THE FINE ARTS.
WHEN the butter that truly is butterine, and the “Cheddar” of the Great
Republic, are gracefully returned to our beloved grocer, with a feeble
prayer for amendment, what does he say? Why, the very same thing that
he said upon the last occasion—“Indeed! all our customers like it
extremely; it is the very thing we have had most praise for; and this
is the very first complaint.”
In like manner I received for answer (when I fain would have sent back
to that storekeeper Love a few of the sensations I had to pay for) that
everybody praised them, and considered them ennobling, and was only
eager once again to revel in their freshness. And to tell the truth,
when my own time came for looking calmly back at them, I became one of
the larger public, and would have bought them back at any price, as an
old man regards his first caning.
However I did not know that now, and could not stop to analyze my own
feelings, which might for the moment perhaps be described as deep
longings for a height never heard of. All the every-day cares, and
hide-bound pothers of the people round me, were as paltry pebbles below
my feet; and I longed to be alone, to think of one other presence, and
only one.
Uncle Corny, in his downright fashion, called me as mad as a March
hare; but I was simply sorry for him, and kept out of his way, and
tried to work. Tabby Tapscott became a plague, by poking common jokes
at me; and the family men on the premises seemed to have a grin among
themselves, when my back was turned. The only man I could bear to work
with, was the long one we called “Selsey Bill,” because he came from
that part of Sussex, and resembled that endless projection. He was
said to have seventeen lawful children—enough to keep any man silent.
Moreover he was beyond all doubt the ugliest man in the parish; which
may have added to my comfort in his mute society, as a proof of the
facility of wedlock. The sharp click of his iron heel on the treddle of
his spade, the gentle sigh that came sometimes, as he thought of how
little he would find for supper, and the slow turn of his distorted
eyes as he looked about for the wheelbarrow—all these by some deep law
of nature soothed my dreamy discontent.
But what was there fairly to grumble at? If I chose to cast my eyes
above me, and set my affections out of reach, reason could not be
expected to undo unreason. And hitherto, what luck had led me, what
good fortune fed me with the snatches of warm rapture! Even my own
wickedness had prospered, and never been found out. Surely the fates
were on my side, and the powers of the air encouraged me.
What a lovely morning it was now, for the fairest of beings to walk
abroad, and for me to be walking in the same direction! Although the
earth was sodden still, and the trees unripe with summer drip, and the
autumnal roses hung their sprays with leathery balls, instead of bloom;
yet the air was fresh, and the sky bright blue, and the grass as green
as in the May month; and many a plant, that is spent and withered after
a brilliant season, was opening its raiment to tempt the sun, and
budding into gems for him to polish. The spring, that had forgotten
tryst with earth this year, and been weeping for it ever since, was
come at last, if only for one tender glance through the russet locks of
autumn. Why should not man, who suffers with the distresses of the air
and earth, take heart again, and be cheerful with them; ay, and enjoy
his best condition—that of loving, and being loved?
There was enough to tempt the gloomiest, and most timid mortal, to make
his venture towards such bliss, when Kitty Fairthorn, blushing softly,
and glancing as brightly as the sunshine twinkles through a bower of
wild rose, came along to me alone, where I stood looking out for her
father. Although I had been thinking bravely all the things set down
above, not one of them kept faith, or helped me to the courage of their
reasoning. Instead of that, my heart fell low, and my eyes (which had
been full of hope) would scarcely dare to render to it the picture of
which it held so many, yet never could manage to hold enough. She saw
my plight, and was sorry for it, and frightened perhaps both of that
and herself.
“It is so unlucky,” she said, without looking any more than good
manners demanded at me; “last night I began to think that all was going
to be quite nice again; for that very peculiar dog, that my aunt is
so strongly attached to, just came back; as if he had only gone for a
little airing on his own account, and so as to have all the road to
himself. He was as fat as ever, but oh so gentle! And his reputation
is not quite that. Perhaps you have heard of him. He seems to be well
known.”
“I think I have heard of him. Why, of course it must be the dog that
was mentioned in the hand-bills! We had two of them upon our wall. Mrs.
Marker was speaking of him, when you passed on Thursday, only I could
not attend to _her_.”
“Then you ought to have done so,” she replied, as if without any idea
of my inner thought; “for there has been the greatest excitement about
it. But I suppose, inside these walls, and among these trees and lovely
flowers, you scarcely know what excitement is.”
“Don’t I, then? Oh, I wish I didn’t!” I replied with a deeply sad look
at her; “it is you, who are so much above all this, who can have no
idea what real—real—a sort of despair, I mean, is like. But I beg your
pardon; you mustn’t notice me.”
“How can I help being sorry for you?” she asked very softly, when our
eyes had met. “You have been so good to me, and saved my life. But of
course I have no right to ask what it is. And I know that the crops
are always failing. And now you have a dear little tree quite dead. My
father has sent me, to try to make a careful drawing of it, because it
was struck by some extraordinary lightning. And the worst of it is,
that he has been called away, and can hardly be back till the evening.
He has invented a new conductor, for ships of the Navy, that are to
have iron all over and under them, and therefore want protecting. He
had a letter from the Admiralty this morning.”
“Oh dear, what a pity! What a sad loss!” I replied. “I am afraid it
will take us so much longer, without having him here to direct us. And
I doubt if my Uncle Cornelius will be able to be with us, half the
time.”
“Oh that is just what I was to say!” her tone was demure, but her
glance quite bright; “on no account am I to interfere with the valuable
time of Mr. Orchardson. Indeed I shall not trouble any one. If I may
only be shown the poor tree, and then be allowed to fetch a chair, or
a stool, or even a hassock, and then be told where to find some clear
water, and perhaps be reminded when the time is one o’clock, I am sure
I shall do beautifully.”
