WHAT THEY THOUGHT OF IT IN THE SQUARE.
Forrester went back very full of his discovery, and there was a certain
solemnity in his manner which made it evident to his master that he had
something to tell. When he had delivered Laurie’s message about the
dinner on Saturday, he paused with a look of meaning. ‘And glad he’ll be
of a good dinner, too, sir,’ the old man said, solemnly, ‘before all is
done.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Forrester,’ said Mr. Welby. ‘He must have been
extravagant: for, after all, though it’s a change to him, a man need not
starve on two hundred a-year.’
‘It’s not now as I’m meaning, sir,’ said Forrester, with a sigh. ‘He’s
been and started in a bad way. For aught I can tell he’s as well off as
you and me now; but I know what it all comes to, Mr. Welby, when a young
man sets hisself agoing, and won’t hear no advice,--in that way.’
‘God bless me! you don’t mean to say the young fellow has got married?’
said Mr. Welby, with agitation; for his interest in Laurie was great.
‘No, sir,’ said Forrester, ‘worse nor that. Marrying’s a lottery, but
sometimes a wife’s a help. You may shake your head, sir; but sometimes
she’s a help. It’s more nor that; but I won’t keep you no longer in
misery. That young gentleman, sir, as you take an interest in, and I
take an interest in, and the good lady up-stairs, though he’s been
well-instructed and had all our advice, and ain’t an idiot, not to speak
of, in other things, he’s been and took up the Saxon line. I see, with
my own eyes, a sketch of that ere blessed Hedith as is always a seeking
somebody’s body. He’s got it stuck up on a big canvas six by ten, sir;
you take my word; and you know what that comes to as well as me.’
‘Bless my soul!’ said Mr. Welby; and though his emotion took a different
form, it was quite as genuine as Forrester’s outspoken despair. He took
a few turns through his studio, repeating this disclosure to himself.
‘The Saxon line!’ he said with horror. ‘Infatuated boy! When a young man
is thus bent on destroying himself, what can any one do?’ ‘You are sure
you are making no mistake?’ said the R.A.; ‘it was not some other
fellow’s canvas that had been left in his place? And what did you say to
him? After all the trouble we’ve taken! I will never interest myself in
any young man again,’ said Mr. Welby, with effusion, ‘not if I should
live a hundred years!’
‘What did I say, sir?’ said Forrester. ‘I told him plain where he was
going to; to destruction. I gave him a piece of my mind, sir. I spoke to
him that clear as he couldn’t make no mistake. I told him the times and
times I’ve seen it done, and what followed. I counted ’em over to
him,--Mr. Suffolk, and young Mr. Warleigh, and----’
‘Then you behaved like an ass,’ cried the R.A., with indignation.
‘Suffolk! the cleverest painter he knows. Why, there’s not a man among
us can hold the candle to Suffolk for some things! Why didn’t you tell
him of Baxter, and Robinson, and Simpson, and half-a-dozen other young
fools like himself? Suffolk! A man of genius! I thought you had more
sense.’
‘He may be a bit of a genius,’ said Forrester, standing his ground; ‘but
he don’t sell his pictures, and Mr. Renton knows it. He was struck all
of a heap, sir, when he’d heard all I’d got to say. I don’t approve of
the subject, nor I don’t approve of the size; but as far as I could
judge of the chalk, it wasn’t badly put on. I wouldn’t say he’s a
genius, but he’s got a way, has Mr. Renton; and always a nice-spoken,
civil gentleman, even when he’s put out a bit, as he might have been
to-day.’
‘Pshaw!’ said the master; ‘that means, I suppose, that he did not kick
you down-stairs. Foolish boy! after all I said to him. I daresay some of
the women have put it into his head to go and distinguish himself. Go up
and give my compliments to Mrs. Severn, and I’d like to speak to her if
she is not busy; and mind you don’t say a word of this. Don’t speak of
it anywhere. I hope what you’ve said to him, and what I shall say to
him, will bring him to his senses. Don’t say a word about it to any
soul.’
