THE OPPOSITE LODGER.
During the day Helen, in ascending the stairs, encountered M’lle
Fanchette.
“So you have become quite a public character, Miss Ford,” said the
_modiste_, superciliously.
Helen looked up, but did not speak.
“I heard you sing at the theatre, last evening.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Nothing would have induced me to come forward so publicly at your age.
However, I suppose you don’t mind it.”
“No,” said Helen, with rising color; “I don’t mind it, since it enables
me to earn money for my father.”
“Isn’t your father well? It isn’t usual for children to be called upon
to support their parents.”
“Good morning, M’lle Fanchette,” said Helen, abruptly. The implied
censure upon her father kindled her resentment as no insult to herself
would have done.
M’lle Fanchette looked after her with a sneer. “So my lady is putting on
airs, is she? I don’t believe her father’s invention will ever come to
anything. Perhaps I had better take no further notice of her.”
Just as Helen reached the door of her father’s room, she saw the
occupant of the opposite apartment standing at his door. He was a young
man of middle height, with a face whose boyish bloom had hardly given
place to the more mature expression of manhood.
“Good morning, Miss Ford,” he said, pleasantly.
“Good morning, Mr. Coleman.”
“I was just about to ask a favor of you and your father.”
Helen thought he might be intending to ask a loan of some little
article, for it had come to her knowledge that he was boarding himself.
“I am sure we shall be happy to grant it,” she said, cheerfully.
“I suppose you know that I am an artist, or trying to be,” said the
young man. “I have just finished a picture for exhibition at the
Academy. No one has seen it yet, and I, perhaps, am not a fair judge of
its merits. I should be very glad if you and Mr. Ford would take a look
at it, and favor me with your opinion of it.”
“I shall be delighted to see it, and so will papa, I know,” returned
Helen. “I will speak to him immediately.”
“Papa,” she said, entering the room, “Mr. Coleman is kind enough to
invite us to look at a picture he has painted.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said Mr. Ford, looking up abstractedly.
“Did you speak?”
Helen repeated the invitation.
“I shall be most happy,” said Mr. Ford, courteously. “Let us go at
once.”
The opposite room was fitted up as an artist’s studio,—plainly enough,
for young Coleman was, as yet, only a struggling aspirant, without a
name and without orders.
On an easel was the picture of which he had spoken. The subject was, “A
country farm-house at sunrise.” Broad and low, suggestive less of beauty
than of substantial comfort, it stood prominently out. The farmer in his
shirt-sleeves was leaning carelessly against the fence, watching a group
of cattle who were just emerging from the barn, followed by the farmer’s
son, a stout boy of fourteen. There was a cart in the yard near the
house, a plough, and a variety of accessories carefully selected to
imitate nature as scrupulously as possible. The whole painting was
exceedingly natural.
“It is beautiful,” said Helen, with childish enthusiasm.
“Thank you,” said the young man, smiling.
“It looks very familiar to me,” said Mr. Ford. “It seems to me as if I
had seen the very farm-house you have represented.”
“Thank you. I may dare to hope, then, that I have been reasonably true
to nature.”
“In that respect I think you have succeeded wonderfully. You must have
been born in the country, Mr. Coleman.”
“Yes, sir; I am a farmer’s son.”
“What made you think of becoming an artist?” asked Helen.
“I believe it was a severe punishment I received at school.”
Helen looked surprised.
“I see you don’t understand how that should have had such an influence
in determining my career. Let me explain. I used from time to time to
draw upon the slate pictures of my school-mates, which were regarded by
the originals as very successful. One winter the Prudential Committee
selected as teacher a young man of very singular appearance. His nose
was immensely large, and of odd shape. One day, after finishing my sums
in arithmetic, the fancy seized me to draw a picture of the teacher. I
became interested in the portrait, so that when my class was called up I
did not hear the summons, but kept on with my sketch. Seeing how I was
employed, Mr. Hargrave stepped up behind me on tiptoe, and to his
inexpressible anger beheld the counterfeit presentment of himself, in
which full justice was done to his leading deformity. He was probably
sensible of his lack of beauty, and correspondingly sensitive. At all
events, he was so far from appreciating my efforts, that he seized me by
the collar, swung me out into the middle of the school-room, and gave me
a cruel punishment, from which I did not for some time recover. I did
not go back to school, my father being too indignant with the teacher
for his unreasonable severity. He was desirous of seeing the sketch
which had excited so strong a resentment. I accordingly reproduced it
with a pencil as carefully as I could, and my father took the trouble to
have it framed, and hung up in the sitting-room, where it attracted
considerable attention and many encomiums. I believe it was this
incident which led me to think seriously of becoming an artist by
profession. Twelve months since my father gave me what little money he
could spare, and I came to New York to establish myself.”
