A BLIND COURTSHIP.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 9674, 16 October 1909, Page 3

A BLIND COURTSHIP.

(By TOM GALLON.) [All Rights Reserved.] " Someone's bin an'- gorn an' moved in over the way." The young man standing in ~the window to catch the last light of the dying day looked up from his easel quickly at tb© email servant maid who stood jjist within the door. The small servant maid looked fogged out with ranch tramping of stairs and much answering of bells. She had paused ..for a moment for a word with this, the most interesting of the lodgers. Interesting in her 6ense, because he was the only one in the house with any savour of romance about him — the only one who did not rush out of the house at a certain hour to catch a train, and come back by another train at night. '':'■' " I'm glad to hear that, Bsmwalda," said the young man, glancing 'cut of the window for a moment at that other window which had been Wank so leng. "It'll seem like company to look . into another room occupied by other people — especially as the street is so .narrow." " I see 'em goin' in," said Esmeralda, with come pride,. '-Leastways, I see one- of 'em— an old lady, refy feeble. I've- 'card since that there's a young gel wot "went in wiv 'er. An' there ain't much furniture." That window at the opposite side of the street had always had a curious subtle attraction for Gerald Flemming. In the intervals of work he would look across at its back panes and speculate upon who had lived behind them, or wno was to live behind them in the future. The street was a very poor one (or it would not have lodged co struggling an artist as Gerald Flemming), and most of the houses were let out in floors or were lodging-houses ef the poorer sort ; and in Iris particular bed-eitting-room Gerald laboured hard, and made a mere pittance, and was altogether pretty contented and happy. But his days being filled with hard work, and little distraction such as that of the empty room over the way being occupied was a little- bit of life to him then. Late that evening, when the light had failed, he sat in the darkness of his room, looking across the way. _ A lamp was lighted on a centre, table, and he could see- a young girl moving quickly about the room, putting things to rights. She moved deftly and swiftly; once he saw her stop, as if listening to someone who called to her from another room, saw. her lips move as she answered, although he could not hear, of course, what was said. When she came to the window at last, and pulled down the blind, and so shut »ut the picture, she left upon his mind the distinct impression that she was young, that she was pretty, and that she was poor. , , He was vain enough. «n the following morning to draw his easel nearer to the window than was absolutely necessary, so if the young girl happened to be near the window she might see him at werk, and see what sort of work it was. But when presently she came to her own window and seated herself there she did not appear to take the faintest notice of him. He saw, ac he glanced across from time to time, that. her busy needle flew in and out of some work she was doing, a pile of which lay on the table before her. Hour after hour she stitched away, and hour alter hour the boy painted, and shot across the road those occasional fiances which assured him always that c had been right in his three conjectures — that she was young &od pretty and poor. In a sense, as time went on, that window filled his thoughts more and , more. He seemed to be looking ■ through it into another life. There was a long summer, during which h» was too poor to leave London, and when the heat was oppressive, even with the window flung wide opon ; and there was ! consolation in seeing the girl, whose name he did not even know, seated at another open window just across the street, sewing as busily as ever. Almost as if he knew her. and they were Working together quietly at their different occupations, while the great I" world of London roared about them. ! Then; too, there was Esmeralda, always ' willing to give information. " Of course I know, Mr Flemming, you're a bit 'ard up," she said in her blunt way — " and W you ever expect to make a livin' spoilin' good sheetsof paper an' pieces of canvas lioks me; out she's a deal poorer." Esnwalda jerked her thumb in the direction of that window across the street. "I've 'ad it from the baker an' from the milkman — though goodness knows I do»n't ol» woman — aunt, I b'live — wot grumbles all day long; an' the young lady doin' 'er best with a bit p' plain sevvin" to keep body an' eoul together for 'em boffcih. She looks to me to be gettin' thinner an' thinner every day." "It's a boastly hard world,»Esmeralda," said Gerald with a sigh, as he glanced across the road at th© smooth dark head bent over the flying fingers. "You don ; t happen to have heard the young lady's name, I suppose?" he addled. " Name of Elster," responded Esmeralda promptly. " An' the aunt calls 'er < Doris/" ,^ „ IJt " That's a pretty name. ' said Gerald. After Esmeralda; had demrted he drew back into the room, where he could not be seen, and bowed solemnly to the unconscious girl across the read. "I greet yon, Miss Doris Elster — and if I were rich I'd carry you away, as they did in the fairy tales of old, and make you happy for ever after. But w»'d leave the aunt behind." Now it is absolutely impossible for a yeung girl to sit at a sunny window, even in a narrow street, and to look

