CONFIDENCES.
Esther succeeded in persuading good Mrs. Marsham that she ought not to
accompany her to her next sitting with Sir Joshua, since the great
painter desired to be alone with his model. The age and eminent
reputation of the President of the Academy removed far from him all
suspicion; consequently there was nothing to be done but to respect his
wishes. Therefore Esther went alone to Leicester Fields in a sedan-chair
borne by a couple of doughty Irishmen; but she could not repress a
movement of impatience upon perceiving Reuben on horseback following her
at a short distance with his sombre glance. When she entered the house
the young man quickly alighted, attached the bridle of his horse to the
railing of the square, and, seating himself upon a bench, fixed his eyes
upon Sir Joshua's door.
[Illustration]
"Shadowed!" murmured the girl.
The desire of deceiving one's jailers, the omnipresent dream of evasion
which ever haunts the prisoner, filled her mind and inclined her to
anger.
"Bah!" she thought, "my deliverance is close at hand."
She swiftly mounted the stairs which led to the studio, and was received
by Francis Monday.
"The President has been unexpectedly summoned to an audience with his
Majesty, who has come in from Kew to St. James's this morning," he
explained. "Be so good as to wait for Sir Joshua, who will return
before long. Shall I request Miss Reynolds to come and keep you
company?"
"Why disturb her? There are so many curious things here to amuse one!
One might pass a whole day looking about this apartment without being
bored for a moment."
"So be it!" replied Frank in a slightly tremulous voice. "Shall we look
about together?"
He forthwith proceeded to show her all the rare objects arranged in
order within their glazed cases, giving her explanations of everything.
There were snuff-boxes, fans of which one was said to be the work of the
poet Pope, and foreign arms brought home by Sir Joshua from a journey in
barbaric lands. Frank also named the originals of the unfinished
portraits which awaited upon their easels the good pleasure of the
painter.
The door of the adjoining apartment, whence the girl had seen him emerge
upon the preceding day, stood ajar; she quickly glanced within and saw a
quantity of antique casts spread upon large tables, and plaster heads
heaped one upon another.
"It is there that I paint," he said, "in order that I may always be near
at hand in case Sir Joshua should call me."
"As yesterday," she said rashly; then, realizing the memory which she
had evoked, she blushed. As for him, he became pale. However, she soon
continued:--
"Sir Joshua loves you very dearly."
"He treats me with an almost paternal kindness; I respect him, and
entertain for him the affection of a son. I owe him all that--"
"Yes, I know."
"Ah, but you cannot know all. Perhaps you have been told that I have
been adopted and educated by Sir Joshua, but if you only knew from what
a future of misery and despair he has snatched me, from what a hell he
has saved me!"
He pronounced these words with so simple, so profound an accent that the
girl, suddenly touched with sympathy, bent her eyes upon him and said:--
"Where were you before you knew him, and what did you do?"
"I lived with the pirates of the Thames, who forced me to learn their
horrible business."
"But how happened it that you fell into such hands?"
"I know not. I know neither my birthplace nor my parents. Even my true
age is unknown to me. I have nothing in the world, not even so much as a
name--only a surname; they called me Mishap. Perhaps my parents were
like those wretches. The thought has often come to me, and driven me
almost desperate."
Esther did not speak, but her eyes assured Frank that she was listening
with deepest interest.
"We lived in a hovel," he continued, "down by the water, opposite
Greenwich, and sometimes in a half-decayed barge on the river which was
anchored some twenty yards from shore. By day they sent me on land to
beg, and beat me if I returned empty-handed. At low tide I used to
search the mud which the sea left dry when it retired."
"For what purpose?"
"To look for things which might have fallen into the water. One found
all sorts of stuff on the bed of the river,--wood, rope, bits of cloth,
and rusty iron. Frequently I encountered fearful things there, such as
human remains, bodies of the unfortunate whose death had been unknown
and would never be avenged."
"Heavens! what a dreadful business!"