“And what encouragement have you received, Mr. Coleman?” asked Mr. Ford,
with kindly interest.
“Of pecuniary encouragement, none,” was the reply. “That, however, it is
too early to expect. I have been a part of the time in the studio of an
established artist,—till two months since in fact,—obtaining what
knowledge I absolutely required. Then I transferred my studio to this
room. You see before you the result of my two months’ labor.”
“You have made an excellent beginning. I feel safe in predicting your
success.”
“Thank you, sir. You asked me what encouragement I had received. Your
kind anticipation is among the most valuable.”
“I do not, of course, profess to be a competent judge,” said Mr. Ford;
“but I think an inexperienced eye will see much to commend in your
painting. It’s truth to nature is very striking. It is a pity you could
not study abroad.”
“It is my ardent wish,” said the young man, “but quite beyond my power
to compass. I have now been a year in the city, learning much, as I
hope, but earning nothing. This has nearly brought me to the end of my
scanty resources. I shall not be able to continue thus much longer. I
confess to have built some hopes upon the picture I have just painted.
If I could secure a purchaser at a fair price, it would enable me to
protract my residence, which otherwise must soon be brought to an end.”
“There is one bond of fellowship between us, then,” said Mr. Ford,
smiling; “that of poverty. I, too, am working on in present need, hoping
some day to achieve success, and with it money. But in one respect I
have the advantage of you. My little daughter, here,” placing his hand
affectionately on Helen’s head, “cheers me with her presence and
sympathy, and is of more substantial help besides. I don’t know what I
should do without her.”
“O father!” said Helen.
“It is all true, my child. Even now, she has obtained an engagement to
sing at the theatre, chiefly, as I think, though she will not admit it,
because she thinks the money will be of use to me.”
“Indeed!” said the young artist. “I observed in this morning’s paper a
very flattering account of the _début_ of a young singer bearing your
daughter’s name, but I had no idea it was she. Wait a moment, here it
is.”
The young man pointed out the paragraph to Mr. Ford, who read it with
proud gratification. It was pleasant to him to find that the daughter
who was so dear to him should be appreciated by the public.
“Helen, I shall become proud of you,” he said.
“And I shall return the compliment, papa,—you know when. Papa, I want to
whisper to you a moment.”
“Certainly, my dear; that is, if Mr. Coleman will excuse the
impoliteness.”
“Don’t mention it, sir. I hope you will consider me so far a friend, as
to treat me unceremoniously.”
“Mr. Coleman,” said Mr. Ford, after his whispered conference with Helen,
“my daughter desires me to invite you to dine with us. I trust you will
feel inclined to accept the invitation.”
“With the greatest pleasure,” said the young man, his face brightening
up.
“I need hardly tell you that we do not fare very sumptuously.”
The young man laughed. “And I need hardly assure you, sir, that I am
quite unused to sumptuous fare. Frankly, but for your invitation, my
dinner would have consisted of some dry bread and a couple of sausages.”
“You can reserve those till to-morrow, then. I really don’t know what
Helen will give us. She allows no dictation in the commissary
department.”
“Now, papa,” remonstrated Helen, “what will Mr. Coleman think of me? You
are making me out to be a dreadful tyrant.”
“I thought it best to put him on his guard. Since you are kind enough to
accept our invitation, Mr. Coleman, Helen will knock at your door when
dinner is ready. Good morning.”
“Good morning, sir. I shall be quite ready for the summons.”
The artist went back to his work, but the image of Helen’s childish
beauty occasionally rose up before him, and he could not help wishing
that Heaven had given him such a sister.