[COPYRIGHT STORY.] THE LUCK THAT CAME

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 16, 15 April 1908, Page 51

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] THE LUCK THAT CAME

By

G. de S. Wentworth-James

Author of “ Cupid and Millions/’ Etc.

HE knew he loved her from the first. ' It was at a dinner party they met, and directly he was introduced to 1 a dreamy-eyed girl wearing a coronal of leaves set upon her radiant hair, he understood that life’s best lesson would be easy for him to Delia Prescott! r He liked the name, and he adored the way its. owner wore a gown of some dull light green material, which was simpler than any”other gown in the room. And .that painted chiffon scarf draped lightly about her imperial shoulders! — how it all appealed to the artist within his soul! ■ , Then’ he glanced sideways at her profile, and after deciding that she was not really beautiful,' longed to paint her portrait! . For he was. a painter and she was —a picture !•_ • “Do you know, Miss Prescott, that you wonderfully-resemble the central figure of Antonne Murot’s great picture in last year’s ’ Salon — “La femme immortelle,}’<he watching with pleasure the ringless delicacy of her hands as she toyed? with a tiny bunch of violets. “Do I ?’.’7s£he replied, turning two purple eyesafffll upon him. "It’s always in-j teresting to hear that one is like some-body-or something, but I don’t know the—picture—l know very little About picf turps!” - ■ For a second this last remark made a distance between them because, the miqd, the soul (and the studio) of Hulbert Vondrome, were full of pictures. The artist was only alive when under the influence of his art, and any carelessness on the subject hurt his enthusiasm. "I have never had my portrait painted,” continued Delia unconscious of having struck a false note, “but if I did, I always think that I should be sorry — sorry that I was not what the artist would inevitably make me appear.” “Let me paint your portrait,” cried Huloert eagerly (the echoes of that false note were forgotten). “I promise you I will be perfectly candid—perfectly sincere. It would put me under an everlasting debt of gratitude if you would consent, because I want to send something up to the new Empire Gallery Exhibition and have been waiting for an inspiration to begin.” “It is so nice to be called an inspiration,” slip answered with a touch of coquetry in the quick glance she gave him, “that—that nothing can keep me from saying ‘yes’!” Thus it was settled, and as the picture daily grew beneath ‘the painter’s brush, so love grew with it. Generally; Dr. Prescott remained in the room during)tlie sittings, but though he was there, his silent self-centred presence hardly changed their solitude of two into an uncongenial three—with the result that by the time a month ha<? passed each knew and understood the other. However, on tne afternoon of the last sitting they were absolutely alone—the doctor having gone up to town to keep an appointment—and as the artist finished his work he turned from the pic-

ture to the living woman. “It satisfies you?” She said indicating the portrait and, speaking with that serenity which is the most perfect attribute of muidenhdqd. “No, it does not satisfy me —nothing satisfies nle but the original—-but you and ybur love!” answered Hulbert not trying to cheek the eruption of wo<tls which had been burning in his fof Dearly a month.;. ■ w Ah-l»!” breathed Delia softly.

“Until I met you,” he went on, speaking with uncontrollable rapidity, “I thought there was no room for anything but Art in my life. But I was wrong—because Art only filled one corner, leaving all th-the rest empty for—YOU! I love you dear, I love you! So far I have done nothing which people call great, and I possess comparatively little of what a man should possess before he asks a woman to be his wife —but if you helped me, if you eared for me, I would overcome everything — everything— and be, for your sake, what I have always meant to be for the sake of Art! Delia, can you s-say anything to make me happy?” Seriously she looked at him out of her purple eyes—then she smiled. "1 can only say that I love you—nothing else!” she answered—and one second later the painted eyes of a picturegirl were watching the perfect rapture of a -human kiss. Poor picture-girl whose carmine mouth would smile on and on, and ever on without knowing the passion of a lover’s lips! For a month after their engagement Hulbert Vendrome and Delia Prescott lived in those enchanted regions which are Youth’s Mecca. The portrait and another picture—a medium-sized landscape called “God’s Evening”—were accepted for the Empire Gallery Exhibition: people congratulated them upon their engagement; Dr. Prescott gave ’his consent with mechanical cordiality, and for the time being Art lay low before the usurping power of Cupid. But gradually the crushed monarch rose from ambush to once more regain his ascendancy. And then it was Hulbert Vendrome felt a vague want connected with the woman whose charm and personality more and more appealed to his passion, his heart, and his admiration. At first he did not realise what was lacking to complete the perfection of his intercourse with Delia—but one day with a rude shock he awoke to the truth. He had been telling her that things were not going as he hoped, and that the pictures in the Empire Gallery had not brought the expected harvest of commissions—in fact, so far, nothing at all had resulted from their exhibition. “When things are like that I—l can’t paint! You can understand, can’t you?” he said, making that demand for comprehension and sympathy which the artistic temperament unconsciously regards as its right. For a moment Delia did not answer, and when he looked up it was to find her busily occupied in tying a new red bow on her black kitten’s neck! “Well, I don’t know—things can’t be always quite right!” she answered in a soft vague Voice which betokened mental distraction. She wasn't thinking of what he had said! His Art wasn’t everything to her as it was to him! Hulbert Vendrome felt as though all his sensibilities were temporarily numbed—and ten minutes later he went out into the greyness of the evening. A stretch of poppy-gron n fields- the blazing glory of a regnant sun, in the distance, sea. But the poppies were only vcrmilliun flowers, the sun ft moist thiiig of gambooge and earminc. the sea a motionless expanse of ultra-marine! “It’rf no good. There is no life in it! I—T can't paint!” cried Hulbert as with an impulse of undisciplined invitation he throw ' palette and brushes across the studio, ami burying his face in hi*