"You are right: a dreadful business indeed! Those who carry it on are
called mud-larks; yet little do they resemble those tiny voyagers of the
air which sing so proudly, so joyously, which build their nests in the
furrows and soar aloft to heaven's gate. The mud-larks crawl along their
wretched way, sometimes immersed to the knees in the icy slime, and
frequently they fall victims to the fever as the result of their long
searches. Nevertheless, the Thames has engulfed much riches, and
sometimes it gives it back. There have been cases of poor wretches
finding precious jewels there. One summer's day, during a season of
excessive drought, the tide being lower than usual, I espied something
glittering in the rays of the rising sun. I stooped; it was an old gold
piece bearing the effigy of Charles II. Perhaps for a century it had
slept there in the mud."
After a moment of silence he continued:--
"How carefully I wiped it! How I caressed it! How long I contemplated
that little coin! At first I decided that I would show my treasure-trove
to no one. But where could I hide it? I wore neither shoes, stockings,
nor shirt; nothing but an old ragged jacket and trousers without
pockets. When I was permitted to go to bed I slept upon a sack filled
with rags, along with a boy older than myself. I passed the coin from
one hand to the other; I even put it in my mouth beneath my tongue. It
seemed a fortune in my eyes, and I thought that when I went to London I
should be able to buy out the whole town. Yes; ah, but I was way-wise
for my years, and I foresaw what would take place were I to offer my
sovereign for sale as the gentlemen did. The dealer would exclaim, 'Such
as you with a gold piece! You have stolen it!' Forthwith I should be
sent to prison, and from there to the smoky hall of the Old Bailey,
where I had seen many a little thief condemned to twenty or thirty
lashes. I saw myself bound to the terrible wooden bench, black with
human blood; I saw the executioner approach with his awful
cat-o'-nine-tails. My thin knees knocked together as I drew the mental
picture."
"And what did you do?"
"I determined to hide my sovereign under a tuft of grass on the river
bank near Deptford. And I went there often to take a peep at it, while I
waited for better days. Alas! there came a great tempest in September;
the river rose and overflowed its banks; my hiding-place, my treasure,
all disappeared!"
"Poor boy!"
"All these miseries were as nothing compared with others. The worst
work was that which I was made to do at night. Of foggy evenings our
boat slipped along like a phantom, with the oars muffled in bits of old
wool so that they moved without a sound. Thus we circled about the big
ships at anchor, or prowled around the sleeping warehouses. At such
hours the river belonged to the bandits, to the vagabonds who were
called light-horsemen; they were alone, and sovereign masters there."
"But what part did you play upon these nocturnal expeditions?"
"They made me climb up a knotted rope to the bowsprits of the ships,
which they knew to be but poorly guarded by the drunken sailors at that
time of night. From there I would crawl to the deck. Then I would glide
into the storeroom and bring thence a bag of 'sand,' a sack of 'peas,'
or a bottle of 'vinegar,' which is pirate slang for sugar, coffee, and
rum. When I had lowered my booty into the boat moored under the bow, I
would let myself down, my teeth chattering, half dead with fright."
"Were you aware that you were doing wrong?"
"No: no one had taught me the difference between good and bad; no one
had ever pronounced in my presence the name of God, unless it was with
the accompaniment of some frightful blasphemy. I was simply aware that
there existed another race of men who waged war upon my masters; that
when the landsmen captured our water-folk they dragged them into a great
black house called Newgate, and from there to a place called Tyburn,
where they set up a gallows. I saw many of my companions hanged there,
for thieves never miss an execution. Have you ever seen a hanging, Miss
Woodville?"
"Oh, never!" cried Esther shudderingly.