‘I’ve been trusted with greater secrets,’ said Forrester, with dignity.
‘He’ll tell her, sir, as fast as look at her; and he’ll build more on
her advice, though she don’t know half nor a quarter. I’m a going, sir.
He thinks a deal more of what she says than of either you or me.’
‘Insufferable old bore!’ Mr. Welby said to himself. ‘Outrageous young
ass! It must be those silly women that have bidden him go and
distinguish himself. And what have I got to do with it, I’d like to
know?’ The truth was the Academician had begun to take a greater
interest in Laurie than was consistent with his principles; and he
wanted to blame somebody for his favourite’s rebellion. He put down his
palette, for he was at work at the moment, and washed his hands, and
prepared for the interview he had asked. Perhaps Mr. Welby was doubly
ceremonious as a kind of protest against the ease with which other
members of the profession penetrated into the padrona’s studio.
‘A lady is a lady, however she may be occupied,’ the old man said. And,
in accordance with this principle, Forrester’s mien and voice were very
solemn when he made his appearance up-stairs. ‘Master’s compliments,
ma’am, and if you’re not busy he’d like to speak to you,’ he said,
standing ceremoniously at the door.
‘Mr. Welby, Forrester?’ said the padrona. ‘Oh, surely; I shall be glad
to see him. I hope there’s nothing the matter. Come in and tell me what
you think of this. I hope there’s nothing wrong.’
‘No, ma’am; not as I knows of,’ said Forrester, with profound gravity.
‘I don’t know what else could be thought of it, but that it’s a sweet
little bit of colour, ma’am. You never done nothing finer nor that
flesh. It’s breathing, that is. Miss Alice called me in to have a look
at it before you came down.’
‘Miss Alice is always an early bird,’ said the padrona, pleased. ‘I’m
glad you like it, Forrester; but I don’t think I’ve got the light quite
right here. Tell Mr. Welby I shall be glad to see him; but you look
horribly grave, all the same, as if something had gone wrong.’
‘No, ma’am, nothing,’ said Forrester, with a glance over his
shoulder;--‘only about Mr. Renton, as we’re afraid is in a bad way.’
‘Good heavens! Laurie! What is the matter with him?’ cried Mrs. Severn.
The old man shook his head in the most tragical and desponding way.
‘Master will tell you himself, ma’am,’ Forrester said, withdrawing
suddenly out of temptation and closing the door behind him. The padrona
did not know what to think. Laurie had not been visible for a week at
least in the Square; but even a young man, with all the proclivities
towards mischief common to that animal, cannot go very far wrong in a
week. She too prepared for the impending interview, as Mr. Welby was
doing. She put away all her working materials, and set the big Louis
Quinze fauteuil near the fire for her visitor. She even went so far as
to put a sketching-block on the table, and sat down before it with a
pencil in her hand, posing half consciously, as an amateur might have
posed. The padrona, though she was not timid in general, was a little
afraid of her tenant. If she left her picture on the easel it was
because there was no time to get it comfortably smuggled away, and some
inarticulate beginning placed in its stead. She turned the Louis Quinze,
however, with its back to the easel by way of security. A word of
approbation from old Welby was worth gold; but yet the risk of obtaining
it was one Mrs. Severn did not care to run.
A few minutes after he tapped at the door, and came in, taking off the
velvet cap which,--as he knew very well,--had such a picturesque effect
on his white hair. The moment he entered the room the padrona saw how
vain had been her precaution in turning the Louis Quinze chair. He
glanced round him with the quick artist-eye which sees everything, and
went up to the easel of course as politeness required, and delivered
his little speech of courteous applause, under which Mrs. Severn
discovered not a word of criticism, such as her usual visitors threw
about so lightly. ‘I don’t think I have got the light quite here,’ she
said, as she had said to Forrester,--but with alarm in her face.
