ALMOST DISCOURAGED.
Charlie was really tired on Friday, and did not feel equal to making
any effort; so she assisted Mrs. Wilcox with the housework, and tidied
up Mary Jane's room until one would hardly have known it. But every
thing seemed so strange and new.
Late in the afternoon she gained courage to say,--
"Did Mary Jane tell you, Mrs. Wilcox, that--I'd like to stay?"
"Yes. And so you _really_ came to York to get something to do! I s'pose
there's such a host of you at home!"
Charlie swallowed over a lump in her throat. Perhaps she was not a
little glad that Mrs. Wilcox did not suspect her unorthodox manner of
leaving Madison.
"I mean to find something to do. And if you would board me"--
"Now, Charlie Kenneth! first you stay and make a visit, and see what
you can find, before you talk of payin' board. Thank Heaven! I never
begrudged any one a meal's vittles or a night's sleep. Your poor old
grandmother's slaved herself half to death for you, and I'm glad to see
you have some spunk."
"Then, you'll let me stay?" and a soft flush of relief stole over
Charlie's face.
"Stay!" rather indignantly. "No one ever heard of Hannah Wilcox turnin'
people out o' doors. Your Granny has done more than one good turn for
me."
"But I've saved some money to pay my board"--
"I won't take a cent of it till you get to work, there, now! Jest you
never fret yourself a word. It'll all come right, I know."
"I'm very much obliged," said Charlie, feeling as if she would like to
cry.
"Mary Jane spoke of a chance of getting you at the flowers. It's light,
easy work,--I tell her jest like play. But you must have a visit first."
On Saturday Mary Jane came home at noon.
"I do think Charlie Kenneth's earned a holiday," said Mrs. Wilcox. "I
couldn't begin to tell the things that girl's done this mornin'. Swept
and dusted, and helped me clean the closet"--
"Then you're in clover, mother;" and Mary Jane laughed. "I never could
bear to do housework."
"A great kind of a wife you'll make."
"That will be some one else's look out;" and Mary Jane tossed her head
in a curiously satisfied manner.
They took a promenade on Broadway in the afternoon. Charlie was
delighted; and the shop-windows entertained her beyond description.
They bought some trifles,--a pair of gloves, a collar, and a ribbon
or two,--and Charlie found that money absolutely melted away. She had
spent four dollars.
She summoned courage to question Mary Jane a little, but found her
exceedingly ignorant on the great topic that absorbed her.
"I believe girls do color photographs in some places, but then you'd
have to know a good deal to get a situation like that. I guess only
rich girls have a chance to learn drawing and painting."
"But when it comes natural," said Charlie slowly.
"Well, I'll ask _him_;" and Mary Jane smiled, and nodded her head.
"_He_ knows most every thing."
"Are you going to marry him?" Charlie asked innocently, understanding
the pronoun.
"Oh, I don't know!" with a toss of the head. "I mean to have some fun
first. Some girls have lots of beaux."
Charlie colored. She had not the judgment or the experience to assist
her in any sort of analysis; but she _felt_ that these Wilcoxes were
very different from their household. They had always been poor, lived
in an old tumble-down cottage, with a bed in the parlor; were a noisy,
frolicksome, romping set; given to slang, Flossy's great abhorrence;
and yet--there was a clean, pure element in them all,--a kind of
unconscious refinement. Florence's fine-ladyisms had not been entirely
useless or wasted.
Refinement was the idea floating so dimly through Charlie's brain. In
after years she understood the force of Hal's example, and the many
traits Joe had laughed at as being girlish. But now she could only feel
that there was a great gulf between her and Mary Jane; that the latter
could _not_ enter into her hopes and ambitions.
However, Charlie's drawings were brought to Mr. Brown for inspection.
"Why, you're a regular genius!" he exclaimed in surprise.
Charlie colored with delight, and every nerve seemed to expand with
precious hope.
"It is a great pity that you are not a man."
"Why?" and Charlie opened her large eyes wonderingly.
"Because then you could do something with your talent. All these comic
pictures in papers are designed by men; and they sometimes travel
about, writing descriptions of places, and drawing little sketches to
go with them. It is capital business."
