Copyright Story. An Eagle Feather.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXVII, Issue IX, 31 August 1901, Page 390

Copyright Story. An Eagle Feather.

By

DANIEL CAIN.

A London drawing room, artistic and slightly Bohemian in tone, rather crowded this evening. The hostess. Mrs Sinclair, is speaking to one of her guests who is also her friend. Damaris Whitby. Damaris is twentyfive. medium height, with brown hair which ripples all over and catches the light. She is in mourning, her dress is something soft and crepy. cut square at the neck, showing her white skin. A bunch of violets, the only ornament, is beautiful and fresh, despite the hot room—somehow Damaris always has fresh flowers. Her hair is her principal feature —till you get to know her. and then you discover that her eyes are wonderful. Mrs Sinclair says. "Damaris. I'm going to introduce Mr Hammerton to you." "Oh. thanks. I don't like him. but I'd like to know him." "Why don't you like him?" "I don't know anything about him personally, except that he always looks rather bored, but I mean I don’t like his pictures—they're not honest. I'm sure he could do better work, for now and then he does paint something which is quite different —in fact—" "Hush, here he comes. Mr Hammertcn. I want to introduce you to Miss Whitby." After the usual commonplaces Mrs Sinclair leaves them and he sits down beside Damaris in a rather negligent attitude which irritates her—for it looks like affectation. A gi:i is playing Schumann's "Aufschwung.” They listen to the passionate soaring notes, full of a wild illness—like a soul striving after the tit.attai.aide. The girl plays well—when she stops there is a murmur of applause and renewed conversation. Damaris gives a long sigh. "Oh! that was lovely. I wish 1 could play like that." "Don't you play?" "No." "What a blessing!" "Is it a blessing?" "To find a young lady who does not strum —yes— I hate girls who play *a little' or paint ’a little!'" "Oh." savs Damaris, laughing slightlv. "Well?" "1 paint—'a little.' " "1 beg your pardon —I didn't know —what do you paint?" T study.” "Ah! Art with a large A. stipple and crosshatch: try for Academy Schools—that sort of thing!" "No." indignantly. "Don't you really? How original!" "I hate stippling and cross-hatch-ing." Then a pause, and she says i still indignant but with a premonitory twinkle in her eyes). "And I don't paint pot-boilers —impossibly pretty haymakers with a background 'ehic'd' in—or sweetly pretty pictures of the domestic virtues!” He wakes up at this, and eyes her as a man might who had been examining a butterfly through a miscroscope were it suddenly to find voice and criticise him in turn. "Tha—anks.” he drawls, —"well played! Never lose a chance of hitting back; who knows but you may touch a weak spot by chance.” She flushes and looks apologetic. "I l>eg your pardon. I'm afraid I was very rude—but you made me cross." “Don't apologise—l was quite as rude. You are perfectly right. So long as 1 prostitute my art for money 1 have no right to criticise any one else." She looks distressed, tries to say something, but cannot find words. He goes on. with a smile which looks like a sneer. “After all I'm no worse than