‘Indeed, I don’t see what there is to find fault with,’ Mr. Welby
answered, with his old-fashioned bow. Nothing could be more sweet or
more unsatisfactory. The padrona almost forgot poor Laurie, as with a
flush of vexation on her face she indicated to her visitor the Louis
Quinze chair.
‘I hope you are not over-exerting yourself, my dear madam,’ the old
painter said. ‘I am struck dumb by your energy. Where I produce one
little picture you exhibit half-a-dozen. I admire, but I fear; and, if
you will let an old man say so, you must take care not to overwork your
brain.’
Tears sprang to the padrona’s eyes; but she kept them fixed steadily on
her block, so that the old cynic, who, no doubt, knew all the
commonplaces about women’s tears, should not see them. She said, with
all the composure she was mistress of, ‘You and I are very different,
Mr. Welby. Your one picture, of course, is more than worth my
half-dozen; but one must do what one can.’
‘No one knows better than I what Mrs. Severn can do,’ said the R. A.,
with one of those smiles for which the padrona could have strangled him.
‘I was but taking the privilege of my age to warn you against
overwork,--which is the grand disease of these times, and kills more
people than cholera does. Pardon me. I want to speak to you about young
Renton, in whom I know you take an interest. I advised him,’ Mr. Welby
said, slowly, ‘to give up all idea of producing anything for the moment,
and to devote himself to preparatory work,--hard work.’
‘So he told me,’ said the padrona, with a little spirit; for there was
no mistaking the implied blame in old Welby’s tone. ‘And so I told him,
too.’
‘Then somebody has been undermining us, my dear madam,’ said the R. A.
‘Somebody has been egging up the foolish boy to make a name for himself,
and win fame, and so forth. Forrester brings me word that he has begun a
great picture. High art, life-size, Edith finding the body of Harold.
The young fellow must be mad.’
‘Edith finding the body of Harold!’ repeated Mrs. Severn,
bewildered;--and then, what with her personal agitation, what with the
curious anti-climax of this announcement after her fears about Laurie,
the padrona, we are obliged to confess, burst into a sudden fit of
nervous laughter. She laughed till the tears came into her eyes; and, to
be sure, old Welby had no way of knowing how near to the surface were
those tears before.
‘I confess I do not see the joke,’ he said, slowly. ‘Of course I have
nothing to do with the boy. If he goes and makes a fool of himself, like
so many others, it is nothing to me. Indeed, I don’t know who advised
him to come here, where one can’t help seeing what he’s about. He would
have been a great deal better, and out of one’s way, had he stayed at
Kensington Gore.’
‘He was paying four guineas a-week for his rooms at Kensington Gore,’
said the padrona, meekly. ‘It was I who advised him to come to Charlotte
Street. A man cannot live on nothing. If he had given all his income for
rent----’
‘When I was like him I lived on nothing,’ said the R.A.; ‘but young men
now-a-days must have their clubs and their luxuries. Why, what education
has he had that he should begin to paint pictures? A few lines scratched
on a bit of paper, or dabs of paint on a canvas do well enough for an
amateur; but, good heavens, a painter! You don’t see it, ma’am; you
don’t see it! Women never do. You think it’s all genius, and nonsense.
You will tell me it’s genius that makes a Michael Angelo, I suppose;
but, I tell you, it’s hard work.’
‘I do see it,’ said the padrona. ‘Sit down, please, and don’t be angry
with me. I see it very well; but I can’t help laughing all the same. It
is Laurie’s way. He will never be a Michael Angelo. It is so like him to
go and set up a great picture to surprise us. One of these days, if you
take no notice, he will come like Innocence itself, and invite us to go
and look at it. I was afraid something was wrong with him; but this
quite explains why he stayed away.’