"You would think it a festival. All along Holborn stagings are set up
for those who wish to see, and tables for the wine-bibbers. The mob
laughs and sings, and jokes the ladies who have hired windows, and who
hide their faces behind their fans. Venders of apples and gin thrust
their handcarts into the thick of the crowd. The mountebanks perform
their tricks and dances as at the fair of Saint Bartholomew, while the
street urchins for half a penny proclaim the complaint against the
doomed man. At last he appears upon a cart drawn by a wretched hack,
which itself seems on its way to slaughter. I have seen certain men in
this plight who were bold and impudent in the face of death, who winked
at the women, and responded to the jeers of the crowd. Yes, I have heard
them try to sing songs, which the mob took up in chorus. But there have
been others!--those who were deaf to everything, deaf even to the
exhorting voice of the clergyman. Quivering like dead animals with every
jolt of the cart, fainting, convulsed, livid, horrible to look upon,
their eyes dilated with terror, they seemed scarcely human, scarcely
living but for the evidence of their fear."
He paused for an instant, paling at the recollection. "I saw it all," he
pursued, "and knew that after twenty or thirty years of infamy that fate
would be mine. If I refused to obey my masters a few blows of the gasket
very soon got the better of my resistance. To be beaten by the mud-larks
or lashed by the hangman--such was the frightful choice which was
offered me, such the view of life which I enjoyed for eight years. Eight
years! The age of dependence, confidence, and joy! The age which should
know the sweetness of a mother's love and caress!"
Esther's eyes filled with tears as she grasped poor Frank's hands and
held them in her clasp.
"Neither have I known a mother," she said; "but I have not suffered as
you have. Those about me were kind enough, and I can smile when I
compare my miseries with yours."
"One night," continued Frank, "when I refused to play my part in an
expedition with the pirates, one of them in a fit of rage threw me into
the dark river which hissingly closed over my head."
Esther uttered a cry as though she saw it all, saw with her own eyes the
child plunge headlong into the water.
"Fortunately I could swim. I knew the river and it seemed less wicked,
less hostile than man. It almost seemed like a mother to me, since it
had rocked me upon its bosom and nourished me for so many years. I
succeeded in gaining the shore, where I wandered about, shivering, until
daybreak. I don't see what prevented my dying, except that such wretches
as I are blessed with more enduring vitality than others. Nevertheless,
I had some terrible trials to bear. For several days I subsisted upon
mouldy crusts floating in the water, cabbage leaves, and other rubbish
which I picked up about the market-places. I devoured these sad repasts
while inhaling the odor of roasts in Cheapside and Fleet Street. Now and
again a charitable gentleman would give me alms without my daring to
solicit it other than with my wretched, famished glances. At night I
slept sometimes in a church porch, sometimes in an abandoned stable,
sometimes under an old wall, which screened me from the wind. One
morning I lay asleep, with a stone for a pillow, in the neighborhood of
Covent Garden, when I was awakened by a strange voice which seemed to
address me. I saw a middle-aged gentleman of modest appearance, with a
kind and venerable air, who stood gazing upon me as he leaned on his
silver-headed cane. This cane and his old-fashioned wig would have
caused me to divine that he was a doctor, had I known the costumes of
the different professions.
"'My boy,' he said to me, 'what are you doing there? Why are you not at
home at such an hour? Surely your parents must be anxious about you.'
"I answered him rudely, for I knew no other mode of speech.
"'I have no home, and no parents.'
"'What is your name?'
"'They call me Mishap.'
"'Well, friend Mishap, I am going to give the lie to your name, for I am
going to take you to the best man in the world.'
"I rose and followed him. Later I learned that he was Levet, the French
surgeon of the poor, so poor himself that Dr. Johnson had given him an
abiding-place in his house. Thither he led me. The doctor, too, in his
time had suffered from poverty and hunger. In his old age he returned
good for the evil which he had suffered in his youth. His home was, and
still is, a sort of asylum and hospital. With Levet lived Mrs. Williams,
the blind poetess, and the negro Frank, whom the author of 'Rasselas'
treated more as a friend than a servant. These good people gave me a
cordial greeting. They gave me breakfast and made me tell them my story.
For the first time in my life I ate of white bread and listened to
decent language. Then my heart, which lay like a stone in my breast,
melted, and I wept hot tears. They baptized me next day, the good negro
being my humble godfather. To the Christian name of Francis they added,
for want of a family name, the name of the day on which I had been
discovered shivering in my sleep. Some days later, well washed and newly
clothed, with shoes and stockings on my feet, all of which seemed
strange to me and not a little awkward, I accompanied Dr. Johnson to
this house, and in this very room made my first bow to Sir Joshua, who
at the time was painting the portrait of Kate Fisher. I can still see
the pretty creature, who had brought her friend, Mary Summers, with her.
