Clarissa and Dulcie did do the young men service in their calling. They
said it would be a shame not to help two such likely fellows (you know
they had undauntedly set the one down as a fright and the other as a
goose in the morning); they were sure they were industrious and worthy,
and they would give bail for their honesty. So they spoke right and left
to the few influential families who were at Redwater of the two young
painters, who by mere luck had come with them in the waggon, had put up
at the "Rod and Fly," and were waiting for commissions. Had the Warrens
or the Lorimers not heard of them? they would come bound they were a
couple of geniuses, from their conversation.
The old world grinned, and said to the girls' faces that the lasses had
better not be too zealous for the lads; they were generally fit to
manage their own business, and something more into the bargain. Uncle
Barnet would not care to have his niece Clary fling herself away with
her tidy fortune on a walking gentleman, though he were a genius.
The result was that Dulcie "bridled" in a twitter of wounded faith and
anger. Clarissa was superb and scornful. She ordered a full-length
portrait, and fixed the hour for the sitting within the week. Dulcie set
off alone with Master Will Locke--Dulcie, who knew no more of Redwater
than he should have done, if his wits had not been woolgathering--to
find the meadow which was beginning to purple over with the meadow
saffron.
But for all the townspeople laughed at Mistress Clary's and Mistress
Dulcie's flights, they never dreamt of them as unbecoming or containing
a bit of harm. Fine girls like Clary and Dulcie, especially an
accomplished girl like Clary, who could read French and do japan,
besides working to a wish in cross-stitch and tent-sketch, were not
persons to be slighted. The inhabitants saw for themselves that the
painters had coats which were not out at elbows, and tongues, one of
which was always wagging, and the other generally at rest, but which
never said a word fairly out of joint. They needed no further
introduction; the gentlemen called for the young men, the ladies
curtsied to them in the bar of the "Rod and Fly," in the church-porch,
in the common shop, and began conversations with them while they were
chaffering at the same counter for the same red ribbons to tie up the
men and the women's hair alike; and they felt that their manners were
vastly polite and gracious, an opinion which was not far from the
truth.
The Vicar lent the painters books. The Mayor invited them to supper. The
nearest Justice, who was a family man, with a notable wife, had them to
a domestic party, where they heard a little girl repeat a fable, and saw
the little coach which the Justice had presented to his son and heir,
then in long clothes, in which he was to be drawn along the smooth oak
boarded passages of the paternal mansion as soon as he could sit
upright.
Lastly, Clarissa Gage, under the sufficient guardianship of Cambridge,
treated the strangers to a real piece of sport--a hop on the
washing-green, under her mulberry-tree. It commenced at four o'clock in
the afternoon, and ended with dusk and the bats, and a gipsy fire, and
roasting groats and potatoes in the hot ashes, in imitation of the
freakish oyster supper which Clary had attended in town.
Clary took care to have her six couples well assorted, and not to be
severed till the merry-making was over; she did not mind uniting herself
to Master Sam Winnington, and Dulcie to Master Will Locke--mind! the
arrangement was a courteous compliment to the chief guests, and it gave
continual point to the entertainment. The company took a hilarious
pleasure in associating the four two-and-two, and commented openly on
the distribution: "Mistress Clary is mighty condescending to this
jackanapes." "Mistress Dulcie and t'other form a genteel pair."
To be sure the two young men heard the remarks, which they might have
taken as broad hints, and the girls heard them too, uttered as they were
without disguise; but so healthy were our ancestors, that nobody was put
out--not even soft, mooning Will Locke. Nothing came of it that
evening, unless a way Dulcie had of pressing her red lips together,
throwing back her little brown head, shaking out the powder from her
curls, and shaking down the curls themselves, with a gleeful laugh,
which appeared to turn her own "bridling" into derision; and a high
assertion of Clary's that she was determined never to wed a man beneath
the rank of a county member or a peer. Now, really, after Clary had
danced fifteen dances, and was about to dance other five, without
stopping, with a portrait painter, of her own free will, this was
drawing a longish and very unnecessary bow. But then Sam Winnington did
not take it amiss or contradict her. He said she was right, and he had
no doubt she would keep her word, and there was a quick, half-comic,
half-serious gleam from the depths of his grey eyes which made Clarissa
Gage look more bashful and lovelier than any man had ever yet beheld
her. Pity the member or the peer could not have been that man!
