[COPYRIGHT STORY]. THE SPITFIRE

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 21, 26 May 1906, Page 50

[COPYRIGHT STORY]. THE SPITFIRE

By

Helen Mathers

Author of “ Cornin' Thro’ th* Rye ”,

OREEN hat, green eyes, the latter sparkling emerald in the sun, with such a glint of devilry behind them, as made clear the derivation of her name, ‘'The Spitfire." And yet, looking at her as she stood there, I felt, to quote the Vita Nuova, that ‘’whenever she appeared before me, I had no enemy deft on earth; the flame of charity, kindled within me, raused me to forgive all who had ever pffended me ”

r ►‘‘How is Mol —Mollie!" she said, and ( knew that she had almost slipped out “Molasses,” and she knew that I knew it, and for a twinkling moment the dimpies showed in her cheeks. ‘■When are you going to be married?”»he added severely. “I don't know. When Mollie pleases, I suppose.” “Marriage is a institution,” and the Spitfire tossed her little red head like a restive colt. “There was a Bishop of Salisbury whose motto or poesy on the wedding ring he gave liis fourth jyife was: “If I survive, I'll make it five." 4 and I feel surel all those wives died because they got bored and lethargic after marriage-—didn’t jump about and take a real live interest in things as if they jvere single!” “I believe you'll jump about to the end of your days, married or single,” I said. “As to the Bishop, he was so delighted with the obvious rhyme, that he sacrificed to it his good taste, and the leelings of number Four.” “I like George Whitefield's love-mak-ing better,” said the Spitfire, and gave ene a shrewd look, as if such should be inixie. * “To the girl's parents he wrote, “You need not be afraid of sending me a refusal, for I bless God, if I know anything of my own heart, I am free Irom that foolish passion which the Jvorld calls love. I write only because 1 believe it is the will of God that I i should alter my state/ and on her death die preached as her funeral sermon, as thank offering for his widowed state, ‘.the creature was made subject to vanity!” Now, I call that attitude of his jpaustic. wholesome, strong.” ■“Oh! I know your views on love and marriage,” 1 said drily. < ‘'Such as they are, it's your sex that has set the tune,” she retorted. “They 4»ay, for a nation's history, go to its ballads, and I say for man's true opinion ' fit women look to his proverbs, which a lot of living down —in point of fact, we women never do.” t “I never made a proverb in my life/* I objected. ,i »“No, a proverb is the wisdom of many, and the ivit of one —and you’re not jsritty.” A “Heaven forbid,” I said, and prepared to enjoy myself. if “Now, the French, notorious for ,Jheir gallantry, are the most virulent. They say, ‘A woman of gold is worth a 4nan‘of straw.' That's true enough, but it's hateful to say it." l’, “While being the politest creatures on :»artli. I know they are the most profoundly insolent to women.” I said. “But <he Italians, the Spaniards—”

®*'“‘Marry a wife, and buy a horse from your neighbour,’ is an Italian proverb,” .jsaid the Spitfire indignantly. “Now that means you can always run itway from her on the horse, or that |wou can keep your neighbour out of Jhe house by having a row over it— i tor one is always done over a horse—« < don't know.” ■si “The latter, certainly,” I said gravely, “but the proverb only applies to men yvith handsome wives.” ■ “And here's malice. ‘lf a man lose a Woman and a farthing, lie wilt miss the farthing.’ ” | i“A farthing represented a lot of money in olden days,” I deprecated. “And women are cheap today,” she Fried, catching me up before I had stumbled, «s usual. “But wUat do you think

of this from your courtly, high-bred Spaniard. ‘Tis true there are many good women, but they are all underground.' And again, ‘he who takes an eel by the tail, and a woman by her words, may say that he holds nothing.’ What do you think of that!” “I think you are very hard on us poor men —singly. It's only in the mass that we are so odious.”

“But you men pull together—what one says, the others think.”

I laughed, and said: “I surprised you On a biological errand, I’m sure. May I come with you? For, after all. you know, we are cousins!” Sh» murmured something about a re* lationship that was like an egg without salt, and for a moment hesitated, then, for the October day was brisk and clear, and the green fields beckoned her, and to walk and talk was a joy io her, she let me come.