One was all beauty; the other, all wit--component parts of Aspasia.
"'My dear sir,' said the doctor in his grand, solemn way, 'I have
brought with me a child for Ugolino to eat.'
"The speech made me shudder, while every one present laughed. Later it
was explained to me that during the intervals between his engagements
Sir Joshua caused an aged street-paver, who had fallen into necessitous
circumstances, but who possessed an expressive head, to sit for him. His
name was White, but one day Mr. Burke, seeing him in the lower hall,
said to Sir Joshua, 'That man would make an admirable Ugolino.' And from
that time he was never called by any other name. It suggested to my
master the idea of making him the centre of a great composition
representing Dante's terrible scene; but it was necessary to find some
children with whom to surround Ugolino. Now you understand the doctor's
joke. 'Here is something for you to do,' remarked Sir Joshua to me,
'which will be easier than working for the mud-larks.'
"'What must I do?' I inquired.
"'Remain perfectly quiet, which you may find rather difficult at your
age.'
"'It could never be difficult for me to obey and please you,' said I.
"I was given a sort of chamber in the garret, which I still occupy; and
from that day I led the life of those by whom I was surrounded. Living
from morning till evening amidst painting and designing, the desire to
try my hand came to me. I armed myself with a bit of chalk and a slate.
Sir Joshua surprised me in the midst of my occupation, and when I made
an attempt to conceal my sketch, he remarked: 'Do you know upon what and
with what I made my first picture? Upon a scrap of sail-cloth and with a
pot of paint which had been left upon the strand at Plympton by the
boat-painter.' He looked at my sketch, and the result of his examination
was that he sent me to the Royal Academy, which had recently been
opened. There I sketched the faces of all the young women who
represented Dido or Ariadne. My companions blew peas at them until they
made them cry. Then they would clap their hands and pretend that they
had given the models the desired expression. I did not know what they
meant, but when I had filled my sketch-book to the very last page with
Didos and Ariadnes, I respectfully confessed to Sir Joshua that I had
much rather paint trees, flowers, grass, and, more than all, water. My
dear, great river, where I had lived so long, the ever-changeful home of
my infancy!--I am never weary of depicting it, by turns dull as a
leaden disk, brilliant as a mirror of burnished steel, now ruffled and
agitated, now radiant and peaceful, little rural stream that it is at
Hampton Court, arm of the sea at Gravesend, with its perspectives, its
shore life, the ships which fleck its surface, and the seafarers it
bears upon its bosom."
[Illustration]
"Then," inquired Esther, "am I to understand that you are happy?" The
young man lowered his eyes and was silent for a moment.
"I am," he answered, "profoundly grateful to my master for all his
kindness, for the friendship which every one testifies for me, and for
the interest which such men as Mr. Burke and Dr. Johnson take in my
studies. But can I be wholly happy? Nothing can replace the affection of
a mother,--unless it be that of a wife. There is a void in my heart.
Will it ever be filled?"
So humble, so penetrating was the accent of the poor, lonely fellow at
this moment that Esther was more deeply moved than she had been by the
recital of his boyish sufferings. In her turn her eyes drooped as if, in
the young man's words, something had particularly affected her.
"Ah!" he murmured, "you are laughing at me now; but, since I began to
speak and you deigned to listen to me, I have told you all. Now I am
going to show you the one who, since my entrance into this house, has
consoled and sustained me in the hours of discouragement and sadness."
And taking her by the hand, he led Esther into his studio, before an
unframed picture, from which he drew aside the drapery which covered it.
"A portrait! A portrait of a woman!"