hands, felt that he was absolutely alone with himself. Yes, alone with himself—that’s what he always would be now, and when Delia entered his life he had thought it would be so different! '' But the breach had widened and widened, and although she did not know of its existence, Hulbert Vendrome felt daily farther and farther away from the woinan he loved. L-*e was sweet to him in all things—always tender, always inspiring—but unsympathetic about his Art. She would say that a sketch was “pretty"’ or a drawing “so good,” but as for entering into all the hopes ami fears of the man she had promised to marry*—Oh! it was useless to ever dream that it could be! And now when the fears so far outbalanced the hopes, Hulbert needed sympathy more than he had ever done before—and he ifius’t, nn\st‘ hAvd it from someone! He raised his head and shuddered as his eyes fell on the rigid form of a layfigure. It almost seemed as though the insensate thing was grinning and mocking at him because of the commissions which would not come. And in common with many other high-ly-strung natures, lack of success took av”-\y Hulbert Vendrome’s capacity for work Painting “on spec” seemed, to. strangle his energies: he wanted encouragementhelp—sympathy—none of which he could get form the girl whose lips had a touch which ignited the fires of his soul. “It’s no good—nothing’s any good!’’ he muttered just as the housekeeper who looked after the studios, entered with a letter. Hulbert looked at the post-mark and wondered (he had no Devonshire correspondents). then langnidi v tore open the envelope and read as follows: — “Overley Grange. “Sidley. “Dear Sir,— “I have seen your picture (“God’s Evening") in the Empire Gallery, and it is beautiful!—so beautiful that I wish to purchase it, and shall be glad if you will paint a companion landscape to form a pair. What of “Man’s Morning’’ for a title? Could there not be llanie aim colour where the other picture presented greyness and peace? “If you will agree to do this for me, please write naming terms (remittance shall follow) and saying how soon I can have the pictures. I want them both very soon. 1 long to look at them, and to know' that I have in my possession the work of one who must soon be recognised as A Master! “Yours trul v. “HELEN QUINCI DE PBANO.” An almost boyish cry of rapture left Hulbert's li| is. His veins felt tingling, his heart warm, and his hopes high. He must paint paint! 'This gracious woman, who wrote as only one with the soul of an artist could write, had penned the truth! He must soon be recognised as “a master!” So “God's Evening’’ had spoken to her

as it had spoken to him!—and now—ah! where was the fallen palette, and where the imeonsidered brushes? “Man’s Morning!” The title called aloud for a display of the genius that was in him. Yes, it wan iii him he had always known it, and now Helen Quinci de Parno (was she as perfect as her name, and the words she wrote?) had found it out! Quickly Hulbert wrote an acceptance of her oiler, at the same time stating an absurdly iow rate of remuneration. Somehow he didn't want to think of money in connection with this unknown woman who had given Irm encourage* ment and sympathy! During the next week “Man’s Morning” was born beneath restless eager fingers, and while the picture was progressing the painter and his future wife saw but comparatively little of each other! Hulbert pleaded business, and Delia accepted the statement without a question -hers was far too serene a nature to be exacting with the result that hourly Hulbert felt himselT to be drifting farther and farther from the girl whose personality was his ideal. At last the picture was finished an* dispatched, and the letter of appreciation which follows its receipt stimulated Hulbert oh ’to fresh efforts efforts which were sbme'f hues* successful, sometimes useless. But after a time those useless efforts again killed the enthusiasm of the painter. “I he spell has woyked off I'm in the sloughs again!” he cried one night on returning from a ball where Delia had been admired and sought,after to an irritating extent. “The greatest fool in creation is an artist who believes thd* world wants his work, or that a woman's influence can help — Here he broke off abruptly because on entering the shadowy studio he saw, loaning up against the clock, an envelope addressed in a handwriting which had become familiar. With an eagerness far greater than ho now showed in opening Delia's dainty notes, he tore away the flap and took out a letter from Helen Quinci do Piano. “I want another picture (it began). “Will you paint me tin* face of what you would consider your ideal woman? She must be young and she must ho innocent — otherwise I make no restriction except that the canvas shall bo more oblong than square, about 3 x 2 to fill in a special niche for which I have designed it. “Pardon my reiterated advice, but work hard and be brave in face of tcin* porary defect. “Your moment will come’ TT. Q. Is P.” Hulbert read the letter again, then ht raised the faintly-tinted paper to hli lips—his first disloyalty to the ideal girl who would not accord him sympathy I “Youth!” Hulbert repeated the word softly tai himself, looked nt the blank canvas resting on the easel before, him. and then once moro tho last letter which he ha<