Both of us had the seeing eye, both were nature lovers: the girl especially, for all her fiery spirit, showed a curious patience in watching the working out of Nature’s laws and processes, and. was already making biology her most engrossing study, at an age, too, when she ought to be playing for all she was worth.

“How people can care for fiction, when they have such a fascinating book of Truth open to them, beats me,” she said presently, her quick eyes making a fresh discovery in the hedges with almost every step we took, and making me see it also. ~-

Now Nature is all very well, but I wanted the Spitfire to scold me. I never feel so happy, and comfortable, and alive at all points, as when she is going for me hot (perhaps because Mollie is so sweet, and never contradicts me) and though to be with her is to be with a pot that perpetually boils over, it is with ideas quite as much as temper, and for all her combativeness I reckon her distinctly on the side of the angels.

So I tried to draw her away from her insects, and plants, and things, and made one or two remarks so studiously idiotic as quickly brought about the desired result.

‘■'And you pride yourself on your intellect!” she cried tempestuously. “No, on my obstinacy,” I said, “Brains don’t make their mark, it’s the slogging that does it." “Your last picture was a disgraceful pot-boiler,” she cried; “if that’s what you mean by slogging—drop it. I suppose its ultimate intention was to pay for matrimonial pots and pans.” •‘Needles anti pins, needles and pins. When a man marries his trouble begins’.’* I said, doing a little quoting on my own account. “I mean, of course, bis ex. penses begin.” “No man has a right to marry who has not scored a big success in art,” she cried wrathfully, “even if he wanted to do it after, he couldn’t.” “Art is long, and time is fleeting,” I said, “really oir conversation is quite a selection front the classics. Would you have—Mollie—wait till I’m baldheaded?” ‘•You must bo hungry to do good work,” she cried. “Love and marriage have ruined more artists than poverty, and all the other obstacles put together.” “You ought to be an artist,” I said innocently. She faced suddenly round on me, the colour in her cheeks was incredibly pure and lorely, her green sparkled like

stars above the dazzling white of het fox furs.

“If I had your gift,” she said breathlessly, “I’d do better work than you do. For the past two years you have been steadily going back, not forward.” It was true, the two years I had been engaged to Mollie Drake. “You waste your time running up and down between here and town,” she said. “You men are all alike —insatiable for sweet-stuff!”

We were swinging sCong, the hard ground ringing under our feet, the scent of the hedges and the fields in our nostrils, and 1 had an extraordinary sense of happiness that no amount of sweetstuff ever gave me. “Now there’s your picture for next year's Academy. You ought to give every hour of daylight to it. Work! Work! Think how with sleep, and food, and clothes, and the tiresome people who will waste your time, how little is left over for you to put your whole soul into. Listen—this is from “The Masterfolk,’ a book I have been reading to-day:

“‘Good and evil are not at duel: these twain are not rigid and separate reali'ties taking sides in a quarrel of the universe: good is the way by which, life travels to the achieving of the highest experience; evil is that way by which life falls away from the achieving. There is no other good nor evil. .’

Roger, Roger, that is what I fear for you—that you will fall away from the •thieving of that which is in you!” I was silent. She only voiced what I dared not acknowledge to myself, what Molly would never have guessed. “Your pictures are beautiful,” the little Spitfire spoke mournfully, “but may one not tire of the monotony of beauty—as beadtty—as easily of less precious things? Forgive me, but I do not think you artists shine in originality, in virility of idea —you paint the same subjects over and over again, and with the whole world to choose from, how rarely a grand conception, an incident to bring tears to your eyes, or laughter to your lips, strikes you from the wall of a picture gallery! But when you do find it, there is the crowd ; and there its heart beats fast for joy. Why, even here, there are incidents . . « when will you paint a picture with a human, passionate note in it?” I was silent, for her words had struck home. Was Mtflly indeed barring my path to good work, because I could only paint her. and the things that she loved? It struck me that I did not want a complaisant, adoring person, who adeverything, good and bad, that I did. but someone to criticise, to rouse me, to blame often, and sometimes praise when I deserved it. “I have no right to speak to you like this,” said the Spitfire, “it is Molly’s business, not mine.” There was a curious note in her voice that made me think of a mother who grieves, not for herself, but for an unsatisfactory child, of whose exploits she would fain be proud. ‘•Roger,” she said, and stopped. “Yes, Pat—” “If you don't believe in yourself, wluj can inspire you?” “You might,” I Said deliberately, “if you talked to me every day like this. 1 believe your eyes would wake a dead man, and make him do what you (wanted.”

