Copyright Story. THE PAINTER’S WIFE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue XIX, 10 November 1900, Page 862

Copyright Story. THE PAINTER’S WIFE.

By

KATHARINE S. MACQUOID

(Author of “Appledore Farm,” etc.)

The breath of spring tilled the valley, her footprints could be traced even to the hill tops, bold gray and green summits which rose on either side. A sparkling brook bubbled over the stones beside the path, and seemed to sing a blithe welcome to the many tokens which assured it that winter had gone away. Sprays of white blossom wreathed the slender trees beside the hills, every blade and flower seemed to quiver with joy of the sunshine. The youth and the girl who wandered, lover-like, her hands clasping one of his, while the arm nearest her circled her waist, were in the bliss of their youthful honeymoon, neither being twenty years old. He looked lovingly at her, and whispered “Mary.” with an intensity that brought tears to her blue’ eyes. She glanced up at his. expressive face, and saw the full dark eyes fixed on her. “My lad.” she said softly, and her cheek pressed itself into his shoulder, “will life always be as sweet as this?” She saw a cloud darken his face, his eyes left hers, and tried to pierce through the soft mist at the end of the valley. Then he gave a deep sigh, and the arm that had clasped her waist fell limply beside him. “Little heart, I fear that cannot be; I fear I have wronged you and myself too, by our marriage.” For an instant she looked troubled, then her sweet smile came back. “You have perhaps wronged yourself, Richard; I’m not half good enough for you, darling, but 1 do know that you’ve made me the happiest lass on the country side.” He smiled for an instant; then he turned away. When he again looked at her, it semed to Mary that something, she could not tell what it was, something as intangible as gossamer, as swift as the passing of a dewdrop on a dainty leaf, had gone from her husband’s eyes, and, when he spoke, from his tone. She knew’ that he had gifts which she worshipped, thoughts she could never hope to share, and a sudden chill fell on her loving heart, with the dread that she was indeed unworthy of her husband, and tnat he knew it. He presently turned to her; there was a thoughtful look on his dark, expressive face. “Have you noted the wild cherry trees, lass? They have put bridal array on the valley.” “I have been thinking how’ lovely they are, but somehow’ you come be tween me and thoughts of outside things. I can only think of you, my heart.” As she spoke she slipped her hand under his arm. and it cheered her t« note how fondly he pressed the hand to his side. “Little heart,” be said gently; then he went on: “To-morrow 1 must get back to my painting; that is my trouble, Mary; how can I progress unless I have models, and where is a mode] to be found in this out-of-the-way place?” Mary stared, and then she sighed; secretly she wished that her Richard could have brought himself to become a clerk in her uncle's count-ing-house, but she would not say this to him; she could not forget the disgust he had expressed, when before their marriage, her mother hail proposed this idea to him. Mary was too dutiful, as well as too loving, to suppose that her husband could be wrong. She put all this down to the account of the genius which she worshipped in him, and which, she told herself, she was as yet 100 ignorant to understand. In time she thought • she should improve herself, and that living with such a man must in a way educate her far better than booklearning could.

