THE BARNDOOR

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVIII, Issue 9, 2 March 1907, Page 31

THE BARNDOOR

An Artist’s Love-Story, by Anne Warner

THEY stood in the barn-door and contemplated the rain. The rain was falling steadily, just as it had fallen for hours and days and weeks—on the just, unjust, and the intermediates—on the house, the barn, and the path between—on the Artist, ’’the other Artist, and the Model. It was the Artist and the Model who were standing in the barn-door.. He was tall and she wasn’t; he was handsome and he thought that she was; she was in love and didn’t know that she was and didn’t know that he was, and—and so they just stood there in the barndoor. “I wonder' where Etlielberta went,” he said vaguely after a prodigious contemplation of the stone wall and the orchard and the grass and the sky. Etlielberta was the other artist. “Perhaps she isn’t coining back,” said the Model; “it’s too rainy to paint, isn’t it?” She looked a doubtful question at him as she spoke, and ho looked at her and then they both blushed and looked out at the rain again. “There’s a splendid north light,” he said; ■■turning a little toward the interior of the barn, “but perhaps it’s too damp for you to put on that gown again?” “No, it’s not too damp,” she said; “I’d just soon—l don’t mind.” Then ,slfc turned’ toward the interior of thej-JbaiJi The* interior of the barn presented rather a chaotic picture to their eyes because the load of furniture which had arrived in the afternoon previous had encroached both upon the wood pile and the atelier. The easels were* pushed into a corner to make room for tlie two tables and a huge straw trunk and the couch where; on the Model posed was covered with china and bric-a brae. “It would be too much trouble to clear a space, anyhow,” she said rather dubiously. “Oh, I’ll' clear a space fast enough,” said the -.-Artist, laying violent, hands upon the straw trunk as he spoke, “the only question is if you’ll take cold.” “I won’t take cold.”. “Or if you’re tired.” : “If.doesii’t tire, me.” “it ought not to be hard work to sit still and be admired.” Then she didn’t know where to look and tried the wood-pile and tried the floor, and finally, against her will to meet his eyes, and found them smiling—and so took courage and managed to smile herself. i “I don’t - believe I can . get into that funny gown without Etlielberta,” she said then; “she always pins my baek up for me.”i ........ “I’ll pin your back up for you,” he declared with-great readiness. And then he gathered up the green cheese-cloth costume and —opening the door of what was flatteringly called “the boudoir”— deposited it within upon one of the old benches that stood there. When she emerged ten minutes later he was squeezing paints on to his easel and all was ready. “Why,- you pinned yourself,” he said, looking up. “Yes, it was quite easy,” she said, looking down. Then he arranged her carefully among the cushions, and went off and half-shut his eyes, and came near and all-opened his eyes, and went off again and came near again, and finally prepared to begin. “’Where shall! look?” she asked. “Look right here,” he said, touching Ins forelieSd SefWftfn. his brows, “and Jry not tp let your eyes wander, please.” She attempted to obey.