"That is what I should like;" and Charlie's face glowed.
"But girls and women never do it. It's altogether out of their sphere.
You see, that is one of the disadvantages."
Mr. Brown uttered this dogmatically.
"But if they know how, and can do it"--
"They couldn't travel about alone, running into dangers of all kinds.
And it is just here. Now, some of these sketches are as good as you
see in the papers; but no one would think of buying them of a woman,
because it is men's work."
Charlie winked the tears out of her eyes. The argument was crushing,
for she could not refute the lameness of the logic; and she had always
felt sore about being a girl.
"They teach women to draw and paint down here at Cooper Institute," he
said presently.
"But I suppose it costs a good deal?" and Charlie sighed.
"Yes."
"These things are for rich people," said Mary Jane with an air of
authority.
Charlie could not summon heart to question further: besides, she had
some ideas in her brain. Maybe she _might_ sell her pictures to some
newspaper. Any how, she would try.
She began the week with this determination. On Monday she dressed
herself carefully, and gave her face a rather rigorous inspection. It
_did_ look very little-girlish. And somehow she wished her hair wasn't
short, and that she could be handsome. Who ever heard of such dark eyes
and light hair, such a peculiar tint too,--a kind of Quaker-drab; not
golden nor auburn nor chestnut. Well, she was as she grew, and she
couldn't help any of it.
By dint of inquiring now and then, she found her way about pretty well.
Her first essay was in the office of an illustrated paper.
The man listened to her story with a peculiar sharp business air, and
merely said,--
"No: we don't want any thing of the kind."
Charlie felt that she could not say another word, and walked out.
She stood a long while looking in the window of a print-shop, and at
last ventured again.
This person was less brusque.
"My little girl," he said, "we never do any thing with such matters. We
buy our pictures, printed or painted, or engravings, as the case may
be, from all parts of the world. Many of them are copies from different
artists well known to fame. It costs a great deal for the plate of a
picture."
Which explanation was quite unintelligible to Charlie.
She rambled on until she came to a bookstore. There being only a boy
within, she entered.
"Do you ever buy any pictures for books?" she asked.
"Books allus have pictures in 'em," was the oracular reply.
"But who makes them?"
"Why, engravers, of course;" with supreme astonishment at her ignorance.
"And they--do the thinking,--plan the picture, I mean?"
"What?" asked the boy, as if Charlie had spoken Greek.
"Some one must have the idea first."
He could not controvert it, and stared about helplessly.
"Are there any lady engravers?"
"No, I guess not;" scratching his head.
"And who makes these little pictures of children like this girl
teaching the dog to read, and this one with the flowers?"
"Oh, I know what you want!" exclaimed the boy. "We gets 'em down in Ann
Street. There's some girls working in the place. Do you know where Ann
Street is?"
Some of Charlie's old humor cropped out.
"No, nor Polly Street, nor Jemima Street."
The boy studied her sharply, but preserved a sullen silence, strongly
suspecting that he was being laughed at.
"Will you please tell me?" quite meekly. "And--the man's name."
The boy found a card, and directed her. Charlie trudged on with a light
heart.
The place was up two flights of very dirty steps. Mr. Balcour had gone
out to dinner, and she was rather glad of an excuse to rest. In the
adjoining room there were three girls laughing and chatting. Now, if
she could come here to work!
When Mr. Balcour entered, Charlie found him a very pleasant-looking
man. She made known her errand with but little hesitation.
"It is something of a mistake," was the smiling answer. "My business is
coloring prints, flower-pieces, and all that. Sometimes they are sent
to me, but these little things I buy by the hundred or thousand, and
color them; then picture-dealers, Sunday-schools, &c., come in here to
purchase."
With that he displayed cases of birds, flowers, fancy scenes, and tiny
landscapes.
"Oh, how beautiful they are!" and she glanced them over with delight.
"I should like to do them!"
"Do you know any thing about water-coloring?"
"No;" rather hesitatingly, for she was not at all certain as to the
precise nature of water-coloring.
"I keep several young ladies at work. It requires taste, practice, and
a certain degree of genius, artistic ability."
"I meant the first thought of the picture," said Charlie, blushing.
