[COPYRIGHT STORY.] The Girl of My Heart

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 3, 20 July 1907, Page 32

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] The Girl of My Heart

By

MRS. COULSON KERNAHAN,

Author of “Trewinnot of Guys/’ Etc.

IT all began with a letter. I was not particularly partial to letters at that time, as the bulk of them contained unreasonable, and occasion-

ally discourteous csmands for the payment of debts. This particular letter was from an old fellow-student, who told me that a rich widower, living in Surrey, had purchased a number of delapidated pictures, which he considered too valuable to be trusted out of his sight. He wanted someone trustworthy to restore them on the spot. "I have ventured,” wrote my friend, "to mention your name to him, but I warn you that the pictures are in all probability rubbish, for Mr. Heath is a known victim of unprincipled dealers, and can be persuaded to buy any picture. “provided it has a sufficient number of coats of dirt and varnish,'to render it ‘dark and mysterious.’ But. my dear Compton, he will pay like a prince -—and rumour goes that he has an uncommonly pretty daughter!” 1 smiled at the last sentence. My correspondent (Burnleigh by name) was in and out of love three times a year on an average, while I was either so unattractive. or so over-fastidious, that I had no tender episode of my own to confide to a friend, or to dream of in the solitude of my studio. My studio! Yes, 1 possessed a studio. My father had been a portrait painter of some little note in his day, but he died while I was still in the nursery, leaving my mother to determine my career tor me. She fondly, but erroneously, imagining that the mantle of my father must of necessity descend upon his only child, had me educated as a painter. It is not clear that she could have taken a better course, for I am one of those awkward, tantalising specimens of humanity who exhibit no marked bias or predilection to help to a decision. I distributed my affections with magnificent impartiality between music, science, art, anything, in fact, to which a friend or a circumstance called my fleeting attention.

In due course I went to the Academy Schools, and had the opportunity of seeing—l do not go so far as to say studying—the antagonistic methods of the great painters of the day, also of learning what my fellow-students could teach

me. They, too, were not without their conflicting ideas upon art. but concerning me they had an unanimous opinion: it was that I should never paint a decent picture.

1 regret to have to record that up to the present nothing has oenrred to prove that opinion ill-founded. I did. however, develop a talent for "patching and mending.” which has stobd me on good stead ;.s regards that not to -be dispised question, an income—n necessity which my father had no more l>equeathed to me than his genins. I trust my hand first upon a portrait of uiv great aunt (which. I regret to acknowledge. had fallen a victim to the toy pistol of my knickerbocker days),

and so completely did I restore the lady to her former appearance, that I had the gratification of hearing iny work ungrudgingly praised by some of my late fathers' friends—my first experience of the kind.

"If you cannot paint a picture,” said <mi< of them, "at least you can restore one in a manner truly brilliant.” So in course of time I got a good deal ol such work to do, aud took a real pleasure in it. But my remuneration,

up to this point, had not equalled my needs. Here at last was something which promised better, “he pays like a prinee,” Burnleigh had said, and then — shall I own it? —the pretty daughter alluded to piqued my curiosity. I argued that in a house isolated among the Surrey Hills, it was more than likely that I should see a good deal of this paragon.

Needless to say. I closed with the offer, which I received in due course from Mr. Heath, and lost no time in setting out from the suburban villa in which I resided with my mother to pass what promised to be a pleasant holiday. On the way from London to Farley I speculated agreeably upon the future, which future went no further than a few weeks, just then. Arriving at Farley station. I made my way, by the help of a pocket compass I always carried, through the pine-clad hills towards Thornton Green, a distance of three miles or so. I had not advised Mr. Heath of the hour of my arrival, because, living in London. I had looked forward to this walk with pleasure. It was July, and the day was so bright that I left my light overcoat and umbrella at the railway station to follow with luggage. 1 had.not proceeded more than a mile, when I regretted this circumstance, for the sky clouded, and a wind sprang up whistling among the pine trees; There was » sound of distant thunder rumbling among the hills. As a rule, I enjoy a good thunder storm, but I did not' wish to 'present myself before strangers in a be-draggled condition.

Little did I think that the lack of an umbrella was to give me the most delicious quarter of an hour of mv life!

I had quickened my naee, and gained the summit of an incline, when, about a hundred yards ahead of me, I caught sight of a graceful little figure tripping along with two milk-white goats beside her.