the manufacturer who makes cheap pretty cloths because the public does not appreciate good material. The great British Public likes the pictures I paint to please it and doesn't like, and above all won’t buy. those I paint to please myself. The first it hangs on its dining-room walls and points out with pride to its guests—’Done by Hammerton—quite a rising man—doesn't always paint as well as that you know—sometimes paints the most extraordinary rubbish—can't tell whether they're meant for a sunset cr a girl with a red parasol.’ The great B.P. always thinks that little joke rather clever!” He says this in a cynical, drawling way and then pauses, and in a slightly altered tone adds. "Miss Whitby, don't you think motive goes for something?" "The end justify the means? Yes, I think motive goes for a good deal, if it's a good one.” "Not so bad. as motives go!” Her evening gloves are tied up above the elbow with long black ribbons: one of these has come loose—he takes the long streamer and twists it idly round his finger. She tries to feel indignant at the liberty, and can't — thinks perhaps it is only absentmindedness—would like to snatch the ribbon away, and daren't —and after all doesn't quite want to. but hopes nobody will look their way and no"XVhat do you paint. Miss Whitby?" "I study from the life and Antique, and that sort of thing—l find it all sc difficult—l like best painting out of doors. Just now I'm working down at Pangbourne, where my sister has a cottage.” “Happy people to be up the river while we poor Londoners are suffocating in town." "t'es. it's very pleasant up there just now. By the way. I think you know my brother-in-law. Mr Staithes.” "Jack Staithes? Oh. yes, I know him a little. Is he your brother-in-”He has the honour!" "He asked me to go down to Pangbourne next week end. I didn't intend to go." "Why not?" "I don't know—can't afford it for one thing." "Oh. that's a pity—it's at its prettiest just now: the river is enchanting." "Yes. and it's beastly stifling in town —I beg your pardon again: I'm afraid I have a bad habit of calling spades spades." Then a pause. "Perhaps I'll go." "I'm sure my sister would be pleased to make your acquaintance. Don't you work out of doors?" "When I can —just now I’ve some portraits on hand—’pot boilers!.” She flushes again, and says, "I'm sorry I said that.” He smiles a little, and looks at her meditating, and then says. "I'll come to Pangbourne. I'll write to Staithes to-night.” At this point Mrs Sinclair comes up. "Damaris. I want you to come ai d be introduced to Miss Townsend, the artist. She wants to know you.” "I’m flattered." "She liked your Academy picture.” James Hammerton looked reproachful. "You never said you exhibited in the Academy." “No. I was too modest." “That was unkind of you.” "Good-bye, Mrs Sinclair, I must "So soon? Well, if you must —goodbye." Mrs Sinclair says. “Well, do you like him any better?" "I like him better—yes—but he strikes me as being rather” — she

pauses for a word—"warped, perhaps.” "He has rather ’hard lines.’ He keeps his mother and sisters. I have heard.” "Ah! that's rather decent of him.” "I think so—but come along. Miss Townsend is waiting.” Five o'clock on a hot Sunday afternoon. Two in a boat under the willows in a pleasant backwater. They have seen a good deal of each other since they met first at Mrs Sinclair’s "at home.” and she has grown to understand and like him. Jack Staithes and he are chums, ano this is the third week-end he has been with them. This afternoon Jack and his wife ate spending in the orthodox Sunday fashion—dozing in two armchairs. So Damaris and James Hammerton depart by themselves with the boat and the tea basket, nothing loth to be without any other company. He looks up at her and says—" This is very jolly." "Yes. it's perfect." "If it were not so soon to be over." "Oh. never mind that, enjoy it while it lasts." "Can one enjoy one's beer and skittles properly, with the knowledge that rhe more skittles one plays, and the more beer one imbibes the duller the days will seem which are bound to follow, which will contain neither beer nor skittles?” His mouth again takes that extra curve meant for a smile, but which looks like a sneer. "But there will be plenty of beer and skittles in the future when you’ve arrive, as the French say. The British Public will admire and buy your best work, and you will be able to have beer and skittles every day if you like." "Perhaps—when ’it's too late!” Too late for t'hat?” A gleam from his blue eyes gives her a little nervous thrill, but he says nothing and she begins to bestir herself to make the tea. She takes the tea basket out of its place in the stern behind her seat, lights the little lamp and sets the silver kettle on to boil. The tea is soon made and they become quite merry over their little picnic. "Tea is a very good substitute for beer and skittles." he says. When they have finished he helps her to wash the tea cups in the river and to pack them up again. She says. "If we want to go to church it's time we returned." “Do we want to go to church?” "I'm not particularly anxious to. I like church out of doors." she answers smiling.