“Do you know,” he sail, sketching outlines, “I’d' give anything if I was metre able to say just what 1 want to when I want to say it.” “Can’t you?” she asked. "Why can’t you?” “I’m sure I don't know. Thing, just seem to slip right away from me. When 1 most want them, too.” “That's funny,” she said. “Now, this morning, for-instance Please don’t let your eyes wander——” “I l>eg your pardon!” “This morning I came out here and 1 did so wish ” The stable-door slid gratingly and Mr. Endicott came in with Dinah. “What, doesn’t even the rain prevent?” he said, seeing what was going forward. And then he sat down on the straw trunk and Dinah leaned her head against his knee and slashed about with her tail. “Not even the rain,” said the artist, frowning a bit. There was a pause, during which Dinah’s tail never ceased its joyful agitation. “Dinah loves you, doesn’t she?” said the Model to the owner of Dinah. “Do you love your master, Dinah?” asked Dinah’s master of Dinah. Dinah’s wag increased' tremendously. “I don’t know that she loves me,” said the master, .with .his whimsical smile; “I think that it is more respect and esteem that she feels. "She reminds me of an old gentleman whom I once knew. He came into-my office one/day and said, ‘lsaac, do you love me?’ - 'Why,’ I replied, ‘I don’t think I could say that I love yon; I respect and esteem you, but I can’t really say that 1 just love you.’ He heaved a great sigh and said, ‘Oh, I’m so glad to hear you say that, because those are just the words that I used last slight: I was calling on a lady and she suddenly threw her arms around my neck and said, “Oh, tell me that you love me,” and I unfastened her arms at. once, and said, “1 respect and esteem you, but I can’t say that I love you,” and now I see that I made the right answer.’ ” “Are you going to town this morning?” the Artist asked almost the instant that' Mr. Endicott ended liis personal reminiscence. “I think so—rain or no rain.” “Going before, the mail?” “Well. I hadn’t thought of it. but now you speak of it, I think 1 will. Come on. Dinah, let’s, get out the bicycle.” There was silence in the barn until the bicycle was gone forth and the door rolled together again. “Isn’t he dear?” said the Model. “Whenever he begins to tell a story you know that it will be amusing; you don't know that with everyone's stories.” The Artist did not reply. “They are all interesting people here,” the Model went on; “I don’t know which I like best.” “Do you mind taking your hair down?” the Artist asked, suddenly. “No—but I can’t get my arms up in these tight sleeves.” “I’ll take the pins out for you,” he said quickly, laying down his palette; and then he crossed to her side and was as good as his word. After the hair was loose he arranged it. carefully on her shoulders, and went off and studied the effect, and then came back and rearranged it. “It is harder than you would think—• getting it just as 1 want it,” he remarked. discontentedly, and then ho tucked it behind her ears and stared at her reflectively, and then shook it all out again. “It doesn't annoy you, does it?” lie asked, pulling a lock loose on her fore-

head and leaning forward to s.-e ju-t how the result struck his fancy. “No.” “Now look at me and let me s e how that does.” She looked at him. The barmdoor grated. It was Mrs, Mann with a largi umbrella in her hand, “This is like a horrible nightmare,” she exclaimed. “What have we done?” asked file Ar.Lt (standing). “Not you—the weather.” “Oh!” He was painting again. “You mustn't feel as if the. weather was your fault,” said the Model. “I don’t, iny dear,” said Mrs! Mann, lifting the lid of the straw trunk and gazing rapturously into its depth-, "I feel that'it is yours; it never was like this until you came.” Then she dived below and brought up a coffee-pot. - That is what I wanted,” she exclaimed, and took her umbrella and returned to the house. “All these interruptions np-ct me awfully,” said the Artist; "I waul to be left alone with you —to work in peace.” “Yes, but you see it s their bain,” said the Model. . Then he .deliberately laid down his palette and came and sat down beside her. “Do you think I'm awfully boring?'* he asked."'' '"~L, “No.” Then.he took her limid and looked.in it. “Did you ever studv palmistry?” “No.” “This line shows that you'll be. married young aiid be very happy. The Model appeared deeply interested. "How young?” she “How old are you now?” “Just eighteen.” “I should say in about a year.” The barn-door slid open. “Mamma told me that you were painting,” said Etlielberta, ’“sb 1 ' came to pnint, too.” She looked at the Model. “Why, you’ve changed her position!” she cried; “what shall 1 do now?” ' "Wait until this afternoon,” said the Artist, standing before his easel; “let hpc sit for me this morning and then she can sit for yon this afternoon.'’ "Or I could paint the head over,” snid Etlielberta. “Ob, I wouldn't do that—you've got too good a beginning there.” “I suppose that would be the-ino-t sensible.” said Ethelborta, shutting up her palette once more; “but—oh, dear, if I’m not going to paint I might as well go back into the house and finish my letters.” . . ■ “Oil, stay and talk to us,” pleaded the Model. . “I suppose you want them to go by the noon post?” said the Artist. - “I certainly do,” said Etlielberta. and left them. "Don’t you want a rest now?” -aid the Artist to the -Model; "I do.” He crossed the room and raised her upon her feet. -- ' ‘ “Stiff?” he inquired, anxiously. "No o-o,” she replied, somewhat uncertainly. Then she went and looked at the pict urc. “Oh, am I like that?” she cried, disappointedly. The Artist was just at her should-r. “Do you think that anyone could do you justice?” he asked. "But is my mouth like that?'’ “I've never dared really study your moiit 11.” "Don’t be sHly,” v\.ith an attempt at severity, but lie stooped to look in her face mid the severity became pink then faded a way altogether—like a sunset, "Ami are my eves like that?” ,