The distance was too great to admit of my noting details, but the grace of the lithe maiden, the noetry of motion, were superb. I had discovered a Sylvan Shepherdess. She was tending goats, not sheep; but just as one rounds a story for the sake of harmony, so one rounds a vision to suit a sentiment. For me this girl was a Shepherdess, and the goats were lambs. I had practical proof of there being goats—an unpleasant and convincing proof, later on—but no matter: where is a pot of honey without its proverbial fly ? On the rising ground in front of the girl was a grand old oak. of which the long-smcading branches- made a pleasing contrast to the straight pines. Tile girl, I thought, must be as aware of the approaching rain-storm as myself. and under this oak would seek shelter.

This speculation proved correct. She took up her position under the spreading branches. I did not reach the spot before the rain was descending in torrents. I had to turn un mv collar and run for it.

Arriving under the tree. I bowed politely to the girl. The water from my hat chanced to salute one of the goats as I did flits, and he returned the salutation with hie horns upon my legs—not at all playfully. And now I looked at my <ompanion at close quarters for the first time. How fair she was! and quaintly dressed! Her brown hair was braided in two long plaits, which terminated in blue rib-

bons below her waist. The short skirt of her frock showed daintily-shaped little feet and slim ankles. Her laughing face peeped coyly but mischievously from under a broad-brimmed hat. I would defy any man to look upon her as I saw her then and remain irresponsive. Down pelted the rain. How I hoped it would continue. She chatted freely enough, though her modest bearing made it impossible for me to question her as I wished.

But the rain stopped, and the pretty maid sped away with her goats. I watched her till she disappeared, and then, when she was gone, a strange sense of loss came over me. I knew, too, that however beautiful Miss Heath might prove to be, I should.look upon her unmoved now. “The lady of the goats” had taken my heart by storm. Were there ever such a pair of mischievous bright eyes under a hat-brim! But I must not run on—for the present at least, about the other perfections. I discovered Thornton Lodge to be a sort of hospital for old and infirm pictures. The walls of the big entrance hall and wide staircase were literally crammed with framed objects. But I looked in vain for one picture upon which to rest my eyes with an instant of pleasure. But the worse fate awaited me in the drawing-room, into which a footman introduced me as “Mr. Compton the Ilartist!”

The happy possessor of this art treasure came forward and welcomed me cordially. He was tall and grey-bearded, and he wore a well-trimmed, pointed beard. His smile was particularly pleasant. I may say at once that, apart from his Art craze. I found him a most agreeable companion. His kindness and courtesy were unfailing throughout my stay. But this is anticipation. The remains of afternon tea were upon a table. My host insisted on ringing for more tea for me, although I assured him I needed nothing until dinner. He also told the servant to inform Miss Heath of my arrival, after which he expressed regret for the second time, that I had not notified the hour of my arrival, that a carriage might have been sent to meet me.

In reply I told him how much I had enjoyed my walk. “What!” exclaimed Mr. Heath. “Enjoy a walk in pelting rain!” I murmured something inarticulate about the beauty of pine woods in rain; and then the footman reappeared with tea for me. and an excuse from Miss Heath, addins' that she' wbuld have the pleasure of meeting me at dinner. “Never mind,” said my host genially. "We can look at the pictures.”

So presently, cup in hand. I had to make a tour of the room under the guidance of Mr. Heath, who was a walking catalogue, and reminded me forcibly of

a certain guide who wore a eoeked hat in a certain panorama in Paris. Such a higgledy-piggledy collection it has never been my Tot to see before or* since. From dado to ceiling, prints, water colours, oil and etchings were displayed in bewildering chaos. Quaint and sober, sedate and gay—everywhere sentiments were hopelessly mixed. I began to be fearfully bored bv the time dinner was announced.

As we were going to the dining-room he said, "I make it the business of my life to collect art treasures.” I thought how I should like to make a bonfire of the lot.

We had now entered the dining-room, and I was presented to Miss Heath. Good Heavens! Was "this the beauty, Bunleieh had raved about? She was a faded blonde, with weak eyes and a faint voice. She must have been thirty! Uncommonly pretty indeed! Burnleigh' had had a good joke at my expense. Miss Heath spoke seldom during dinner. and when she did, chose, the monosyllabic form as far as possible. When my host had successfully disposed of the subject of varnishes, tinfoil, woods, and their relative absorption of damp-he did tell one good story. It appeared that a dealer had given him a little surprise on an exchange of pictures one morning, and not a welcome one at the time. This dealer had condemned certain pictures in Mr. Heath’s dining-room, and offered to replace them with something “really good.” No arrangement had been come to—the dealer had departed without pressing the matter. A few mornings later, however, Mr. Heath had entered his dining-room, when to his amazement, an entirely different set of oil paintings met his gaze. When he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to make enquiries. he learned that the dealer had eome early in the morning, accompanied by a waggon and a number of men. The arrival of pictures was sueh a common occurrence that it had excited no suspicion in the servants, who only wondered that the master had not risen to superintend the hanging. However, they had not disturbed him. and when he did arrive on the scene his pictures were miles away. "And that is not all.” said my host, with an ill-used expression. “That dealer turned up the day after, and called upon me to exhibit gratitude and enthusiasm, and to pay £5O, as my counterfeits only went part, way towards paying for the ‘gems’ he had substituted.”

