SKETCHES
"Our pebbles are getting a good washing, aren't they?" said Mrs. Lowell,
when she and her protégé had reached the shore.
The tide was high and she had Bert put the cushions in front of a rock
which sprang from the grass on the edge of the stony beach. He followed
her directions apathetically.
"Put your pillow against the rock. See, there is a nice slanting place.
Perhaps you will take a little nap. The sea is making a rather
thunderous lullaby. Try it. I shan't mind; for here are my books and my
writing-paper and pencils galore."
The boy sank down beside her in the place she indicated and looked at
the materials in her lap. She had opened a leather case and showed a
tablet of paper fitted at the side with a case for pencils.
"Do you ever write letters, Bertie?"
"I--no."
"When you and your uncle leave home, is there no one for you to write
back to?"
"There's Cora."
"Your housekeeper?"
The boy nodded, his eyes still on the books and materials in his
friend's lap. She, alert to meet any show of interest on his part, took
up one of the books.
"Do you ever read the Bible, Bertie?"
"I don't--no, I never did."
"Didn't your mother ever read it to you?"
The boy looked up into her eyes. "Yes, about the shepherd."
"I'm so glad that you know that psalm," she returned gently. "Can you
say it? The Lord is my shepherd?"
He shook his head, and again his eyes dropped to the contents of her
lap.
"It is like a game of magic music," she thought. "There is something
here I should do. Divine Harmony, Divine Love, show me what it is!"
"Are you looking at this?" She took up the other book and pointed to the
gold cross and crown on its cover. Then she offered it to him.
He shook his head.
"Veronica told me that your uncle hurt your feelings this morning," went
on Mrs. Lowell, laying the book down.
The boy's brows drew together and his gaze sought the ground.
"You know the Bible is the most beautiful book in the world. It has
hundreds of verses as lovely as those about the shepherd. This is one:
Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that
fear him. Fear Him means fear to displease Him on account of our love
for Him and His love for us."
It was so long since the boy had heard any mention of love that he
looked up at her, still gloomily.
"You know how unhappy you always were when you displeased your mother,
and you know how she pitied you for your mistake and drew you back to
her--and forgave you."
"Yes--yes, I do."
"That is the way God does with us. So you see it isn't a bad thing to be
pitied with love. If you ever think again of what your uncle said, just
turn away from it and know that Love is taking care of you every minute.
God is always here, waiting to bless us."
"I'd--I'd rather see Him," said the boy.
"Your friends are His messengers," said Mrs. Lowell.
"What--what friends have I?"
"Me, for one," replied his companion. As she leaned toward him with her
spontaneous grace, he met her affectionate regard with his piteous eyes.
"Did God--did God send you to--to me?"
"I'm sure He did," she returned slowly.
"Then--then can I--take one of your pencils?"
Mrs. Lowell looked down at her writing-tablet.
"Certainly," she said, passing the whole affair to him.
A remarkable transformation took place in the boy's face. He took the
folding case with its complete outfit and his companion regarded him in
surprise. His eyes lighted and color came stealing up over face and
brow. He looked over his shoulder apprehensively, then back at her.
"You won't tell him?" he said.
"Who? Your uncle?"
"Yes. He would beat me."
"Why? Doesn't he like you to write letters?"
The first smile she had ever seen on the boy's face altered it now as he
looked at her, and her heart beat faster in a mystified sense that some
cruelly bolted door had been pushed ajar.
"You can have that portfolio for your own, Bertie," she said.
"No, no, he'd kill me."
"What can you mean, dear child?"
The boy started up from his cushion and perched on top of the rock,
glancing along the shore. Mrs. Lowell leaned forward and saw his hand
with the pencil move swiftly here and there on the blank sheet. She said
not a word, but watched the slender young face with the new alertness in
the eyes.
The tide was making its splendid slow retreat, the gulls were wheeling
and crying, and white as their wings the daisy drifts were beginning to
appear on the uplands. Activity, growing, unfolding, all about her, the
watcher felt this waif to be part of it. One of God's little ones who
could not be kept in bondage.