"So do 1.” he said. "1 have got to that point where faith seems so far away that 1 cannot even understand the point of view of those who have it." "It's the modern disease." she says, "and yet I do believe in the faith of the future. The old forms are worn out and the future is simply waiting till they are finally got rid of and the "new bottles' are readv.'* "Perhaps you're right. I believe nothing and hope nothing. I confess I've almost lost my interest in these questions. They used to worry me. but now my life is so full I have no time for philosophising. It's good to be lazy, for once in a way." "Do you work so hard?” "Yes. don't you?" “Of course I do—l'm going to Paris to study this winter if 1 am lucky. I ve nearly saved up the necessarv 'twopence halfpenny.' ” "I envy you!” "Paris?” "Yes." "Did you never go?” "No, I never got the chance. You see. I’ve a family to support." "Yes—l know.” she says softly. "I ve kept myself since I was thirteen—engraving and one thing and another. I'm comparatively emancipated now—since ’ took to painting pot boilers, but it’s hard work sometimes. ’ “Your father is dead?" “Yes. don't think I'm complaining—my moti.tr is the best woman in the world.” She says. "My mother died years ago. and my father six months since. I wish I had been more to him—-one does not realise it till afterwards. . . . But your sisters." she continued. "can't they earn anything?” “I don't wish them to.” "Don't you think that's a mistake? A woman is always happier doing something.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Oh, they have plenty to do. Perhaps my ideas are old fashioned, but I don't care to think of them slaving as governesses.” "Nursing is better." she says. "Think of all they'd have to go through—it’s degrading—l daresay they will marry.” She raises her eyebrows. “That’s always a profession for a woman!" "A useful one.” "Perhaps!” “Don't you think so?” "If she loves, that would make it beautiful—but as a profession! That is degrading!" "I believe you are right—you always are!" "I know I'm right in this instance.

Ixive is the only thing whieh ean make marriage tolerable.” He does not answer for a moment, and then says, "I don’t suppose I shall be able to marry for at least ten years. I would never ask a woman I loved to share such a tied-down life as mine.” She would like to say what she feels, that if a woman eared for him she would count her life well lost if thereby she gained his love, but she only says. "No great loss! When you are thirty five you will be so wise, you will be able to choose a wife much better.” “Perhaps.” The light dies out of his eyes and he begins to talk about other things—art and books. There is a pause after this—then he unties the boat and they drift down the stream past the islands with the pollard willows and between the green meadows where the Sunday evening lovers are strolling—down to the boathouse again. He has to return fhat night and goes in. intending to say good-bye to Mrs Staithes. She is at church, the maid informs them, so they sit in the little drawingroom looking over the river. It is nearly dark. Damaris sits in a swing chair by the window—her hat is off and her face looks pale and tired in the twilight. He longs to take it between his hands and kiss the sadness out of the eyes—but he thinks of his mother and sisters in their shabby London home, and prudence conquers. They talk in a desultory fashion till his train time. Then he stands up and looking at his watch says. “I must be off now. Goodbye.” * "Good-bye. Shall I see you again?” “Oh. yes. we shall meet again.” Damaris is in Paris. To-day she is almost happy as she takes her numero d’ appelle for the tram to the Champs de Mars, for the desire of her heart is accomplished and she has a picture in the "New" Salon. To-day is artists’ Vernissage, and she has stopped work in order to see the pictures and the artists. Arrived at the immense building devoted to the younger art of France, she wanders through the looms, appalled-at their size, and wondering in what obscure corner her picture is to be found. In one of the principal rooms, on the line, a picture attracts her eye by its strong technique and the daring originality of its treatment. The picture is called “Circe." The principal figure is very beautiful, but with the beauty of the devil. She is seated on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees. Straight auburn hair falls over her shoulders and lies on the marble floor around her in heavy masses. Green grey eyes, full of cruel triumph, beautifully curved but sensual lips, half parted. The woman looks, not at the swine which grovel at her feet, but straight out of the picture. Her eyes give Damaris a cold thrill or hatred as they gaze into her own. The whole picture is full of a nameless fascination. Damaris stands before it for a long time before she thinks of looking for the artist's name. Then she looks it up in the catalogue. "Circe.” by James Hammer ton, 226, Rue St. Anatole. Paris. Was it possible? James Hammerton in Paris! "If that is his picture he is at least arrive with a vengeance.” And her thoughts go back to that day on the river two summers ago. Their lives had drifted apart, and 'she thought he had not seemed over anxious to keep up the friendship. She looks at the picture again and then turns to renew her walk through the endless galleries. As she turns she sees him. He also is gazing at thd picture, but with an expression of dis-gu-t on his face. He looks ten years older, and the whole pose of the man expresses such a weariness that she stands and stares at him. wonder ing what can have changed him so. Her gaze attracts his notice and their eyes meet. “Miss Whitby—here!” "You. also. Mr Hammerton!" "I am glad to see you. You have a picture here, have you?” ”Yes. a humble one. And that is vours?” ”It is.” "It is wonderful." “Do you like it?” "I think it is splendidly clever.” "But vou don't like it?”