across ©very now and then, at- a goodlooking young artist, painting ham for a living, without becoming interested in him. Life was a dull and grey thing -enough to little Doris Elerter, and the : complaining voice of the aunt was a thing not to oe silenced ; it was good eometimes, too, to raise tired eyes, and let ■thorn rest .upon that fiocure across the way. And as jUbmoralda. had already made fri&nds with tho small domeatio attached to the house in which Doris lived, it, was not long before Gerald Flemming'e nanie and occupation, and all about him, came to the girl's ears. So that in a sen6e they had been informally introduced to each other. That long hot summer was broken' once for them .both by an. event. Either work had failed, or there was a sudden longing for fresh air and the' sight of trees; bo that as it may, the girl abruptly got up one day, and vent out. She stepped out into the sunshine of th« street, and after looking this way. and that, otroved out towards the broader streets; On an, impulse Gerald Flemiining fluag down his brushes, seized his hat, and followed. - Let it not be imagined for a moment that he had any design to speak to her; it was quite sufficient to be near her. . fie followed at a discreet distance/and presently saw her turn into a public garden, and seat herself upon a bench. It was very peaceful in there, and only one or two, old men were sitting about, smoking, wbilo a few children rolled upon the gross. Gerald Flemming -walked from end to end of the gardens twice before making up hia mind what to do; finally he came and sat down at the other end of the bench on which Doris was seated. There was ia wild thought in *hi» mind that he would presently turn .to hei, and hold out his. arms, without thought of the-. old men or the children, and say to her something of what was almost oil his lips. "Dork— my darling girl — you who look so thin and pale, and seem so badly to need someone to look after you— won't you - let me take you in my arms, »nd tell you that I love- you,, and that I am poor and lonely and hard-working, too — and that I want to take care of you. Isn't it a silly sort. of world that compels us to live within sight of each other all the' long year round, and yet that -will not let us speak P" That, of cours», was absurd, and Gerald Flemniing simply sat^till and stared straight in front of him, and said nothing. With a glance or two sideways he noted how much prettier she was even than he had supposed] taw with a pang how shabby her dres3 was, and how worn the little she© that peeped from beneath it. ' Then she got up to go away, and he could only remain where he was. - ' Y«t she must have noticed him, and must have thought about him ; for that night a strange and wonderful thing happened. It was a hot night, following that sultry day, arid he sat by his open window a long time, watching that window opposite over which' the blind had been drawn. It grew very late, and, as he afterwards knew, the aunt went to bed. Presently the blind was pulled halfway up and the girl came and sat by the window, leaning her elbows on it, and looking out. So the two remained perfectly silent for qxnio a lpng time, while the noises in the streets died down, and the lights went out of the windows one by one. j They might have been living in a world alone togeUb'er when at last she. got tip, and lifted her hand to pull down j the blind. Before doing co she leaned i out for a moment towards him aud he caught her faint whisper : " Good-night!" "Good-ndght!" he stammered in reply; and down came the blind. There was no sleep for him that night; he could only think of the wondrous thing that had happened. That she should have spoken to him in a voice as sweet as her face; that .she should have smiled across at him like that ; it was wonderful I If he had tha good fortune to meet her again he should be able to speak to her; he might even let her know that he knew her name, and something about her. Visions of a time when h© might even brave the terrors of the aunt, and go to ■ that room over the way, and perhaps talk to the girl there; all these things kept him awake. Yet it has to be confessed that she never did more than that. At night the. blind would be lifted, if '^he weatrust all I 'ear. There's a 'or rid, cross ther were tine, and . she would look across, and whisper that farewell; then the blind would comedown again. When the winter came, and the wind was bitterly cold, and tho rain was falling, she did not open the window, but she never forgot that salutation; she would raise the blind at the last moment, and nod across to him ; almost he fancied she formed tho words with her lips. And that was some poor consolation, at least. As time went on he 6aw to his consternation that she gradually seemed to be failing in health. The needle did not fly so quickly ; and more than once £»h© let the work drop in her lap, while she sat with pensive eyes looking out cf th© window. And once, on one- bitter winter day, when sli© did not know that he was there, he saw her head go down on the table in the midst of that pile of work that never seemed to be finished, and stay there for some time. And then he knew that ehe was ingThere came a time when she did not appear at the window at all, save for a moment or two; three miserable evenings when she did not raise the blind t» nod to him that mute salutation.. He knew in his own mind what had happened; the girl was ill — worn cut at last with.' sheer hard work. Things had prospered with him a little lately, 'yet what could he do to help her whom he really did not know? A blank morning when, as ho looked aoross the street, lie caw that theblind was dowxu H» waited half the

morning, and still the blind was rtoi raised; ho knew what had happened! Unable to bear the' sight pf that window that looked like a closed eye, h» got his hat, and went out into the bleak wintry weather— hoping to lose himself in the crowded streets, ani so forget the tragedy that had come into his life. . • ■;■ And then— miracl© of. miracles— rb» saw her coining: straight towards him — just the little black clad figure ha had known so long. . Strangely enough; too, after the first shock of it wasovev they stood stilt before each other,!'with ' hands clasped ; and even that, did not seom to need any explanation.. ■ ■• . . " Littlo --Doris-!", he : cried — "I thought you were dead.'' : ■ • —-■:- "My aunt died last night; she had been ill for days," she faltered/ "That . was why I couldn't nod, to you at tfi* window. I haven't been able to get but for ever so long ; I came out of' the dreadful place where 6he lies dead ;_.to get a breath ' of fresh air.: I; am all alone in the world now." ■ - *;"'. He took her arm, and; turned -her about, and they walked away together: They went through ih&i crowded streets, seeing no one, hearing nothing , but the music of their own whispering f voices. And each knew in their hearts that they were never to be alone in th# world again. ' '.'■■:■"' :