received from the unknown correspondent in Devonshire. “The picture of your ideal woman is Hl that 1 could wish it to be,” she wrote ending to the last commission which had executed,” and as I look at her eyes and mouth, 1 somehow feel she is a real woman.” (Yes, she was right. The ideal woman had Delia’s face?) “But it is about future, not past work of which I write to-day. I am going to be very hold, because something impels me to do so—l am going to beg that you will jfint a great picture (greater than any you have ever done before) and send it to tlie May exhibition. Something tells Bie that you ought to do! Will you? “Why not choose “Youth” for your subject? 1 know the idea is not in the least original, but treated as you would treat it, there are possibilities of perfection. “Let the central figure be a girl with young eyes, young lips and a young slender body. She must be clothed in the diaphanous green tints of young Spring. There must be young birds, young buds surrounding her—she must touch symbols of hope—and with one hand she should be defying an old man holding a scythe, who, while he cowers before the arrogance of her power, shows an evil Blocking grin upon his face. He knows kis time will come later on, and that his Tevenge will be complete! ... If the suggestion appeals to you, do paint the picture, send it to the May Exhibition, and should it be rejected, regard it as my commission. I have great faith in it —and you!” Thus “Helen” had written, and to-day JJ ill lici t Vendrome would stain a virgin eanvas with the first outline of Youth’s Sambouyant figure forgetting, as he Storked, any but the unknown woman wt'Stn he had grown to regard as his inspiration. Delia he saw every' day—Delia's lips lay beneath his kisses, Delia’s hand was long and strongly' clasped between his own—but it was to “Helen” all the Strength of his mind and of his aspirations were dedicated. At last after six weeks of infinite labw the picture was finished and dispatched for judgment. Would “Youth” rise triumphant or would she return weary and unwanted?

—as Youth often does, alas! even in this hurrying world where age is growing to be regarded as a crime. But “Youth” did not come back—she stayed, stayed to gaze down with glorious arrogance on a crowd of upturned enraptured faces. “Youth was the picture of the year, and it’s painter had suddenly learnt to understand the bewildering sweetness of fame! Commissions came more quickly than he could execute them, the papers published flowery interviews, and celebrities accepted him as a brother. It was wonderful—wonderful—and “Helen” had done it all! “Oh! dear, I am glad—so glad!” said Delia earnestly and gravely when she first understsod that her lover had achieved, all his hopes. Yes she was glad—only “glad!” Hulbert stood and kissed the softness of her cheek. “But you don't care about pictures—you told me so the first night we met,” he answered almost roughly. Delia turned two violet eyes, which were for once surprised out of their sweet serenity, upon him. “1 never said I did not care, dear, I only said what was true—that I didn’t understand,” she replied gently. Hulbert looked at her, and for a moment all the old tenderness flooded his heart. If only she could have been to him what “Helen” had been, how perfect would have seemed this hour of triumph! “Do you really feel—” he began one evening about to make one last passionate appeal for her sympathy. But the sentence died upon his cold lips. Delia was trying the effect of a violet silk scarf knotted at the left side of her blue dinner-gown! Hulbert had made up his mind. “Helen” the myth, must be for him, “Helen” the woman. The thought of her possessed him day and night—he imagined her in a dozen different guesses of “spirituelle” beauty, but not one mind-picture quite satisfied his own desires. He must know her as

she really was—so at last waiving aside all pretence of convention and formality,