Imagine the party after Mistress Cambridge had provided them with some
of her favourite chickens, and more substantial Dutch beef, with wet
fruit and dry, cold Rhenish and sugar, and mulled wine against the dew
and damp feet, collecting merrily round the smoky fire, with little jets
of flame shooting up and flashing out on the six couples! Sam Winnington
in his silk stockings and points neatly trussed at the knee, was on
all-fours poking the blue and red potatoes into the glowing holes.
Another man with rough waggishness suddenly stirred the fire with an oak
branch, and sent a shower of sparks like rockets into the dark blue sky,
but so near that it caused the women to recoil, screaming and hiding
their faces on convenient shoulders, and lodged half-a-dozen instruments
of ignition and combustion in Sam Winnington's hair, singeing it and
scorching his ears. Had Sam not been the best-natured and most politic
fellow in the world, he would have dragged the aggressor by the collar
or the cuff over the smoking crackling wood, and made the ladies shriek
in greater earnest.
There was the strange ruddy light now on this face, now on that--on Will
Locke's as he overturned a shovel of groats at Dulcie's feet, and on
Dulcie's, so eager to cover his blunder, that she quite forgot the
circumstances of the case, and never came to herself till she had burnt
all the five tips of her rosy fingers catching the miller's pearls. Then
Will Locke was so sorry, stroked the fingers so daintily, hung upon
Cambridge so beseechingly, imploring her to prepare a cool mash for
Mistress Dulcie's finger points, the moment they were all gone--that
Dulcie could have cried for his tenderness of heart, and quickness and
keenness of remorse.
Conjure up the whole fourteen--the Vicar and Cambridge of the
number--when the fire had sunk white in ashes, when they could scarcely
see each other's faces, and only guess each other's garments, having a
round at "Puss in the corner," running here and rushing there, seizing
this shoulder-knot, holding tight like a child by that skirt, drawing
up, pulling back, whirling round all blowsy, all panting, all faint with
fun and laughter, and the roguish familiarity which yet thought no evil.
Very romping, was it not? very hoydenish? yes certainly. Very improper?
by no means. It was practised by dignitaries of the Church, still more
classic than the Vicar scuttling and ducking after Cambridge (you never
saw the like), and by the pink and pride of English womanhood.
Redwater was hospitable to these painter lads, as we understand
hospitality, unquestionably, ungrudgingly hospitable; but it was more
than hospitable to them, it was profitable to them in a pecuniary sense,
without which great test of its merits they could not long have tarried
within its bounds. They were neither fools nor hypocrites to pretend to
be clean indifferent to the main chance.
The Vicar fancied a likeness of himself in his surplice, which his
parishioners might buy and engrave, if they had a mind to preserve his
lineaments when he was no longer among them. The Justice took a notion
to have his big girls and his little girls, his boy and nurse, his
wife, and himself as the sheltering stem of the whole young growth, in
one canvas.
But the great achievement was Sam Winnington's picture of Clarissa, "not
as a crazy Kate this time," she told him saucily, "but myself in my hair
and brocade, to show what a grand lady I can be." Thus Clarissa dressed
herself out in one of those magnificent toilettes all in the autumn
mornings, and sat there in state for hours, for the sole benefit of
posterity, unless Sam Winnington was to reap a passing advantage by the
process. Clarissa in her brocade, with the stiff body and the skirt
standing on end, her neckerchief drawn through the straps of her bodice,
her bouquet pinned, "French fashion," on her side; surely that picture
was a masterpiece. So speaking was the copy of her deep brown hair, her
soft, proud cheek, the wave of her ripe red lips, that a tame white
pigeon, accustomed to sit on her shoulder, flew into the window right at
the canvas, and, striking against the hard, flat surface, fell
fluttering and cooing in consternation to the ground. If that was not an
acknowledgment of the limner's fidelity, what could be?