Suddenly he said: “I might begin with you, if you liked it?” “I should love anything you wished,” she said simply. “When I succeed, for I shall be famous one day. Mary,” a wonderful light glowed in his eyes, “then we could have a maid or two, and this . would give you leisure; now. I hardly see, when we begin life in earnest, how you can spare the time I should need you for.” “We are to go home, to-morrow,” she said brightly, “I can’t tell you how I long to be in our own little home; you always say my bread is better raised than mothers, don't you ?” He sighed-, bent down, and kissed her, and the young pair walked silently back to the cottage in which Mary had been born, and w’hich was still lived in by her mother. 11. Two years went by; the young husband had made progress in his art, but he had grown morose and irritable; he spent little time at home, and in truth there was no longer room in the cottage for him and his artist litter -now that a merry little boy was able to walk, and in his baby fashion to talk. His father resented his intrusion; the child was a plain likeness of himself; he resented too the child’s claims on his mother. As long as he could, the young painter avoided being in the same room with his boy, but when this became unavoidable, he took possession of a barn belonging to a good-natured neighbour, and painted there for hours; as often as not, he bade Mary bring his dinner to him there, so that he might not be disturbed. Mary loved her husband as devotedly as at first, but his avoidance of his child greatly tried her, though she did not speak of her trouble even to her mother. tier face had become pale and thin, and her mother was anxious about her, for Mary was soon to have another baby. “You have a trouble, child, I know you have, though you’ll not own up to it,” her mother said, when the young wife came in to ask her to mind Johnnie for an hour or so. “You fancy things, mother; the weather’s been dreary, and maybe I’m too like Martha, the way I think about the new babe, when instead I should try to follow Mary’s pattern, and wait on the Lord.” “There’s one thing I see,” Dame Wilson said. “That precious husband of yours gives more trouble than he need, you don’t ought to be trampin’ backwards and forwards carryin’ his dinners to him. and what not; he should spare you any extra work; but no. not he. he just goes on daubing away at his picture; and what’s the good of it all, I say? He don’t sell one pietur out of a dozen, he donnut; he should take to honest work.” Mary looked shocked; her mother rarely mentioned her husband’s name; then she remembered that the good woman could not appreciate Richard’s genius. She smiled at her. and then kissed the vexed faee. “I've heard you say, mother, many a time, that no man is a prophet in his own country; why should not that come true in Richard’s case?—he'll be famous yet, you’ll see;” then she bade Johnnie be good to his Grannie, and went home. A bright lovely spring brought the new baby into the world, but it brought increased depression to Richard Merton's spirits. Mary had hoped he would show some interest in the baby girl which promised to be like its mother, but he turned wearily away when its grandmother showed it to him. Mary was much longer in

recovering than she had been after Johnnie’s birth, and during that time her husband was frequently absent. He had been (tainting portraits lately, and Dame Wilson hoped he was earning money. The end of April came before Mary was about again; during the long hours of her illness, she had resolved to ask her mother to take Johnnie to live with her, the infant she thought would not disturb Richard; she would try to win him back to what he had been when he married her; “he is my husband, and everything ought to yield to him,” she told herself. The day had been full of fascinating contrasts, the air was soft and balmy with the fragrance of leaves, newly unfolding; while now a shower fell * as if to temper the sunshine already hot at midday, and to multiply mirrors for its prismatic reflections on every twig and flower. The baby lay sleeping in its cradle; and Mary went to the barn in search of her husband. It was the first time she had left her infant, but a strong impulse had seized on her; she felt that she must at once see Richard. The yard outside the barn was strewn with straw, so that her footsteps were noiseless. The lower half of the door was closed, but through the upper half, she saw, as she approached. that her husband had quitted his easel and was intently reading a letter; she drew nearer, and her figure darkening the opening, Richard Merton hurriedly crumpled the paper he held and thrust it into his pocket. He did not at first recognise his wife in the intruder, the light being behind her, but turned to his easel, as if he were looking at the canvas on it. Mary quickly stood beside him. “Oh, how beautiful!” she exclaimed. “Is that the gipsy woman you said you wished to paint?” He turned and looked at her gravely, inquiringly, then at the dark brilliant faee on the canvas. Mary was still lovely, but she looked faded and languid beside the richly coloured portrait. “You like it, do you? Well, then,” he hesitated, and his eyes fell under her sweet, blue-eyed gaze, which was so pure, so full of trust in him. “Think, Mary, how I should paint if I had what others have at will. Models, and the work of others to study, above all, fellowship with kindred spirits; the sympathy for which every worker craves, the appreciation of those who know of what they discourse.” He sighed deeply, and moved a few steps away from his wife. Mary stood trembling; she did not know how to answer this appeal, for it seemed to her that her husband was, as she had feared,in revolt against his lot in life. Twice already he had broken out of his usual moodiness into a frantic outburst against the ties which fettered his life, and condemned him to pass it in such narrow surroundings. Each time the poor girl had not reproached him, but when she was alone had poured out her heart to her Heavenly Father, and besought him to give light to her and to her husband. At last he spoke abruptly: “Have you nothing to say? Is it fair, is it right that you, who pride yourself on being a Christian, should condemn me, a man conscious of his own power for Art, to wear out his days, starving for counsel and fellow-, ship, amid the surroundings of old women and children?” Mary’s eyes brightened, and a flush rose to her eheeks. She was still weak, and her heart was beating so violently that she pressed her hand on it to still it. “I—I,” she could hardly get the words out, she was so terribly frightened. “Do you mean, Richard, that you wish to live in a town ?” “There is only one place for a painter,” he» exclaimed impatiently, “and that is London. In London I should find all the great painters, men whose very faces would be inspiration to my starved soul. I wrote to the greatest among them, to Reynolds himself; and what does he say? He rails at me for a fool, says that if I have talent I have destroyed any hope I might have had by my foolish marriage; he says, and says truly, that a wife is destruction to the career of a painter, she is a clog around his neck, spending his gains, and robbing him of any hope of advancement.” Mary clasped her hands together. “Oh, Richard,” she cried, “say you do not mean it.” He turned on her with flashing eyes,

