D’ARCY SEES BOGY.—THE ACADEMY.—THE PAINTER’S PICTURE.
THE Ammabys were in London. Amabel preferred the country; but she bore
the town as she bore with many other things that were not quite to her
taste, including painfully short petticoats, and Mademoiselle, the French
governess. She was in the garden of the square one morning, when D’Arcy
ran in.
“O Amabel!” he cried, “I’m so glad you’re alone! Whom do you think I’ve
seen? The boy you called Bogy. It must be he; I’ve looked in the glass,
and oh, he _is_ like me!”
“Where did you see him?” asked Amabel.
“Well, you know I’ve told you I get up very early just now?”
“I wish you wouldn’t tell me,” interrupted Amabel, “when you know
Mademoiselle won’t let me get up till half-past eight. Oh, I wish we
were going home this week!”
“I’m very sorry, Amabel, but do listen. I was down by the river, and
there he was sketching; and oh, so beautifully! I shall burn all my
copies; I can never draw like him. Amabel, he is _awfully_ like me, and
he must be very near my age. He’s like what people’s twin-brothers are,
you know. I wish he were my twin-brother!”
“He couldn’t be your twin-brother,” said Amabel, gravely; “he’s not a
gentleman.”
“Well, he’s not exactly not a gentleman,” said D’Arcy. “However, I asked
him if he sent his pictures to the Academy, and he said no, but his
master does, the artist he lives with. And he told me his master’s name,
and the number of his pictures; and I’ve brought you a catalogue, and the
numbers are 401, 402, and 403. And we are going to the Academy this
afternoon, and I’ve asked mamma to ask Lady Louisa to let you come with
us. But don’t say any thing about me and the boy, for I don’t want it to
be known I have been out early.”
At this moment Mademoiselle, who had been looking into the garden from an
upper window, hastened to fetch Amabel indoors.
* * * * *
It was between three and four o’clock in the afternoon, and the Academy
was crowded. The crush was so oppressive that Lady Adelaide wanted to go
away, but D’Arcy had expressed a wish to see No. 401, and D’Arcy’s wishes
were law to his father, so he struggled in search of the picture, and the
others followed him. And when a small crowd that was round it had
dispersed, they saw it quite clearly.
It was the painter’s _picture_. As the other spectators passed, they
spoke of the coloring and the draughtsmanship; of the mellow glow of
sunshine, which, faithful to the richness of southern summers, carried
also a poetical hint of the air of glory in which genius lives alone. To
some the graceful figure of Cimabue was familiar, but the new group round
the picture saw only the shepherd lad. And if, as the spectators said,
his eyes haunted them about the room, what ghosts must they not have
summoned to haunt Mr. Ford’s client as he gazed?
“Mais c’est Monsieur D’Arcy!” screamed the French governess. And Amabel
said, “It’s Bogy; but he’s got no leaves.” Lady Adelaide was quite
composed. The likeness was very striking, but her maternal eyes saw a
thousand points of difference between the Giotto of the painting and her
son. “How very odd!” she said. “I wonder who sat for the Giotto? If he
really were the boy Amabel thinks she saw in the wood, I think her Bogy
and the model must both be the same as a wonderful child Mr. Ammaby was
telling me about, who painted the sign of the inn in his village; but his
father was a windmiller called Lake, and”—
“Mamma! mamma!” cried D’Arcy, “papa is ill.”
The sound of his son’s voice recalled Mr. Ford’s client to consciousness;
but it was a very partial and confused consciousness. He heard voices
speaking of the heat, the crush, etc., as in a dream. He was not sure
whether he was being carried or led along. The painting was no longer
before him, but it mattered little. The shepherd boy’s eyes were as dark
as his own; but that look in their upward gaze, which stirred every
heart, pierced his as it had moved it years ago from eyes the color of a
summer sky. To others their pathos spoke of yearning genius at war with
fortune; but for Mr. Ford’s client they brought back, out of the past,
words which rang more clearly in his ears than the condolences of the
crowd,—
“You’ll remember your promise, D’Arcy? You will be quite sure to take me
home to bury me? And you will call my child after my father,—JAN?”