In fact it was the counterfeit presentment of a young woman clothed in
white. The picture was still unfinished. The attire, the accessories,
the background were scarcely indicated; the head alone seemed almost
complete. It was a fine, delicate head, softly illumined by a faint
smile as by a ray of autumnal sunshine, the eyes of a dull blue,
hesitant in glance as though weary of the light,--infinite weariness in
the inclination of the neck and the droop of the shoulders. An
indefinable charm of sorrow and resignation overspread the entire
countenance. The very uncertainty of the sketch lent to it an ethereal,
almost supernatural character, enveloping it in that vague, ideal film
which veils the figures in a dream.
"Who is this lady?" inquired Esther.
"She died twenty years ago, and I never saw her in life. I only know
that she is called Lady Mowbray."
"Lady Mowbray! The mother of young Lord Mowbray whom you resemble so
closely?"
"The same."
"But why has the portrait remained unfinished?"
"The death of the original interrupted the sittings. She knew that she
was doomed and wished to bequeath her portrait to her son; but
apparently no one cared for her or respected her last wish, since the
sketch has never been claimed by the family. It is said that she was
most unhappy, and wept her life away. I am as attached to this portrait
as to a living person. It watches me and smiles upon me; I speak to it
and it responds. How many times have I kissed those poor hands which are
now folded in death! I have wished that my mother might resemble her,
and in my folly I have more than once addressed her by that holy name.
Athwart the space which separates us my heart yearns towards her. What
would I not give to have known and consoled her! What do you think of
such foolishness, Miss Woodville?"
"I understand you; I assure you that I understand you, and it seems to
me that from to-day I shall no longer be the same, that I shall be less
frivolous, less thoughtless, that I shall regard life with other eyes."
And turning suddenly she came in contact with an object in the shadow,
which upon being disturbed gave forth a queer sound, like to the click
of _castagnettes_.
"What is that?" she exclaimed.
"That is nothing, only a skeleton used in anatomical studies."
He drew into the light the singular companion, whose arms and legs
projected absurdly every which way. One would have said that it was a
drunken sailor attempting a hornpipe. As if to increase its height a
lace cap with red ribbons, carelessly placed upon its cranium, had
slipped to one side, suggesting the idea of ghostly joviality. Esther
burst into a laugh which she quickly repressed.
"Poor thing!" she said. "Like us, he has possessed a heart and a brain.
Perhaps he has loved, perhaps they have said he was handsome. Pardon me
that I laughed, poor skeleton!"
The words of her well-beloved poet recurred to her memory.
"Do you remember where Hamlet, in the graveyard, holds the jester's
skull in his hands? 'Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not
how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes
of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?'"
"'To what base uses we may return, Horatio!'" added Frank.
"Yes," she replied; "'Imperial Caesar, dead and turn'd to clay, might
stop a hole to keep the wind away.'" And she recited the verses which
close the scene.
Frank listened with a sort of religious tenderness.
"You love Shakespeare?" he asked.
"I adore him!"
Attracted by this new bond of common admiration, they spoke of that
sovereign master of souls, and exchanged the emotions which he had
aroused in their hearts. Hand in hand they wandered, and lost themselves
in that vast, murmurous forest filled with alarms and enchantments, with
refreshing springs and hideous pools, with jocund imps and menacing
monsters, where the fairy flowers of sentiment bloom and fade in the
umbrage of gigantic thoughts, amidst which passes, like a stormy wind, a
tremor of the vague Beyond, the breath of the invisible, unknown world.
As they conversed thus, seated upon an old sofa between the skeleton and
the portrait of Lady Mowbray, Reynolds entered. For two hours they had
been together. The painter looked at them, and smiled with indulgent
penetration.
"We have been talking of Shakespeare," Frank explained, slightly ill at
ease.
Sir Joshua did not believe one word of it. Either he knew not, or he had
forgotten that old age alone requires to _speak_ of love. In youth, love
impregnates every word, insinuates itself into the very gestures,
plunges into the glance, exhales at every pore, saturates the air we
breathe. Then of what import are words?
"And there is Reuben waiting all this while!" thought Esther suddenly.
That thought alone re-established all her roguish coquetry in the space
of one second.