"Some one must know how it is to be made."
"Yes, certainly."
"If you would look at these"--
She opened her parcel, and spread them before him.
"Did you do them?"
He asked the question in astonishment.
"Yes," was Charlie's simple reply.
He studied her critically, which made her warm color come and go, and
she interlaced her fingers nervously.
"My child, this first thought, as you call it, is designing. You have a
very remarkable genius, I should say. How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"You have had some instruction!"
Charlie concluded it would be wiser to say that she had, for there was
the drawing-book and Hal.
"You wish to do this for a living?" he asked kindly.
"Oh, if I could! I like it so much!" and there was a world of entreaty
in Charlie's tone.
Mr. Balcour had to laugh over some of the drawings, for the faces were
so spirited and expressive.
"I will tell you the very best thing for you to do. Enter the School of
Design for women. The arrangements, I believe, are very good; that is,
there is a chance to earn something while you are studying."
"Oh!"
Charlie's face was fairly transfigured. Mr. Balcour thought her a
wonderfully pretty girl.
"It is at Cooper Institute, Third Avenue and Seventh or Eighth Street.
I really do not know any thing about it, except that it does profess to
assist young students in art."
"I am so much obliged to you;" and Charlie gave him a sweet, grateful
smile.
"I should like to hear a little about you!" he said; "and I hope you
will succeed. Come in some time and let me know. Do you live in the
city?"
"No; but I am staying with some friends on Fourteenth Street."
"Not far from Cooper Institute, then."
"No, I can easily find it."
They said good-by; and Charlie threaded her way up to City Hall with a
heart as light as thistle-down, quite forgetting that she had missed
her dinner. Then, by car, she went up to Cooper Institute.
And now what was she to do? I told you that Charlie had a great deal of
courage and perseverance. And then she was so earnest in this quest!
She inquired in a china-store, and was directed up stairs.
It was very odd indeed. First she stumbled into a reading-room, and was
guided from thence to the art-gallery by a boy. The pictures amused
and interested her for quite a while. One lady and two gentlemen were
making copies.
By and by she summoned courage to ask the lady which was the school, or
study-room.
"School of Design?"
"Yes," timidly.
"It is closed."
Charlie's countenance fell.
"When will it be open?"
"About the first of October."
The child gave a great sigh of disappointment.
"Were you thinking of entering?"
"I wanted to see--if I could."
"Have you painted any?"
"No: but I have been drawing a little."
"You are rather young, I think."
Then the lady went on with her work. Charlie turned away with tears in
her eyes. A whole month to wait!
Mrs. Wilcox plied her with questions on her return, but Charlie was not
communicative.
After a night's rest she felt quite courageous again. She would see
what could be done about engraving.
Poor Charlie! There were no bright spots in this day. Everybody seemed
cross and in a hurry. One man said coarsely,--
"You needn't tell me you did them things by yourself. You took 'em from
some picturs."
So she came home tired and dispirited. Mary Jane had a crowd of gay
company in the evening, and Charlie slipped off to bed. Oh, if she
could only give Dot a good hug, and kiss Hal's pale face, and hear
Granny's cracked voice! Even the horrible tuning of Kit's fiddle would
sound sweet. But to be here,--among strangers,--and not be able to make
her plans work.
Charlie turned her face over on the pillow, and had a good cry. After
all, there never could be anybody in this world half so sweet as "The
old woman who lived in a shoe!"
On Wednesday it rained. Charlie was positively glad to have a good
excuse for staying within doors. She helped Mrs. Wilcox with her
sewing, and told her every thing she could remember about the people at
Madison.
"How strange it must look,--and a railroad through the middle of it!
There wa'n't no mills in my time, either. And rows of houses, Mary Jane
said. She'd never 'a' known the place if it hadn't been for the folks.
Dear, dear!"
Mary Jane came home in high feather that night.
"I found they were taking on some girls to-day, Charlie; and I spoke
a good word for you. You can come next Monday. I don't believe you'll
make out much with the pictures."
"You were very good;" but Charlie's lip quivered a little.
"It will be ever so nice to have company up and down! and you'll like
it, I'm sure."