At last the boy came down again and gave her his work. She looked at it
in amazement. The curve of the shore, the groups of spruces, a distant
cottage, the light clouds on the blue were all sketched in with a sure
touch.
"Who taught you this, Bertie?"
"Nobody--but I watched my mother. She was an artist. She let me draw
beside her. She knew I could. She said so. I'll show you. You won't
tell?"
"Never."
The boy drew from his pocket a small folded paper. He took off the
paper and revealed oiled silk. He unfolded this and a small pen-and-ink
sketch came to view. It was of a woman's face, slightly smiling. There
was expression in the long-lashed eyes, eyes like the boy's own. The
hair waved off the forehead. Bertie held the treasure for Mrs. Lowell to
see, but did not relinquish it.
"Is this your mother?"
"Yes."
"Who did it?"
"I did."
"When, Bertie, when?"
"After--afterward," he answered, and his companion could hear that some
obstruction stopped his speech.
"It is very--very lovely," said Mrs. Lowell slowly, and the boy looked
over his shoulder again, apprehensively.
"Did you say your uncle forbade you to sketch?"
The boy folded the little picture back carefully in its wrappings and
replaced it in his pocket.
"Why do you suppose your uncle did that?" asked Mrs. Lowell.
"I don't know."
"Don't you really, Bertie?" she asked, dreading the signs of dullness
she perceived altering his face as the brightness died away.
"I guess it was because he said it--it wasted my time. He took
everything except this." The boy's hand rested on the pocket that held
the treasure. "He didn't find this."
"Took what? Your materials, your sketching things?"
"Everything. He gets very--very angry if I take a pencil. Twice he has
whipped me for it."
"But, Bertie, please try to make me understand. Mr. Gayne is an artist
himself, he says."
"Yes. He says he--has money enough to live and I haven't. He says I just
hang on him. So I must chop wood and--and wash windows, and Cora makes
me scrub the floors. He says if he wants to waste time painting he can,
but I must not."
Mrs. Lowell regarded the boy closely. "Your uncle showed me some very
charming sketches up at the farm this morning."
"Did he?" returned the boy listlessly. "He never was an artist
when--when she was here."
"That is strange, isn't it?" said Mrs. Lowell. "Strange that he should
be able suddenly to do such good things?"
"No," said Bertie simply. "It is easy."
They were both silent for a time. The portfolio lay on the stones
between them. The boy suddenly picked it up.
"I must tear this," he said.
Mrs. Lowell caught his hand just as he started to pull the sketch from
the tablet.
"Won't you give it to me, Bertie?" she asked.
He hesitated. "He'll find it."
"Indeed he will not. It will go into the bottom of my trunk."
The boy took his hand away and she recovered the portfolio. He had
replaced the pencil in the case.
"I should so like to give you the pencil," she said.
The boy shook his head decidedly. "No. He'd find it," he answered.
"I am very much interested about your mother being an artist," said Mrs.
Lowell. "You know you are going to do everything you can to please her.
She would be very sorry that your uncle has not made you happy. I am
sure she wanted you to use your talent. So, very often we will take
walks and I will get better materials for you than this, and you shall
make many sketches."
The boy's brows drew together. It was evident that he was in such
fetters of fear that the prospect was a mixed pleasure.
"Do you remember your father? When did he die?"
"I don't know. It was before--"
"Was he a kind father, and kind to your dear mother?"
"I don't know. Everybody was angry with her, all the rich people,
because she--she ran away to marry him. Then she was left all--alone
with me and--and she sold pictures and we were--" The voice stopped.
"Yes, I know you were happy. Then when she went away your uncle took
you?"
"Yes, and Cora."
"And wasn't Cora kind to you?"
Bertie shook his head. "I don't know," he said. It seemed as if the
recollection of his uncle's housekeeper made him retreat at once into
the protective shell.
"Just let me ask you one more question. Your Uncle Nick was here at the
island last summer. He didn't bring you with him. Where were you then?"
"Home."
"Alone?"
"No, with Cora."
"But wouldn't Cora like you to draw a pretty picture for her?"
"No. She knows Uncle Nick would hit her."
"What did you do all summer?"
"Helped Cora. Then, when she was drunk, I went in the park. Sometimes I
slept there."