he wrote to the woman who had made him famous. “I cannot try to thank yon for all you have done with my life, for it is you who have made that life worth the living. You gave me hope, you gave me sympathy, and now yov have given me success! There' is nothing else I want except— (there is always an “except” with dissatisfied mankind, is there not?) that I may know the face of the one who has written perfect letters for the saving of a coward’s soul 1 I was a coward when your first encouragement and commission came, but now I ain brave—and being brave, I dare to beg that you will send me your photograph! If you grant my request, please post to my club (“The Crafts’’) because I shall be putting up there for the next fortnight while some alterations are being made at the studio. With desperate eagerness I shall await the posts. Yours with homage and gratitude. Hulbert Vendrome.” Every day following the dispatch of this unconsciously theatrical effusion Hulbert eagerly inquired at his club for letters, but hardly a week elapsed before a large envelope, evidently containing some stiff enclosure, was placed in his hand. With a certain self-tantalising dalliance he waited a moment and looked at the well-known sloping handwriting (would she be fair or darker? Delicate as a spring flower, or voluptuous as some Asiatic queen?)—then suddenly and without further delay he broke the seal and drew a cabinet-sized photograph from between two sheets of notepaper. “Ah!” Only that one stifled cry as a man’s fostered illusions died a death of agony —an agony that was no longer lulled by the narcotic of artistic imagination. The woman in the photograph was gaunt, genial, and raw-boned; her hair was drawn back perfectly flat from off a rather intellectual forehead; her mouth suggested a capacious box filled with huge excellent teeth, and her cheek bones were almost on the level with the top of her ears. She wore a short kilted skirt, from beneath which large well-booted heelless feet turned in opposite directions, a golf jersey that completely hid any feminin-

ity her figure might possess, a linen collar, and a flat tam-o a-—* —A her substantial hand wm gnapeft • hockey stick!Hulbert lay back and closed his eyes. He wanted to shut out the sight of % picture which he had begged to receive. So this was the “spirituelle” sympathiser who had given him fame! A linen collar—flat hair—a box-like mouth —when he had been dreaming of pale-tinted chiffons, amber waves nearly breaking into, curl, and lips, red, and soft, created to quiver beneath a neverending kiss! It was terrible-tragic-and he wished—“Mr Vendrome wanted on the telephone, please,” suddenly sounded the sing-song shout of a club page’s voice. Hulbert darted up without noticing that the offending picture iiad fallen to the ground, and hurried to the telephonebox. He was glad of the interruption, and by the time a prospective “sitter” had been cut off twice before finally making communication, Delia’s lover had recovered from the first poignancy of his shock. “I must write and say something,” he murmured to himself as he returned slowly to the secluded corner of the smoking-room. “What can I—“Hullo! Vendrome!” called out a voice. And when Hulbert turned it was to see that an objectionably familiar club member with whom he had never spoken two dozen words, was standing by the window holding the portrait of Helen Quinci de Prano in his over-ringed hand. “Here’s a rummy coincidence,” continued Mr Hyam, whose conversational powers were never baulked by lack of encouragement. “I took this good lady in to dinner three nights ago, and now pick up her photo in my own bally club! Wonder how the deuce it got here!” “Strange! You know her name, then?” queried Hulbert. (All there was to be heard about his dead illusion, he would hear!) “Rather! She’s a Baroness Quinci de Prano —wife of a musty Italian Baron,” replied Hyam waxing loquacious under the warmth of anything more genial than monosyllabic response. “She lives at Sidley, in Devonshire, and though she’s a bit’ long in the tooth, she didn’t seem a bad sort! Told me a most ’musin’ story

how she’s been copying out letters and pretending they’re from herself, to send some daubing chap who was down in his luck—beg pardon, my dear fellow, forgot you were in the same line! But-you ain’t down in your luck, so it don’t matter! Ha! Ha!” “Ha! Ha! Not at all! This sounds romantic —d-did she say any more ?” “Great pip, yes!—prosed about it from murky “jullienne” to warmed ice-pud-ding (Ugh! rotten feed it was!) There was this dauber living in London and engaged to a girl, who saw that he wanted bucking up a bit, so to do the bucking trick she got her pal (the Baroness) to copy out letters asking him to paint pictures, which the gal bought out of her dress allowance—and—ah! I remember now the Baroness said she was going to send her photo as well, so perhaps ‘Delia’ (the gal's name was Delia) will find —” But Mr Hyam was forced to finish the sentence to himself because, uttering a mumbled, unintelligible excuse, his companion rushed away. The loquacious club-member merely shrugged his shoulders with the complacency of a man who thieves on snubs. “Rummy chap—top-story tile loose, I bet—these painting johnnies are all a bit off more or least” was the conclusion at which he ultimately arrived. And certainly this particular “painting Johnny” was very much “off” —he was off to seek one girl with purple eyes just as quickly as a motor taxameterfitted cab would take him! “And why, my beloved, did you not yourself give roe the help, the sympathy, the encouragement, and the inspired suggestions which alone have made me able to fulfil my heart’s desires ?” For one instant Delia dropped her head, but the next was gazing up with serene violet eyes. “For one thing, I felt that it would be more inspiring for appreciation to apparently come from some unbiassed source; and for. another—why, I—l can’t say quite what I feel, Hulbert. S-Some women never can,” she softly replied. The painter could not answer. He could only draw his “inspiration” to his heart, and lay homage with love, upon her lips. All was as he would have wished. s>ve and Art hand-in-hand!