and then something in her face, or in the charm of her suppliant attitude disarmed him. “It is the truth. Stay, I will be just; so far you have helped to save my earnings rather than to spend them; but we cannot waste our existence, for this is not life, in saving out of a mere pittance; I must make money, and, what 1 value more, I must win fame; my girl, you must not, you ehall not hold me back!” “Hut, Richard,” she sadly pleaded, "can we not go together? I am not sure that this Mr Reynolds gives good advice,he maybe a disappointed bachelor, why should not I and the children go with you?” For an instant he looked wonderingly at her, it seemed to him that his quiet lass had lost her senses. Then he burst into a loud laugh. “Together, forsooth! No, Mary, that would be fatal, besides I should l>e a fool and brute too, if I condemned you and your babies to a London garret. in exchange for the green meadows, the trees and flowers you delight in.” “Stay,” she interrupted, “do nothing hastily; let me think and see what I can plan, so that at least I may bear you company?” He turned roughly away, but he walked twice the length of the barn before he answered. “it is your fault if I am unkind; I tell you I must be free from all shackles if I am to become a famous painter. Then who knows what may happen?” He went up to her, though he looked away from her tender pleading eyes, and put his hand lightly on her arm. “Go home, sweetheart; go home, I will come in to supper bye-and-bye.” HI. It was a bitter afternoon in early spring; snow lay thickly in the bottom of the dale, and on the hillsides; even where the sun lingered near the summit, though its reflection changed the dazzling white to a rosy glow, the snow lay there still. It lay too on the thatehed roofs of the cottages at this end of the dale. There were not many of these. . Two stood away from four or five others, and of these two, one was evidently deserted; no attempt had been made to sweep the snow from it; there had been storm and wind during the night, and through the morning that followed, the snow had drifted fearfully, and now lay before this habitation a solid white mass as high as the top of the doorway. A white haired woman stood resting on a broom in front of a larger cottage, not far from the snowdrift. There were lines on her still fair forehead, but she looked sad rather than careworn; her dark blue eyes were sweet and trustful as they had been when she married Richard Merton. She was alone in the world. Her boy. Johnnie, was now a grown man, and looked forward to being partner one day with his mother’s cousins in 'tlueii* .Manchester warehouse. Little Mary had pined away, and faded out of life, only a year after her father’s sudden departure for London. Richard Merton wrote once to his wife; he bade her farewell, and said she need not trouble him with letters; one day when he had made name and fame, she should hear from him again. Her mother, with barely enough to keep herself, came to her daughter’s help, and the two women struggled on for some years together; at last Mary’s piteous story became known to those who had power to find her employment. She had never permitted her mother to blame Richard in her hearing. He had earned a sum of money by painting portraits of the neighbouring gentry, and he had given more than half of this money to his wife before he left her. But for Dame Wilson’s outspokenness, no one would have learned the secret of her daughter’s desertion. It chanced that one of her employers asked Mary if she was related te the young artist, Richard Merton, a wonderful new portrait painter, the lady said, and she added that soon all the fashion of London would flock to his studio, as it did to the studios of Gainsborough and Reynolds. “Is he related to you, Mrs Merton,” the lady repeated. Blushing and confused, Mary answered : “1 believe he is.” She was thankful to go away, and escape further question; when the lady added, “I hear he’ll soon be rich as well as popular.” Mary’s heart swelled proudly as she