“11l be no man’s Egeria,” she cried. “H he hasn’t the back-bone to deljyeg

his message without me to hustle him, it may die undelivered for aught I caret Go on painting the pretty-pretty pictures that Molly adores, if you like —” “Oh, you make a splendid goad,” I retorted. “One can always tell wher* you have been by the scars you leave behind."

“Am I so hateful as that?” she said; her colour fading. “I have a sharp tongue, I know, and a horrid temper—” “You have definite points of view/* I said slowly, “and stick to them. You couldn't be a neuter if you tried. And one of your points of view is, that not man is to be trusted, much less loved.” She bent her head. I could not sed her face for the green velvet of her hat, but it was so unusual /or her not to make an instant sharp reply, that ifc gave me pause.

I glanced down the long, lonely road; at the level hedges, the low dhilly, light (for by now all the sparkle ofthe short day was gone] and I thought' what a life for a fresh young girl in this -obscure country village, no man to take an interest in her, for all the male neighbourhood was in love with Mollie, and yet she made herself happy, in Biology! ; “I wish you would come and see what I am doing when you are in town,” I said, haltingly, with a sudden disagreeable vision of how she would look while looking at my work. “Let us go back,” she said, and we turned and retraced our steps towards the sleepy Kent village, that had hardly advanced a step in civilisation during the past hundred years.

“Mother is not well,” she said pre--sently. “I mean, she is more ailing than usual.” j “And you will never leave her,” escaped me involuntarily. “Never,'’ she said.

It struck me afresh that onlv in » Spitfire could you find such singleness of devotion, such entire negation of seif, as this girl through her best years displayed towards an invalid, querulous mother—more than once I heard Mollie frankly declare her o«n incapacity for a like sacrifice.

Involuntarily I walked more slowly, trying to prolong the hour, to find something fresh to argue about, and with' by no means conspicuous good taste, I said abruptly: “Why do you call Miss Darke Molasses?”

The Spitfire blushed, and hung het head.

“It sounds so Spiteful—so scratchy.” she said, “it just slipped out one day!’* . “Bcause you had thought it so long,” I said. “Well, apparently, men like if, MoHie is always surrounded by themon the tame principle, I suppose, as flies on jam.”

"You are too good to be a fly.’’ burst out the girt impetuously. “If I loved a man—” she stopped herself with « great effort. . ‘Well?’ ‘•’l wouldn’t want other men to eon* sole me while he was doing his work.’ Her green eyes flashed, her odd, ir< regular face was very pretty then, ilium* inated from within by a spirit of loyalty, and right. It struck me then with more than usual force, what an influence for good? she could be. For a while we walked in silence through the straggling village, lit only by occasional lights in windows, for gas was unknown to the drowsy place, possibly the influence ofi its train service had paralysed it—* that service which enables a man to lie down in front of an engine, die and be buried before that engine starts to continue its journey. I wondered what it Must be like to' ft girt with heart, and fire, and brain (and no lovers) to lire her life out ifl such a spot? ' And yet, only duty kept her ther# *'■ I well knew, all her tendencies were to*

taovem»r>t, travel, and she had Bastes that she was rich enough to gratify—failing these, she had fallen hack on Biology.

It was dark when we came to the gates of Mollie’s house, the room showing cosily warm through the get undrawn blinds. "You’ll come inf* I said, feeling a Vudden fierce revolt against the close, tour-wallcd room yonder, while out here <we had the whole earth for lordly gieasure ground, and a blue roof already pierced by fire, loftier than, any ever built bv mortal hards, over our heads. 'But even as I stooped to open the gate, Pat had slipped away, away to the bedsside that claimed her warm youth, and 5 went in alone to the house where everything seemed steeped in rose —the indoor woman’s distinctive colour and best ally, just as the green of the meadows, the green of the outdoor life, refreshing, cool, changing into myriad (changing tints of beauty, was that of the Spitfire. As I shut the drawing-room door behind me, and threaded my wav through the screens and tables, and trifles that made Mollie's special environment, I had a feeling of being choked, body and soul, in some cheap, stieky deliquent, •nd almost gasped for breath. ■“Yon are late,” said Mollie gaily, •nd the man who had been sitting very near her, got up, white and flustered, excused himself, and hurriedly departed. There was .always a man somewhere around Mollie, so that, as she once told >ne, she was never dull while I was •way.