Clary, in person, played my lady very well, reclining in her father's
great chair. Her hall was roomy enough; it had its space for Sam
Winnington's easel as well as Clary's harpsichord, and, what was more
useful, her spinning-wheel, besides closets and cupboards without
number. Sam Winnington entertained Clarissa; he was famous in years to
come for keeping his sisters in good humour. He told her of the academy
and the president's parties, of the public gardens and the wild beast
shows; and how the Princesses had their trains borne as they crossed the
park. He asked her what quality in herself she valued the most; and
owned that he was hugely indebted to his coolness. When his colours were
not drying fast enough, he read her a page or two of grand heroic
reading from Pope's 'Homer' about Agamemnon and Achilles, Helen and
Andromache; when she tired of that he was back again to the sparkling
gossip of the town, for he was a brilliant fellow, with a clear
intellect and a fine taste; and he had stored up and arranged elegantly
on the shelves of his memory all the knowledge that was current, and a
little more besides.
When he was gone, Clary would meditate what powers of conversation he
had, and consider rather glumly how she would miss the portrait painter
when he migrated to his native air, the town; how dull Redwater would
be; how another face would soon supplant hers on the canvas! He had
shown her others in his portfolio quite as blooming and dignified,
though he had tumbled them carelessly over; and so he would treat hers
when another's was fresh before him. Clary would be restless and cross
at her own suppositions; for where is the use of being a beauty and a
wit if one must submit to be either forgotten or beaten, even by a
portrait painter?
In the meantime, the Vicar also wanted a _facsimile_ of his hayfield, as
it looked when the haymakers were among the tedded grass, or under the
Redwater ash-trees, to present him with a pleasant spectacle within, now
that the bleak autumn was coming on, and there would be nothing without
but soaked or battered ground, dark skies, and muddy or snowy ways. The
Mayor desired a pig-sty, with the most charming litter of little black
and white pigs, as nice as guinea-pigs, and their considerably coarser
grunting mamma, done to hand. He was a jolly, prosaic man, Master Mayor,
very proud of his prosaicness, as you rarely see a real man of his
poetry: he maintained, though Mrs. Mayor nearly swooned at the idea,
that he would sooner have a pig-sty than a batch of heroes. Perhaps the
heroes of Master Mayor's day had sometimes wallowed in the mire to
suggest the comparison. And Clarissa Gage would have her bower done--her
clematis bower before the leaves were brown and shrivelled and there
only remained the loving spindle-shanked stems clinging faithfully to
the half-rotten framework which they could no longer clothe with
verdure.
What a bower Will Locke made of Clary's bower! as unique as Sam
Winnington's portrait of Clary herself. It was not the literal bower;
and it would not have suited Master Mayor or the Justice, though it
might have had a charm for the Vicar. We will go with the Vicar;
although he also had his bombast, and, when elevated by company and
cheer, denominated Cambridge a goddess, and raised in the poor woman's
breast expectations never to be realized. We don't altogether approve
that wonderful bit of work, but we like it. There never were such deep
damask roses as hung over the trellis, there never were such flaming
sunflowers, or pure white lilies as looked in at the sides. Squirrels
don't frequent garden bowers unless they are tamed and chained by the
leg. Our robin redbreasts are in the fields in summer, and do not perch
on boughs opposite speckled thrushes when they can get abundance of
worms and flies among the barley. We have not little green lizards at
large in England; the only one ever seen at Redwater was in the
apothecary's bottle. Still what a bower that is! What a blushing,
fluttering bower, trilling with song, glancing and glowing with the
bronze mail of beetles and the softened glory of purple emperors! What a
thing it was to examine; how you could look in and discover afresh, and
dwell for five minutes at a time on that hollow petal of a flower
steeped in honey, on that mote of a ladybird crawling to its couch of
olive moss.
Dulcie was speechless with admiration before this vision of Clarissa's
bower. Heigho! it was an enchanted bower to Dulcie as to Will Locke. It
was veritably alive to him, and he could tell her the secrets of that
life. What perfume the rose was shedding--he smelt it about his palette;
what hour of the clock the half-closed sunflower was striking; whence
the robin and the thrush had come, and what bean fields they had flown
over, and what cottage doors they had passed; of what the lizard was
dreaming in south or east as he turned over on his slimy side--all were
plain to him.
