure you'd like to?" "I'd love it!". They /went downstairs together, and Laura stopped outside the room adjoining the library. . , . "Go in and ' feast ; your soul," she., said, smiling a little as she threw open the door. "I must speaj^ to mother, but I will join you in a minute." Kitty could not repress a feeling of, astonishment as she stepped into the 1 room. It was a'perfect dream; in green and crimson. She moviefd across to the heavily-carvfcd writing table, to admire the bronze statuette that stood there, then started back with a 'half-sup-pressed cry of amazenlent. The colour flushed her cheeks * for an _ instant, to die away and leavß^ them deathly in their whiteness. She caught the back of a chair for support,' and took one step nearer to the tafble; There was no mistaking the photograph that stood there'in'.aineat silver frame. It was one of the last she had had taken. The woman looked upon it, and began to wonder how it came there. The" mystery was still unsolved when the ioTmd of a footfall in the doorway fell upon her ears. 1 "Oh, Laura, isn't it Just' too lovely !" Kitty said, turning towards the door. But it was a man^-who stood there/. A pair of strangely familiar eyes, of wondrous depth and. inexpressible sadness, looked into "JKitty Seymour's startled face, and ishe hecame dimly conscious that above the man's white, shapely forehead a ( great mass of jetblack hair .was, unevenly parted. She stood before the unknown man of. the portrait. . • Cyril Denton began slowly to unbutton his overcoat, and between him and the woman there was silence. Kitty spoke first. "I am intruding,",, she said, making a movement towards the door. "I beg of you to stay one moment, the poet said, advancing into the room. "I have loved you so much that it did not seem possible * that you could be standing here. I could not believe that you had come at last." A dreamy sadness seemed to sweep into his eyes, and the girl turned her face half away. " "I have lived my life almost alone," the man went on, "caring only for my work, and striving to make it the most beautiful of all created things. No woman has come into my life, until, with some , photographs of my own, there came., your portrait m from New York- I could not.s«nd it back. It became part of myself. To me love had ever been >a thing to dream about, but when I looked upon your photograph it sprang into being in my soul. I love you. I want you to be mine through all eternity f" The girl *was toying with a rose m her dr,ess, and some of the petals feU upon the carpet. The man gathered them up and stood with them m the palm of his hand. Then Kitty turned and looked up into his eyes. As she did so the thought flashed through her mind that the mass of hair became mm well, and then and there she buried for all time her aversion to it. "I long have admired, you,", she said £4-1 The man caught her in his arms and turned her face up to his, that he might look into her :eyes. "Why do you admire me?" he.asked. "Yonr photograph cameto me in the same way that mine went to you, she answered, smiling. "I tried to hate j you, andr— and " "AndP" he said. "And I couldn't."