“And you paid it?” I exclaimed (for I was not without a suspicion that the only pictures of any value had been carried off). “Oh yes,” he made answer, with a return of good humour. “One should always keep on good terms with one’s dealer —he can do so much for one.”

'■ "So it appears,” I replied. The following morning I was put in possession of the delapidated rags I was to turn into pictures. My studio— a very good one—was entered through a long passage, and was, of course, at the top of the house. Leading from it was a picture gallery, also lit from the top, which terminated in au ante-chamber; but this I was not aware of in the first part of my stay, for Mr. Heath, after showing me my studio, and looking to see that I had everything needful for my work and comfort, magnanimously left me to investigate the picture gallery for myself, a privilege I resolved not to avail myself of, having been satisfied with art at Thornton Lodge. This resolution brought me an odd experience.

I had commenced on one of the pictures, and had so placed myself that I could see the end of the long gallery, not by design, however, but by chanee. Among the pictures (portraits all of them) on my line of vision was an empty frame. Being in a sentimental mood since yesterday, I tried to imagine the lovely face of my little “Lady of the Goats” within it, and, indeed, it was not difficult for an imagination fired as mine had been. The laughing face under the brim of the flapping leghorn hat, the bright eyes, the sauey mouth, could I not project them at will ? But I little thought how vivid, how uncannily real a mental picture could become. I saw the dainty vision in that empty frame so absolutely at last that I took to wafting kisses to it from my finger-tips. Do not let it be supposed that in my romantic and even ridiculous devotion to this projected picture of the mind I made no effort to trace the original. I made afternoon excursions to the ''ine .woods; I presented myself at every farmhouse in the neighbourhood, making i glass of milk my excuse; though all my friends know that milk disagrees with me vilely. Yet, not a glimpse did I get of my divinity. A week passed, and hope deferred made my heart sick. I had fallen in love at first sight with a vengeance. I

began to get desperate; iny nerves went wrong. 1 was in my studio one morning, nursing my misery and very sorry for myself, when, glancing at the empty frame during a pause in my work, I saw the mischievous face watching me. It was absolutely life-like. The brown eyes met mine steadily. I could have sworn that warm life-blood could alone give that bright colouring in the still face before me. Could my nerves be going to pieces? I asked myself. I closed my eyes, and looked again. The vision was still there, framed in the heavy’ gold. It persisted for some minutes; then it vanished.

I made a frantic rush toward the spot, but my mad career was cut short by the polished oak floor. (I would like to omit this incident, but I am going to be heroically truthful.) My heels slipped from under me, and 1 fell at full length upon my back, in which undignified position my host found me; for he entered the studio at that unlucky moment. He seemed to derive considerable amusement from the incident, after he had discovered that I was unhurt. After that I looked no more at the empty frame. I felt I was cultivating a fancy which might become a mania. But my dream had elung to me with such grim persistence, that the loss of it was actual physical pain to me. It was as if the sun had been blotted out, leaving me in cold and darkness. I reproached myself bitterly. Why had I become such a fool, just because I had spent a quarter of an hour under an oak with a very pretty girl. I honestly tried to dismiss the whole thing from my mind. But do what 1 would, I could not shake off an intolerable depression of spirits. My health suffered, and my host got quite concerned about me. He implored me to leave my work and go out. But I had now no wish to do so. I began to dread meeting this ravishing little maid as much as I had before longed to find her. It had come to me in my gloomy state, to feel that if indeed I did meet her, she would not return my affection. This I felt I could not endure. I thought of the old song, “I attempt from Love’s sickness to fly,” and understood the sen-