Mrs. Lowell shook her head. "I'm glad your uncle brought you this time."
"Cora wouldn't stay. They had the worst fight of all. They were always
fighting."
"Bertie, dear," said Mrs. Lowell tenderly, "try to know all the time
that God is taking care of you and leading you. We know He will. Uncle
Nick must know it, too, sometime."
"Know what?" exclaimed the boy with a start.
"That God takes care of His children. Your uncle is one, and I am one,
and you are one. We shall have to keep some secrets from Uncle Nick
until he grows kinder and knows that the only way to be happy is to
love. I should like to know your mother's people."
"Uncle Nick says they're all dead."
"Do you know their name?"
"No."
"Think, Bertie. What was your mother's name?"
"Helen."
"What else? Can't you remember--the name on her paintings, perhaps?"
The boy was silent and his brow was puzzled. He reached into a pocket.
"I brought my book," he said, drawing forth a worn and much-thumbed
pamphlet.
"I'm so glad you did," she returned.
He did not offer it to her, but she looked over his shoulder as he
turned the leaves of the catalogue of an exhibition of paintings.
"There are two of my mother's," he said. He indicated the small
reproductions of two landscapes and Mrs. Lowell studied them with
interest.
"I can see that they must be charming," she said. "Have you any of her
pictures?"
"There was one," said the boy, and he had to wait for a time before he
could add: "Uncle Nick sold it."
"Let us see if there may be a list of the exhibitors," said Mrs. Lowell.
"May I take it a minute?"
Bertie yielded the pamphlet and she turned to the front of the book.
Yes, there was the list and her eye quickly caught the name: Helen
Loring Gayne.
"Your mother's name was Loring, then."
"It's my name, too. Herbert Loring Gayne."
"Where did her people live, Bertie?"
"In Boston. I can always remember that because--because--when Uncle Nick
is angry at what I--I do, he says don't try any Boston on me, and
then--then I know he means my mother, because he--he didn't like--"
The boy's voice hesitated and stopped.
Mrs. Lowell called his attention to some of the other pictures in the
pamphlet, speaking of the artists whose names were known to her, and he
finally restored his treasure to his pocket.
When they again reached the Inn, they found Nicholas Gayne walking up
and down the piazza. He came to the head of the steps.
"This is too much, Mrs. Lowell," he said with an effort at bluff good
nature, "for you to burden yourself with a young hobble-de-hoy like Bert
when you take your rambles."
"If I like it I suppose you have no objections," she returned
pleasantly. "I assure you I had to urge him to accompany me. Too bad
there aren't some young people of his own age here."
"He wouldn't know what to say to them if there were, would you, Bert?"
"No, sir," was the reply, and the boy started to go into the house.
"Here, what are you doing?" said his uncle, catching him roughly by the
arm. "You haven't said good-bye to the lady after her kindness in
dragging you around."
Mrs. Lowell controlled herself to speak calmly. "I tell Bert it would be
a good thing for him to learn to swim while he is here."
"That's the talk!" ejaculated his uncle, throwing the arm off as roughly
as he had grasped it. "Go in and win, Bert. I'll get you a bathing suit.
Show 'em you ain't any milk sop. Take the dives with the best of them."
The boy stood with his eyes downcast.
"And don't sulk," went on his uncle with exasperation. "For Heaven's
sake, don't sulk. That's the way it is, Mrs. Lowell, if you try to think
up some jolly thing for him to do, he stands like an image. No more
backbone than a jellyfish."
"Everybody doesn't like the water," returned Mrs. Lowell, moved now by
the dread that the man might suspect her influence and remove the boy.
"Well, how did you like the farm?" he pursued.
"What a pleasant place it is," she returned, seating herself on the
piazza rail. "No wonder you like to spend time there. I haven't
forgotten those charming sketches you showed me, either."
Gayne made a clumsy bow. "You flatter me," he said. "I make no claims."
The lady looked down on the garden border.
"The sweet peas look thirsty, Bertie," she said. "Let's water them."
The boy followed her in silence to where the coiled hose lay, and his
uncle looked after them, a thoughtful frown gathering on his dark brow.