“You mustn’t blame me for anything ■wrong in the eyes—you never looked Where 1 told you.” Then she became very pink indeed and quite helpless. “Don't tease me," she said, and the corners of her mouth quivered. "Tease you- ” . The barn-door slid — he bud barely time to get a trifle farther away, when tl<e grandmamma entered. “There!” she exclaimed; “I was just sure of it! That thin gown again out in this damp, draughty barn. -You’ll kill the child. The Artist looked troubled. “Are you cold’” he asked his Model. “Not a bit,” she replied. “Of course she'd say that,” said the grandmamma, who was tiny and quite an autocrat; “you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” she added severely to the Artist, and then she went before his easel and paused to note results. “What's that?” she asked, pointing. “A third leg?” “No, only an. end of drapery.” “Looks like a bad third leg. This daub of pink and yellow meant for a hand. I presume?” “When it’s finished.” , “Dear, dear! Well, child, no one would ever know you so don’t worry. ’Tis Hot worth it.” Then she sat down in the Morris chair, • nd a eat which had been prowling the summits of the wood-piles came to her knee to lie petted. l.fc“l’vor old Mouldy!” said the grandtnama in soft, pitiful tones; “did they go and just swallow up your little family? It's hard, I must say.” “It wasn’t hard —it was easy,” said the Artist. “Did you do it?” “No—Unele Isaac did.” “ Oh. well, of course, it is easy that way. I've drowned my own share in my life. We always had the water pleasantly warm, and undertook them before their eyes were open. Then my father had had the fences along the side of the barn taken up for some reason, and I Tilled the postholes with kittens

one after another, and altogether did a successful job in all directions.” “It’s nearly noon, isn't it?” asked the Artist. til “I think it is,” said the -grtunhiiama, “and that girl ought to be getting into her clothes.” She rose from the Morris chair as she spoke, and went toward the door. “We'll be there in a minute,” said the Artist. When they were again alone he turned to his Model and smiled. “ She didn’t think much of the portrait, did she?” he remarked. “I don’t think much of it myself,” eaid the Model. “But it is not finished.” He started to move the easel aside, and the picture tipped toward. him. “That’s the second time this morning that you’ve tried to lay your head oil my shoulder,” he laughed. The Model blushed terribly, and failed markedly to meet his eyes. “ I’d better dress now,” she said in confusion. “Can I help you in any way?” “Oh, no, 1 think I can manage.” She retreated precipitately into the boudoir. When she came out he was standing idle, with his hands in his pockets. “Ready?” lie asked with a smile. “Yes,” she said, looking at him, and then finding himself suddenly bereft of any place to look apparently. “Haven’t you any sympathy for me —■ after this morning?” he asked, and dropped his voice, glancing as he did so at the barn-door. “Why, what has been the matter?” she asked, innocently. “Haven’t you not iced ?” “Noticed what?” “My awful luck.’ “What do you mean?” Then he took her two hands, and drew her toward him. “You surely know!” he said, with charming vagueness. She began to tremble a little and colour a great deal. “Oh, please, let’s go,” she murmured, trying to move toward the door.

“In a minute.” She freed her hands, and went ana tried to open a crack to escape through. He came up behind her and started to help- her.-- His right arm was to her right and his left to her left; she felt him to lie omnipresent—and 'embarrassing. “Oh ” she began feebly. “Did you speak?” he asked, bending Somewhat. “Please—oh! ” “What is it?” “You mustn’t—you know you mustn’t!” “ Why not?” “I don't—want you —to!—oh!—don’t -—I know I’m going to cry. Do open the door.” “ I’m trying to.” “No, you’re not.” “Yes, I am.” “ But everyone else opens it right off —why can’t you?” “I think that we need to pull togegether.” “Oh.” , “Will you pull with me?” “Yes, of course.” “But not just now; I mean ■” She lifted her eyes. “For always,” he whispered, looking into them. She trembled. “Lunch!” cried a voice without, and someone shook the door violently. He barely had time to disentangle himself when the door rolled open. “What under the sun made it stick so?” demanded Mr Endicott, rolling the bicycle in, while Dinah followed close at his heels, wagging her usual happy wag. “It’s the rain, I suppose, said the Artist. “ It swells the wood, you know,” said the Model. Mr Endicott looked from one to the other. “Why, of course,” he said, simply; “surprising I was so stupid as to have to ask.”