timents therein expressed for the first time. True was the line, “I am ray own fever and pain.” i._r. Heath insisted on plying me with champagne. I smoked innumerable cigarettes. One morning a circumstance occurred which made me really tremble for my reason. Indeed, I was sure I must be going mad. I glanced towards the empty frame, for the first time since I had taken a resolution to put an end to the nonsense. I don’t know what led me to look; but when "I did, there, framed before my bewildered eyes, was, not mv brown-eyed ‘‘Lady of the Goats,” but Afiss Heath. I was then subject to halucinations, I concluded. I shall never as long as I live forget the mental torture of the few moments which followed. Some instinct made me stride along the gallery straight to that frame, but it was not until I had suffered torments, my head in my hands. Arriving close to the scene of my disquieting visions I saw. Then I burst into hysterical laughter. That frame was au aperture through which anyone could look from the antechamber. Looking through it, I saw — not Miss Heath, but the girl of my heart, smothering her laughter in a handkerchief. I spoke no word, but after my insane burst of laughter stood stupidly silent. “You will prettily catch it,” said the girl, when she had managed to control her laughter. “My aunt has gone to tell papa.” “Tell him what ?” I inquired in a bewildered tone. “That you kissed your hand to her.” I did not know that I had done so. It must have been a purely mechanical act resulting from my unstrung condition. She once more broke into laughter. “Please don’t laugh,” I said reprovingly. “It is no laughing matter, I can tell you. It is all your fault, too, you know. You ought to help me out. You spoke of your papa and vour aunt. Are you Miss Heath ? “I am Miss Margaret Heath. My

aunt is Miss Heath. How can it be my fault that you were rude to my aunt ?” She spoke as naturally as if she had known me always. Her candid eyes met mine unflinchingly. I entered the ante-chamber. Up to that moment our conversation had been carried on through the frame. “I will tell you how it is your fault,” I said, quite forgetting that I had no right to be talking to her so. I was so happy to be near her again I think my ’eyes must have told her so. “But, tell me, why have they hidden yon from me all this time?”

"They were afraid —” my little lady broke off with a whimsical expression of countenance, coming, I thought, from combined amusement and shyness. “What were they afraid of, Madge?— they call you Madge, don’t they? They ought to, you know.” “They do. How did von find out?” "Never mind. Tell me what they were afraid of.” She smiled, dimpling divinely. “Tell me, Madge—do, or I shall guess.” "They were afraid you might—might —fall in love with me.” The last words came with a rush, ami Madge bounded away, when she had uttered them. I stepped in front, and barred her passage. 1 had lost my head, and now eared nothing for consequences. I caught her little hands and held them tight. “What if they were right, Madge ?”

"They would be horribly cross,” she told me, making a grimace. “But would you bo cross, Madge?” What her answer would have been, I do not know, for at that moment in walked her father and her aunt.

“Margaret,” said my divinity’s father sternly, “I would not have had this happen for a thousand pounds.” “Indeed, sir,” 1 interrupted, “it was my fault entirely. 1 am alone to blame.”

“Thon, Mr. Compton, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” answered the irate parent. I begged him to allow me to explain, but while I was thus imploring 1 ob-

•orveil Miss Heath motioning inc to he silent. What could she mean?

“No explanation can give me back my pictures!” cried Mr. Heath. “If you saw those gocts, why in the name of Immunity didn’t you drive them out.”

Pictures! Goats! Then it was not a question of Madge, or the spinster aunt at all!

“Those goats,” went on Mr. Heath with rising wrath, “have butted holes through two of my best pictures.” “1 will put them right,” I hastened to Bay.

He seemed somewhat mollified, for his next words were uttered in a quieter tone.

“Those goats ought to go away,” he said, then, seeing Margaret crying, added. “Don’t. cry, Madge. You may keep them —but out of doors, mind.” lie then turned to me with his old gracious manner. .

“My little girl is nearly a woman grown, but her aunt has kept her a child.”

He took her hand and led her away, to comfort her, I made no doubt. 1 was left alone with Miss Heath.

“1 haven’t told him,” she simpered, "and I won’t if you promise never to do it again." “Indeed. Miss Heath, this is very generous,” 1 exclaimed. “1 give you my word of honour it shall never occur again. It was all a mistake. 1 had no notion it was you—indeed I hadn’t.” “Mr. Compton!”

Oh that I could convey the tone in which these two words were uttered! I understood that tho lady had expected something very different from me. She withdrew, and 1 scarcely saw her again during my stay at Thornton Lodge. 1 soon learnt that Madge had been in ihe habit of watching me at my work. I learnt, too, that she “liked me a little.”

Before iny work was complete I had put the momentous question to her father.

He gave his consent, provided that I would wait three years, when Margaret would be twenty.,, “It will be nice to have a son-in-law to advise about the pictures,” lie said to his sister, who, however, no interest at all in the matter.

Two years and six months have passed. Margaret is lovelier than ever. Will the remaining months ever pass? Trulv they seem an eternity.