Ostensibly Dulcie was taking lessons from Will Locke in flower-painting,
for Dulcie had a delicate hand and a just eye for colours, and the
sweetest, natural fondness for this simple, common, beautiful world. And
Will Locke was a patient, indulgent teacher. He was the queerest mixture
of gentleness and stubbornness, shyness and confidence, reserve and
candour. He claimed little from other people, he exacted a great deal
from himself. He was the most retiring lad in society, backward and out
of place; he was free with Dulcie as a girl of her own stamp could be.
He had the most unhesitating faith in his own ability, he relied on it
as on an inspiration, he talked of it to Dulcie, he impressed it upon
her until he infected her with his own credulity until she believed him
to be one of the greatest painters under the sun. She credited his
strangest imagination, and that quiet lad had the fancy of a prince of
dreamers.
In the end Dulcie was humble and almost awed in Will Locke's presence.
Now here comes the sign of Dulcie's innate beauty of character. Had
Dulcie been a commonplace, coarse girl, she would have been wearied,
aggrieved, fairly disgusted by Will Locke in three days. But Dulcie was
brimfull of reverence, she was generous to the ends of her hair, she
liked to feel her heart in her mouth with admiration.
The truth of the matter was, Dulcie would have been fain to lift up Will
Locke's pencil as they pretend Cæsar served Titian, to clean his
palette, gather flowers for him, busk them into a nosegay, preserve them
in pure water, and never steal the meanest for her own use. Will Locke
was her saint, Dulcie was quite ready to be absorbed in his beams. Well
for her if they did not scorch her, poor little moth!
Oh! Dulcie, Dulcie, your friends could not have thought it of you--not
even Clary, tolerably misled on her own account, would have believed you
serious in your enamourment, though you had gone down on your knees and
sworn it to them. It was nothing but the obliging humour of Mistress
Dulcie and the single-heartedness of the youth; still even in this mild
view of the case, if their friends had paid proper attention to them,
they would have counselled Dulcie to abide more securely by her chair
covers, and my simple man to stick more closely to his card or his
ivory, his hedges or his hurdles.
Sometimes, late as the season was, Will Locke and Dulcie went out
picking their steps in search of plants and animals, and it was
fortunate for Dulcie that she could pull her mohair gown through her
pocket-holes, and tuck her mob-cap under her chin beneath her hat, for
occasionally the boisterous wind lifted that trifling appendage right
into the air, and deposited it over a wall or a fence, and Will Locke
was not half so quick as Dulcie in tracing the region of its flight,
neither was he so active, however willing, in recovering the truant.
Why, Dulcie found his own hat for him, and put it on his head to boot
one day. He had deposited it on a stone, that he might the better look
in the face a dripping rock, shaded with plumes of fern and tufts of
grass, and formed into mosaic by tiny sprays of geranium faded into
crimson and gold. It was a characteristic of Will that while he was so
fanciful in his interpretation, the smallest, commonest text sufficed
him. The strolls of these short autumn days were never barren of
interest and advantage to him. The man carried his treasures within
himself; he only needed the slightest touchstone from the outside
world to draw them out. A fieldmouse's nest was nearly as good to him
as an eagle's eyrie, an ox-eyed daisy as a white rose, a red
hemp-nettle as a foxglove. He put down his hat and stood contemplating
the bit of rock, until every morsel of leaf told him its tale, and
then proceeded to fill his pockets and hands with what the poorest
country boy would have deemed the veriest weeds; and at last he would
have faced round, and marched home, unconscious that his fair hair,
bleached like a child's, was undefended from a pitiless shower
impending over his head. Dulcie lingered dutifully behind, picked up
that three-cornered hat timidly, called his attention to his
negligence, and while he stooped with the greatest ease in life, she,
bashfully turning her eyes another way, finally clapped the covering
on his crown, as a mother bonnets her child.