"Yes. But she is almost too dreadful. Where did yon find your model?" "She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” "Yes. with a beauty du diable." "You’re light. She is a devil. It is a good likeness." Then he turns his baek on the picture and says. "Show me yours." They find it at last —a watercolour, fresh and strong, an out of doors study. He says: "1 like your work. It is so healthy. It is like a cool north wind after alLthis tropical rubbish.” "I’m glad you like my little picture. My work is everything to me.” “Everything!’’ "Well, you see I’m alone. I have no home ami few friends.” "Your sister?” "She is very good, but I only see them in the holidays. I have lived here the last two years.” "Alone?" "With two American girls. We live in a flat, an quatrieme. and are very Bohemian. I assure you.’’ "Nou don’t look very flourishing on Bohemian diet.” "Oh. I m all right: only rather tired sometimes. You don’t look very flourishing either. Are you living irt Paris?" "Yes. n,other fl >ed six month# "O. I am sorry to hear that. You will miss her.” "N es. I miss her. Then my sisters did get married, except the little one. who took to nursing. I’m willing to confess I was in the wrong in her case, and marriage is not always a success. So you see I got my chance at last and worked my own way. I got on. too. and was happy enough till I came to this cursed place.’’ She looks up in surprise at his tone. Don t you like la belle France?” They have reached the huge pavilion where the sculpture is. and a.re sitting on one of the green benches. He savagely digs little holes with his stick :n the yellow sand at their feet—"l wish J had never seen it.” He forces the feeling baek from his face which is saying too much. "What have you been doing since rhe day we spent together on the Thames?” ' “ ‘I crossed a moor with a name of its own. And a certain place in the world, no doubt Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone Mid the blank miles round about.’ That was the handbreadth and I’ve carried the ’eagle’s feather’ with me ever since.” A faint colour comes into her cheeks and she says simply. "Yes. I enjoyed those old days. a.nd the river—there is nothing like it here. I’ve been working hard ever since at Deleeluse’s Studio— and enjoying life generally." This with a little sarcastic tone and a smile whieh is rather weary. “Do you enjoy life?” he savs. "Oh. if one has work to do it is bearable.” "Have you seen enough of these pictures?" "Yes. for this time.” "Let me take you home—-:s it far?” “No—the Quartier Latin." So they leave the great wandering palace of the arts, with rhe blue dome overtopped by the Eiffel Tower, out into the May sunshine and along the boulevards towards the Latin Quartier. They talk of student life in Paris, and the sights and sounds around them, but neither is brilliantly conversational—his melancholy affecting her. though she has a sense of bien etre having him at her side again. At last they turn into the Boulevard Haspail. "This is my road." she says, indicating rhe Hue Boissanade on her left. "Will you come in and I’ll make you some tea again? You say you enjoyed the last.” "But the Americans?” "They have their own rooms.’’ So they turn down the little street. She stops at a tall house with balconies at each etage. She calls out a cheery good evening to the concierge as they pass up to the fourth floor where she enters with a latch key. Her little sitting-room looks out on the street. All about the room are photographs and nick-nacks. The whole place is redolent of her dainty personality. She says. "You sit down ami rest while I make tea.” So he takes a seat in a rather rickety basket chair and watches her while