‘And that is all a woman cares for!’ said Mr. Welby. ‘The boy’s quite
well, and his absence accounted for; and what does it matter if he makes
an ass of himself?’ Here the painter rose, and made a little _giro_
round the room, pausing at the easel with a certain vindictiveness. ‘I
wouldn’t give much for that baby’s chances of life,’ he said. ‘The
creature will be a cripple if it grows up. It has no joints to its legs;
and that little girl’s got her shoulder out. There’s where the elbow
should come,’ he went on, making an imaginary line in the air. It was
the same picture he had made a pretty speech about when he came into the
room, from which it may be perceived that Mrs. Severn’s terror of her
lodger’s visit was not without cause.
‘I shall be so glad if you tell me what you see wrong,’ the padrona
said, with, I fear, more submission than she felt.
‘Wrong, ma’am,--it’s all wrong!’ cried the R.A.; ‘there’s not a line
that could not be mended, nor a limb that is quite in its right
place;--but I couldn’t paint such a picture for my life,’ Mr. Welby
continued, with a sudden melting in his voice; ‘nor anybody else but
yourself. The body’s out of drawing, but the soul’s divine.
Light!--nonsense,--the light’s all as it ought to be; the light’s in
that woman’s face. I don’t know how to better it. But this is not what
we were talking of,’ he continued, suddenly turning his back on the
picture. ‘We were talking of Laurie Renton. What is to be done about
this ridiculous boy?’
The padrona was a little disturbed. She was overwhelmed by the praise,
feeling all the sweetness of it; and she was pricked, and stung to
smarting by the blame. It cost her a considerable effort to master
herself, and to bring back her thoughts even to Laurie Renton. ‘You must
not be too hard upon him,’ she said, with her voice a little tremulous.
‘A mind that has any energy in it must work in its own way.’ This was
said half on Laurie’s account, no doubt, but also half on her own, after
the assault she had sustained. ‘I think it would be best not to say too
much about his big picture. He will read your disapproval in your eye.’
Mr. Welby shrugged his shoulders. ‘I doubt if a young fellow would take
much interest in reading my eye. But he may read yours, perhaps,’ said
the cynic, with a questioning glance, which Mrs. Severn was too much
occupied to perceive, much less understand. And this was about the end
of the consultation. They might admire and warn, and hold up beacons
before the unwary youth, but there is no Act of Parliament forbidding a
young painter to purchase for himself canvases six feet by ten, and to
paint, or attempt to paint, heroic pictures thereupon. His advisers
might regret and might do their best to turn him to wiser ways, but that
was all; and the question was not urgent enough to demand the sacrifice
of the very best hours of a November day,--which, heaven knows! are
short enough for a painter’s requirements, in a district so rapidly
reached by the rising fog from the city as Fitzroy Square.
It was the evening of the next day before Laurie carried out his
resolution. With a little impatience he waited till it was dark, or
nearly so, and then, with his sketch under his arm, went round the
corner to the Square. To carry a portfolio or a picture under your arm
is nothing wonderful in these regions; and I think it was something of a
foppery on Laurie’s part to wait till the twilight; but, on the whole,
it was rather Mr. Welby and old Forrester he was afraid of than the
general public. The padrona was,--as he knew she would be,--in her
dining room, sitting in the fire-light, with a heap of little scorched,
shining faces about her, when he went in. One good thing of these short
winter days was, that the woman-painter had a special hour in which it
was impossible to do anything, and a perfectly legitimate indulgence to
play with the little ones to her heart’s content. They were all upon
her,--little Edie seated upon her mother’s lap, with her arms closely
clasped round her neck, and the boys on either side embracing her
shoulders. ‘She is my mamma,’ said little Edie; ‘go away, you boys.’