Mary Jane, being of a particularly discursive nature, was delighted to
have a constant listener.
"Well, that was better than nothing," Charlie thought. She might work
a while, and perhaps learn something more definite about the School of
Design.
"For I'll never give it up, never!" and Charlie set her resolute red
lips together, while her eyes glanced into the future.
The following morning was so lovely, that she felt as if she must have
a walk. She put on her white dress and sacque, and looked as fresh as
a rose. She would go over on Broadway, where every thing was clean and
lovely, and have a delightful time looking at the shop-windows and the
beautiful ladies.
It was foolish to take her pictures along, and yet she did it. They
really appeared a part of her life. On and on she sauntered, enjoying
every thing with the keenest relish. The mellow sun, the refreshing
air that had in it a crisp flavor, the cloudless sky overhead, and the
bright faces around, made her almost dance with gladness.
She stood for a long while viewing some chromos in a window,--two or
three of children, which were very piquant and amusing, and appealed
to her love of fun. Obeying her impulse she entered, and stole timidly
around. Two gentlemen were talking, and one of the faces pleased her
exceedingly. A large, fair, fresh-complexioned man, with curly brown
hair, and a patriarchal beard, snowy white, though he did not appear
old.
A young fellow came to her presently, and asked if there was any thing
he could show her.
"I should like to see the gentleman--when he is--disengaged."
That speech would have done credit to Florence.
The youth carried the message, and the proprietor glanced around. Not
the one with the beautiful beard, and Charlie felt rather disappointed.
They talked a while longer, then he came forward.
"You wished to see me?"
Charlie turned scarlet to the tips of her fingers, and stammered
something in an absurdly incoherent fashion.
"Oh! you did not interrupt me--particularly," and he smiled kindly.
"What can I do for you?"
"Will you tell me--who made the first design--for--those pictures in
the window,--the children, I mean?"
"Different artists. Two, I think, are by ladies."
"And how did they get to do it? I mean, after they made the sketch, who
painted it?"
"Those are from the original paintings. The artist had the thought, and
embodied it in a sketch."
"But suppose no one wanted to buy it?"
"That _has_ happened;" and he smiled again. "Why? Have you been trying
your hand at pictures?"
"Yes," answered Charlie in great doubt and perplexity. "Only mine are
done in pencil. If you would look at them."
Charlie's eyes were so beseeching, that he could not resist.
She opened her small portfolio,--Hal's handiwork. The gentleman glanced
over two or three.
"Did you do these yourself?"
"Yes;" and Charlie wondered that she should be asked the question so
frequently.
"Who taught you?"
"My brother, a little; but I think it comes natural," said Charlie in
her earnestness, knowing no reason why she should not tell the truth.
"Darol, here is a genius for you!" he exclaimed, going back to his
friend.
Charlie watched them with throbbing heart and bated breath. She was
growing very sensitive.
"That child!" "Come here, little girl, will you?" said Mr. Darol,
beckoning her towards them.
"Who put the faces in these?"
"I did;" and the downcast lids trembled perceptibly.
"How long have you been studying?"
"Oh! I could always do that," answered Charlie. "I used to in school.
And some of them are just what did happen."
"This,--Mr. Kettleman's troubles?" and he scrutinized her earnestly.
"There was a man working in the mill whose name was Kettleman, and he
always carried a dinner-kettle. But I thought up the adventures myself."
Charlie uttered this very modestly, and yet in a quiet, straightforward
manner, that bore the impress of sincerity.
The first picture was Mr. Kettleman purchasing his kettle. A scene
in a tin-shop; the seller a round, jolly fellow, about the shape of
a beer-cask; and Mr. Kettleman tall and thin, with a long nose, long
fingers, and long legs. He was saying, "Will it hold enough?" The faces
_were_ capital.
In the second Mrs. Kettleman was putting up her husband's dinner. There
were piles and piles of goodies; and his cadaverous face was bent over
the mass, the lips slightly parted, the nose longer than ever, and
asking solemnly, "Can you get it all in, Becky?"
The third showed a group of laughing men round a small table, which was
spread with different articles. One fellow held the pail up-side-down,
saying, "The last crumb." The head of Mr. Kettleman was just in sight,
ascending the stairs.