she goes to and fro. She lights a little gas stove in the tiny kitchen, pots the kettle on. and then comes back to the sitting-room ami dears some books off a table and proceeds to lay thereupon a snowy doth and quaint cups ami saucers. Suddenly she says. “Oh, I’ve no cakes!” “Never mind. 1 don’t want any.” "But I do. You must go and get some at the cake-shop at the corner—you know we passed it " and she gives him a franc with minute instructions as to the kind of cakes she requires. and he goes off obediently to do her bidding. He soon returns with the cakes. "Your stairs are no joke.” "Oh. one gets used to them—you ought not to feel them.” “No. I oughn’t to —1 don’t think I’ve been very flourishing lately—'l’ve had worries—that tells on one.” "But you should see a doctor," she says anxiously. “I have done so. He says I must live a quiet life—it’s my only chance of a long one. I’m not to worry!” he smiles, "that’s easier said than done. Well, it’s not of any consequence—-here are the cakes.” She still looks anxious, but she puts the cakes on a plate and they sit down —she in another rickety chair —ami they drink their tea and talk of old times in the gathering dusk. After a long pans? — difficult to break —he says, at last. "Miss Whitby. I’m a coward." She looks a question. "I ought to have told you a not unimportant fact about myself." "What is it?" ”1 am married.” She grows a little paler, but tries to look and speak brightly. "Indeed —yes. you ought to have told me—when will you introduce me to Madame?" "Never." "Why? What have 1 done that I may not know your wife?" "You have done nothing—may I tell vou about it?” "Do." "I came to Paris five months ago —- took a studio and worked at my salon picture—l secured a beautiful model for my ‘Circe’ —you have seen it." She nodded. "Well —one day I lost my head —hardly my heart. My model is now Mrs. Hammerton. Now. do you wish to be introduced to Madame?" She says softly, almost in a whisper. "Do you not love her?"’ "I did—madly—for a month—if yon call it love. I don’t. I soon found out what she was—pah! 1 can’t talk to you about her." All her sweet compassionate soul looks out of her eyes, and she forgets her own agony in his. She only says—" Poor boy!" and they are silent. She is thinking what a wasted life his has been, and he what a fool he was not to have spoken out that dav on the river.

At last he rise- anil says. “Goodbye. you have l»een very sweet to me. but I shall not see you again.” She says. “We shall meet sometimes." "No. There are limits to a man’s eml u ranee.” There is no mistaking his meaning now—he takes her hand, whieh is cold and trembling, and looking into her eyes reads her secret there. They stand thus for a moment, then he “What a fool 1 have been -1 should have trusted more in the future and in myself." She is crying quietly, ami her tears are like drops of fire on his brain. "That I should have made you suffer too! Dearest, why need we spoil our lives: let us begin over again.” "How can vv e begin again? The past lives on." "Damaris! Come with me. darling —to Italy—anywhere. We would hurt no one. It is not God’s law we should be breaking, and she could not refuse to set me free.” She gently releases her hand from his hot grasp. "You cannot escape so easily from your own deeds. You have made a mistake. I will not help you to spoil your life still further. Love is not everything—l love you— I am not ashamed to say it—bur I love your honour more. Be a man and go back to your work." on could not speak so calmly if you loved me.” ( ould 1 not? My God—vou men love so many you do not know what love means to us women!" Her selfcontrol is giving way beneath the strain, and a little sob escapes her. He catches her to his breast and kisses her again and again. She shrinks away from him. and covers l.er face with her hands for a moment. Then she faces him calmly and says. "You must go—go. if you love me." "Forgive me. I am a brute. I will go back to my work." She holds out her hand—it is steady enough. He takes it into his own—stoops and kisses her on the forehead ami goes our. Fiercely he walks—on through the now lighted streets—for hours it seems to him. He comes to the river and leans over the parapet. Notre Dame looms up darkly on his left, and the little steamboats dart to and fro below him like meteors, with their many-coloured lights. Long he gazes at the river—" One would sleep well 1 hen he turns homewards up the Boulevard St. Michel. As he passes a cafe, brilliantly lighted. and thronged with students and gaily dressed women, he sees his wife. >he is seated at one of the little lound tables outside the cafe, the centre of a group of students, laughing. talking ami drinking. As he passes she sees him. and calls him by name. He takes no notice, but he hears one of the men laugh. "C’est M. le Mari." His heart gives him a stab, and he walks on blindly.

hardly seeing where he goes. At last he reaches his home ami mounts the stairs. He strikes a match, lights a candle, and goes through the outer room into his studio.

At midnight his wife enters. He is not in the outside room. She lifts the curtain which divides it from the studio. He is sitting in a chair with his back to her—leaning on a table, his head on his arm. She laughs—a quiet, cruel laugh. “Wake up. my husband, here is your beloved." She goes up and lays her hand on his shoulder and gives him a little shake. He does not raise his head. She puts the candle down on the table and looks at him more closely. He is dead. (The end.)