“You are certain to do beautifully; there is no other way that you
could do. No one shall be allowed to disturb you; I should like to see
any one dare to come near you except—except—”
“Except Mrs. Tapscott. You see I have heard of her. And it is so kind
of you to think of her. Then I shall be quite happy.”
“Mrs Tapscott indeed! No, except me myself. I shall lock that
chattering woman in the back kitchen, or how could you ever do a
stroke? I am sure it will take you a very long time. There are three
other trees that you ought to draw, if you wish to show exactly what
the lightning did. I hardly see how you can finish to-day. If you
leave off at one o’clock, it will be utterly impossible. And my Uncle
Cornelius will be in such a rage, if you think of going back without
anything to eat.”
“How very kind everybody is down here! It is the very nicest place I
ever have been in. It will be so miserable to go away. I am not at all
accustomed to such kindness.” Her lovely eyes glistened as she began
to speak, and a tear was in each of them as she turned away. I felt as
if I could have cried myself, to see such an innocent angel so sad.
But I durst not ask any questions, and was bound to go on as if I knew
nothing.
“What a little drawing-block you have!” I said; “you ought to have one
at least twice that size. Do let me lend you one. I have three or four;
and you can choose which you like of them. And my pencils too, and my
colour-box. There are none to be had in the village. If you will rest
a moment in this little harbour, I will get them all, and a chair for
you.”
It did not take me long to let Tabby Tapscott know, that if she dared
even to look out of the window, she would mourn for it all the rest of
her life; moreover that she must not let anybody know in what direction
I was gone, even if his Grace of C. G. himself came down, to grant
us the best stall he had for ever. Tabby winked with both eyes, and
inquired if I took her for a “vule, or a zany, or a coochey hosebird,”
and said she would have “zummut good for nummatin,” by one o’clock. And
as I hurried back to the bower, there came almost into my very hand
the loveliest _Souvenir d’un Ami_ rose that ever lifted glossy pink,
to show the richer glow within. This rose I cut with the tender touch
which a gardener uses boldly, and laid it on my drawing-block, so that
each exquisite tinge and fringe and curve of radiant leaflet, as well
as the swanlike bend of stalk and soft retirement of sepal, led up to
the crowning beauty of the bloom above them.
“I never saw anything to equal that,” said one who might outvie the
whole; “who can have taught you, Mr. Kit, such knowledge of what is
beautiful?”
She had called me by my village-name; and more than that, she had let
me know that she looked upon me as a rustic. I saw my advantage, and
was deeply hurt, that she might make it up again.
“You are right,” I answered, turning back, as if in sad abasement;
“Miss Fairthorn, you are right indeed in supposing that I know nothing.
However, I am able to carry a chair, and to wait upon you humbly. Let
us go to the tree; and at one o’clock, I will venture to come, and tell
the time.”
“Oh, I never meant it at all like that! I could never have imagined you
would take me up so. I seem to say the wrong thing always, as I am told
every day at home. I hoped that it was not true; but now—now, I have
given offence to you, you, who have been so good to me. I could never
attempt to draw to-day. I will tell my father that I was rude to you,
and he will send somebody else to do it.” I felt that this would have
served me right; but I was not in love with justice.
“I implore you not to do that,” I said; “really that would be too
hard upon me. Why should you wish to be hard upon me? I am trying to
think what I have done to deserve it. You are worse than the ground
lightning.”
“Then I suppose I killed your trees. I am not going now to be silly any
more. Tell me what to do, to show that you have quite forgiven me. You
know that I never meant to vex you.” She looked at me so sweetly, that
I could only meet her eyes.
“I declare it will be one o’clock, before I have done a thing. What
will my father say? And I must be so careful. I am sure that you could
do it better, better much than I can. Will you do it, while I go and
look for Mr. Orchardson? I like him very much, and his fruit is so
delicious. No, you won’t relieve me? Well, shake hands, and be good
friends again. May I have this lovely rose, to give my father something
beautiful, when he comes back from London?”
I saw that she was talking fast, that my prudence might come back to
me. She knew as well from my long gaze, that I loved her, and must
always love her, as I to the bottom of my heart knew it. And she did
not seem offended at me, only blushed, and trembled, just as if some
important news were come (perhaps by telegraph), and she wondered while
she opened it.
For me this was enough, and more almost than I could hope for—to let
her keep this knowledge in her mind, and dwell upon it; until if happy
angels came—as they gladly would—to visit her, the sweetest of them all
might fan it, with his wings, into her heart.
“Halloa, Kit my lad!” cried Uncle Corny, when he came to dinner, and
my darling was gone with her sketch half done, and I had only dared
to hover near her. “Sweetheart been here, they tell me. What a leary
chap you are! When I heard Cap’en was gone to Town, I thought it was
all over. I’ve been wanting you up at packing-shed, for the last
three hours. No more good work left in you. That’s what come of sweet
hearting.”
“Uncle Corny, if you must be vulgar, because you have no proper sense
of things, the least you can do is not to holloa, as if you were
driving a truck of rags and bones.”
“Hoity, toity! Here’s a go! One would think there had been no courting
done, since Adam and Eve, till your time. Too hot to hold—that’s my
opinion. And as for rags and bones, young fellow, that’s just about
what it will come to. The girl won’t have sixpence, by what I hear;
though there’s lots of tin in the family. I know a deal more than you
do about them. Don’t pop the question without my leave.”
What a way to put it!