Lastly the kettle tied to a dog's tail. Mr. Kettleman in the distance,
taller, thinner, and exceedingly woebegone, watching his beloved but
unfortunate kettle as it thumped over the stones.
There were many irregularities and defects, but the faces were
remarkable for expression. Mr. Darol laughed heartily.
"How old are you?" asked Mr. Wentworth, glancing curiously at the
slender slip of a girl.
"Fifteen."
"You don't look that."
"You have a wonderful gift," said Mr. Darol thoughtfully.
"Oh, that is real!" exclaimed Charlie eagerly, as they turned to
another. "My brother was in a store once, and sold some pepper for
allspice. The woman put it in her pie."
"So I should judge from her husband's face;" and they both laughed
again, and praised Charlie to her heart's content.
By degrees Mr. Darol drew Charlie's history from her. She did not
conceal her poverty nor her ambition; and her love for her one talent
spoke eloquently in every line of her face.
"My child, you have a remarkable genius for designing. The school at
Cooper Institute will be just the place for you. Wentworth, I think I
shall take her over to Miss Charteris. What is your name, little one?"
"Charlie Kenneth."
"Charlie?" in amaze.
"It was Charlotte, but I've always been called Charlie."
"Just the name for you! Miss Charlie, you have a world of energy
and spirit. I know you will succeed. And now it would give me great
pleasure to take you to the studio of an artist friend."
The tears came into Charlie's eyes: she couldn't help it, though she
tried to smile.
"Oh!" with a tremulous sob, "it's just like a dream. And you are so
good! I'd go with one meal a day if I could only draw pictures!"
And Charlie was lovely again, with her face full of smiles, tears,
and blushes. Earnest, piquant, and irregular, she was like a picture
herself.
It seemed to Charlie that in five minutes they reached Miss Charteris's
studio; and she stood in awe and trembling, scarcely daring to breathe.
For up to this date she had hardly been able to believe that any woman
in the world besides Rosa Bonheur had actually painted pictures.
"I have brought you a new study, Miss Charteris. A romance and a small
young woman."
"Well, Paul Darol! I don't believe there is your equal in the world
for picking up the lame and the halt and the blind, and the waifs and
strays. What now?" and Miss Charteris laughed with such a musical
ripple that Charlie turned and answered her with a smile.
"First look at these, and then let me tell you a story."
"Very fair and vigorous sketches;" and Miss Charteris glanced
curiously at Charlie.
Then Mr. Darol began with the story, telling his part first, and
calling in Charlie to add sundry helps to the other.
"And so, you see, I ventured to try your good temper once more, and
bring her to you."
"What shall I do,--paint her? She might sit for a gypsy girl now, but
in ten years she will be a handsome woman. What an odd, trustful child!
This promises better than some of your discoveries."
"Well, help me to get her into the School of Design, and make a
successful genius of her. She is too plucky for any one to refuse her a
helping hand."
Miss Charteris began to question Charlie. She had a vein of drollery in
her own nature; and in half an hour Charlie was laughing and talking
as if she had known her all her lifetime. What pleased Mr. Darol most
was her honesty and unflinching truth. She told of their poverty and
struggles, of the love and the fun they had shared together; but there
was a little tremor in her voice as she said, "We had one sister who
was adopted by a rich lady."
The matter was soon settled, being in the right hands. Charlie was
registered as a pupil at the school; and Miss Charteris taught her to
re-touch photographs, and found her an opportunity to do a little work.
It was something of a hardship to go on boarding with Mrs. Wilcox;
but they were so fond of her, and so proud of what they could not
understand!
So you do not wonder, I fancy, that Charlie's letter should be such a
jubilate. Ah, if she could only earn a little money to take back with
her!
She saw Miss Charteris and Mr. Darol quite often. He was like a father,
but sweeter and dearer than any one's father she had ever known. When
she went home, she meant to coax Hal to return with her, just for the
pleasure of meeting such splendid people; "for he is the best of all of
us," she used to say to Miss Charteris.
Ah, Charlie, if you dreamed of what was happening in the Old Shoe!