"I have been walking with Patricia Conroy,” I said, and pushed a screen between me and the fire. “The Spitfire,” she said, rather unevenly, “did she bite your nose off as usual? But to have that red hair is Enough to ruin any girl’s temper!” “Beautiful hair,” I said, “both in Colour and quality. Then it’s curly, ■nd goes as it pleases—and not as tongs dictate!”

Mollie stared, and put up one hand io her own smooth, ebon locks. “Oh, if you admire it,” she said—decidedly there was less sweetness than usual in her nftftiner. “I do. I’m grateful also. I don’t Snow what artists would do without her type, which supplies our best models. Whenever you see a perfect shape, and exquisite colouring of skin, in a woman’s portrait, you may be quite sure a red-headed one has sat for it.” Mollie laughed and looked deep in iny eyes with her intensely blue ones. “I wonder,” she said, “if you could be jealous?” “Of Tony?” I said, “indeed no, poor boy. But I sometimes wonder what you find to talk about to him.” “Why, myself, of course!” she said demurely. ‘aßogcr, when are you going to paint me again!” “Never —at least until —” “When !’’ “You grow ugly—or cultivate a soul. 1 mean to slash my last canvas to ribbons when I get back to my studio. I’ve done with the pretty-pretty pictures you admire.” “Roger!” £he sprang up indignant. “The Spitfire seems to have upset you •—I know her tongue is like a whip—”

“I wanted one. She has awakened me. Mollie, will you see me drown in honey! Since you and 1 have been engaged, I have not done one stroke of good work —if this be love, then Heaven preserve me from it!” “That is easily remedied,” said Molly. She wore a white gown with white roses tucked into her belt, she had never looked more lovely, more exquisitely fresh and desirable than she looked then, with a half-frightened look in her blue eyes, and the rosy light of the lamp on her face.

“Marry your Spitfire,” she said, “and keep her always near you as your fount of inspiration—or shall we say as a rude, rough corrective to your unfortunate weakness for beauty!” “Mollie,” I cried, and took her hands, “you could help me as much as Pat does, if you liked—keep me up to the mark —”

But she drew her hands decidedly out of mine.

“I have not her gift of language,” she said, eoldly, “or, thank goodness, her temper, which, while frightening all other men away, attracts you.” “I should call it spirit, not temper," I said. “And as to men—you block the way for her—other women are not even seen when you are by.”

She smiled at the compliment, then said nervously.

-But honestly, Roger, you and I are quite unsuited to each other —I have felt it long before to-day. So we will not say good-bye and part —but part as lovers, and meet again as excellent friends.” “I don’t see the hurry,” I said reluctantly, for she had never seemed more attractive to me than when I was about to lose her. “But there is hurry,” she said lightly. ‘■Tony had been crawling round that hearthrug on his knees, for half an hour before you came in, begging me to accept his heart, and a few other trifles, including a castle.” ■’X.ord Donisbrook is dead!” “Yes, this morning. Tony flew to me straight.” I was silent —suddenly it struck me that these sweet, complaisant women can be very false, that Molly had been more or less encouraging the many men who consoled her in my frequent absences. Tony must have been pretty sure of her to “fly to her straight” as he had done—then my heart expanded, with a feeling of boundless freedom, my soul escaped from the stifling room, and was ouee more out with the Spitfire, and “winds that blow thro’ the starry wavs,” and in that glorious moment” of " relief unconsciously, I exclaimed : “Thank God!” Mollie’s eyes flashed. “Go to your Spitfire!” she cried, stamping her foot, “aud paint red-headed furies till you die!” “She wouldn’t have me,” I said, but Mollie had vanished through a door close by. and all my humble entreaties outside it would not bring her back, so that it was a crestfallen man who presently stumbled out of the gate, entered so unwillingly a short half hour before. T.ate that night I stood outside the

Spitfire’s house, aud looked up at her window. The white blind was down, and a strong light was burning in tb« room that threw the shadow of a girl kneeling by her bedside, with face hidden in her hands, in hard black outline on the window. Almost immediately she rose, and extinguished the light ... I had surprised my little demou of a Spitfire in saying her prayers.