went home; had she not always believed in her husband’s genius? She rejoiced warmly in his success. Then her heart ached till it seemed ready to break. How completely his love for wife and children must have died out of Richard’s heart; he had left the story of his success to be told her by a stranger! There was, however, a joyful triumph in her voice as she told the tale to her mother. But she was not prepared for the way in which Dame Wilson received the story. “I’m no scholar myself, child, and you know it, or I’d write to the lad and wish him joy. I would; but you man go to him, lass, when we’ve made sure all is as the lady says, you num go.” At this Mary turned and fled to her own chamber, where she could sob out in peace and quiet the grief and rebellion her mother’s words had roused in her. It took some time to convince Dame Wilson that by such an act of disobedience to her husband’s expressed wish, Mary would be more likely to alienate than to win him back. Mary had been sadly lonely since her mother’s death, which had happened in the autumn. Her son, Johnnie, had come to spend Christmas with his mother, and she hoped to see him again at Whitsuntide, but many weeks lay between, and the loving woman had not grown used to her solitary life. The sun had set, the sky was again grey and sullen; Mary shaded her eyes with her band as she looked down the Dale; she looked always at this hour for the letter which never came. All at once, she fancied she saw a moving figure, coming along the snow covered road. Something chained her eyes to this figure, as it slowly came nearer; the snow made rapid walking impossible; of a sudden the woman’s heart beat with a wild hope, the hope that had never died; had she not prayed every day that it might be realised, 1 , if such were God’s will? She gazed yet more steadfastly at the approaching figure. It must lie—it was Richard; thia bent, gray-haired man, his face blue with cold, his nose red and swollen, his eyes bleared, his gait shambling aiid ill-assured; yet to the eagereyed, panting woman who could hardly keep herself from hurrying forward, he was indeed her Richard, the idol of her youth. Mary took no count of the days and nights she watched beside her husband, through , the hours of unconsciousness and delirium which had followed the stupor into which he sank on his first arrival. Sometimes he opened his eyes, and looked wildly about him, but he did not seem to know where he was, or to recognise the loving woman who nursed him. At last one morning, when brilliant light filled the small room in which he lay, the sunken eyes fixed themselves on her pale face, and she saw in them that reason had returned. The colourless lips parted, and she bent her head lower to hear. “Nurse,” the weak voice said, “1 mind me of a face—like yours,” he sighed wearily, “among so many—so many, I cannot fit a name to it.” Mary’s heart beat till it seemed to choke her. The eyes again closed and he lay still. While he slept, the doctor she had summoned came to see his patient. “I can do little,” he said, “the mind is troubled as well as the body; but he may recover; if anything can help the poor fellow, ’twill be your patience, mistress. He needs care and kindness more than doctor’s stuff.” The day wore on; net heart ached more and more, for now that the flush of fever had faded, she fully realised the wreck her husband was. The doctor had given hope; but then Richard was so weak; would he, she asked herself, pass away in this unconscious state, never knowing that he was again in his old home? There was still light in the room from the last beams of the sun before it sank behind the western hills. Mary saw a flicker in the sick man’s eyelids, and as he raised them, she held to his lips the restoring drink she had prepared for him. He drank it eagerly, and then to her surprise raised himself on his elbow and looked at her. “Did it rain awhile ago, nurse? 1 dreamed it did,” he paused and touched his face with his wasted fingers,

“ah, 1 know now;” he sank back on his pillow, and seemed to crouch into it, “ah, Mary. Mary, I am not worth—not worth your priceless love.” She tried to keep back her tears, but she could not; they streamed from her face to his, and as she raised his head on her arm, and laid her cheek to his a look of peace shone out of his careworn face, and giauoened her. “Little heart,” he whispered the old words in a fond endearing voice that made the gray-haired woman who held him in her arms thrill with happy girlhood. “My little heart that has beat true all these lonely years. Ah, Mary, why did I come back so late, why did I leave my pearl of price for tinsel; for mocking show?” She soothed him, and asked him lovingly not to spend his feeble strength, but he sdon spoke again. “Ah, Mary,’ his weak arm crept around her, “is there in the world another wife, left so long alone, hen love east back on her. is there one who would love like you? Nay, I cannot loose you, lest you leave me, and all becomes the dream it seems.” “it is no dream, dear Richard. We part no more, till God calls one or both of us to Himself.” »