‘She is my mamma as well,’ said Frank and Harry, with one voice. They
could not see Laurie as he came in softly into the ruddy, warm, homelike
darkness, nor hear the voice of the maid who opened the door for him;
and Laurie, soft-hearted as he was, lingered over this little glimpse of
those most intimate delights with which neither he nor any other
stranger could intermeddle. When he saw the mother with her
children,--who were all hers, and in whom no one else had any
share,--the helpless, hopeful, joyous creatures, encircled by the
woman’s soft, strong arms, which were all the protection, all the
shelter they had in this world,--his heart melted within him, the
foolish fellow! Alice sat at her piano in the drawing-room, playing the
soft dream-music which was natural to the hour; and to her, had he been
like other young men, Laurie’s thoughts and steps would naturally have
turned; instead of which he stood gazing at her mother, who at that
moment no more remembered him than if there had been no such being in
existence. Laurie’s heart melted so that he could have gone and sat down
on the hearth-rug at her feet, as one of the boys did, had he dared, and
asked her to let him help her and stand by her. Help her in what? Laurie
gave no answer to his own question; and, to be sure, he could not stand
in the dark for more than a minute spying upon the fireside hour. He put
down his sketch on a side-table with a little noise, which made the
padrona start.
‘I am not a ghost,’ said Laurie, coming into the warmer circle of the
firelight.
‘Then you should not behave as such,’ Mrs. Severn said, holding out her
hand to him with a smile: and then the mere accident of the moment
brought him beside little Frank on the hearth-rug, as he had thought,
with a little sentimental impulse, of placing himself. He sat down on
the child’s stool, and held out his hands to the fire, and looked up at
the padrona’s face, which shone out in glimpses by the cheerful
firelight. Sometimes little Edith, with her wreath of hair, would come
between him and her mother like a little golden, rose-tinted, cloud;
sometimes the fitful blaze would decline for a moment, and throw the
whole scene into darkness. But Mrs. Severn did not change her attitude,
or put down the child from her lap, or ring for the lamp, on Laurie’s
arrival. He came in without breaking the spell,--without disturbing the
calm of the moment. And after an absence of more than a week, and some
days’ work and seclusion, it is not wonderful if he felt as if he had
suddenly come home.
‘This would not be a bad time to lecture you, as I am going to do,’ said
the padrona. ‘He has been very naughty, children; he ought to be put in
the corner. Let us make up our minds what we will do to him, now we have
him here.’
‘Give him some bad sums to do, mamma,’ said little Harry, whose life was
made a burden to him in that way; ‘or make him write out fifty lines;
and don’t tell him any stories. What have you done, Mr. Renton? I want
to know.’
‘Give him a bad mark in the pantomime book,’ said Frank. Now, the
pantomime-book was a ledger of the severest penalties; the bad marks
disabled a sinner altogether from the enjoyment of the highest of
pleasures, and was as good as a pantomime lost. The savage suggestion
awoke the sympathy of little Edie on her mother’s knee.
‘What has he done?’ said Edie. ‘Poor Laurie! But mamma won’t listen to
these cruel boys. Mamma listens to me. I am the little princess in the
new picture. Mamma, I love Laurie. Make him go down on his knees and beg
pardon, and I know he will never do it any more.’
‘I will never do it any more,’ said Laurie, with one knee upon the
hearth-rug. There was something in the soft, genial warmth, and kindly,
flickering light, the touches of the children, and their sweet, ringing
tones,--the face of their mother now and then shining upon him, and her
voice coming out of the shadow,--which captivated him in some
unintelligible way. There was no romance in the matter, certainly. She
was years older than he was, and thought of him as a grandmother might
have thought. But Laurie Renton was that kind of man. His heart was full
of tenderness and sympathy, and a certain sense of the pathos of the
situation which did not strike the chief actors in it. Mrs. Severn
thought herself a happy woman,--notwithstanding all that had befallen
her,--when she sat down by her fire, and felt the soft pressure of those
soft, baby arms; but to Laurie there was a pathos in it which brought
the tears to his eyes. ‘I will never do it any more,’ he said; ‘I will
do whatever mamma tells me. I will be her servant if she will let me.’
Perhaps it was well for Laurie that the children immediately burst into
a chorus of laughter and jubilation over his proposal. ‘He will be our
Forrester, and do everything we tell him,’ cried the boys; and the
padrona, carried away by their delight, thought nothing of the bended
knee nor the unnecessary fervour of submission. I doubt even if she
heard very clearly what he said, or was the least aware of his attitude;
but probably instinct warned her that there was enough of this. She rang
the bell, which was close to her hand, without saying anything. After
all, the firelight and the hearth-rug was only for the children and
herself. And I think Laurie even was a little ashamed of his temporary
intoxication when the lamp came in, carried by the maid, bringing back
the light of common evening,--the clear outlines of prose and
matter-of-fact.
It was not till after tea that he brought his sketch to exhibit it. The
children had gone up-stairs, and Miss Hadley had returned home, and no
evening visitor had as yet arrived. When Laurie was left alone with the
padrona, she laid down her needlework and lifted up her eyes to him,
beaming with a kindly light. ‘I have something serious to say to you
now,’ she said. ‘I have been hearing dreadful things about you. You have
not taken our advice.’
‘Our advice! I don’t know what that means,’ said Laurie. ‘There is but
one padrona in the world, and her advice I always take.’
‘Do not be hypocritical,’ said Mrs. Severn. ‘You promised to paint no
pictures, but to be busy and study and do your work; and here you have
set up an Edith as big as Reginald Suffolk’s, and you call that taking
my advice.’
‘Here she is,’ said Laurie, producing his sketch. He placed it on the
table, propped up against the open workbox, and took the lamp in his
hand that the light might fall on it as it ought. He did not defend
himself. ‘I kept away as long as I could, meaning not to tell you yet;
but that did not answer,’ said Laurie; ‘and here she is.’
The padrona put away her work out of her hands, and gave all her
attention to the new object thus placed before her; and whatever might
be the qualities of Edith, the group thus formed was pictorial
enough;--the room all brightness and warmth, centering in the pure light
of the lamp which Laurie held up in his hand; the fair, ample, seated
figure gazing earnestly at the little picture, with her own face
partially in the shade,--behind her the open doors of the larger room,
dark, but warm, with a redness in it of the fire, and a pale gleam from
the curtained windows. But the actors in this still interior were
unconscious of its effect. She was looking intently at the sketch, and
he, pausing to hear what she should say of it, holding his breath.
‘Put down the lamp,’ said the padrona after a pause, ‘it is too heavy to
hold, and I can see. And sit down here till I speak to you. You have not
taken our advice.’
‘I understand,’ said Laurie, and his lip quivered a little, poor fellow!
‘That means I may take away the rubbish. You need not say any more, for
it will pain you. I understand.’
‘You don’t understand anything about it,’ said Mrs. Severn, putting out
her hand to retain the sketch where it was. ‘Let me say out my say. I
don’t want to like it. I wish I could say it was very bad. If it had
been atrocious it would have been better for you, you rash boy! But I
must not tell any fibs. I like the sketch; there is something in it. I
can’t tell how you should know about that woman, expecting every moment
to see---- Yes, put her away, Laurie, for a little; her eyes have gone
to my heart.’
Laurie put down his creation upon the table with a face all glowing with
pride and delight. ‘I hoped you would like it,’ he said; ‘but that it
should move you,----’ and in his gratitude he would have kissed the
hand of the friend to whose counsel he owed so much. As for the padrona,
she withdrew her hand quickly, with a momentary look of surprise.
‘But I have more to say,’ she went on. ‘You must wait till you have
heard me out. Don’t be vexed or disappointed. I doubt if you will ever
make any more of her. Now don’t speak. I will say to you what I have
never said to any one. How many sketches like that have I seen in my
life, full of talent, full of meaning! It is not a sketch;--it is all
the picture you will paint of that subject. I know what I am saying. She
who is so real in that, with her awful expectations, will be staring
like a woman on the stage in the big picture. I know it, Laurie. I have
seen such things, over and over again.’
Laurie said nothing. He saw her eyes, which were still fixed on his
sketch, suddenly brim over, quite silently, in two big drops, which fell
at Edith’s feet. Mortification, disappointment, and, at the same time, a
kind of consolatory feeling, took possession of him. The downfall was
great from the first flush of joy in her approbation; but yet----
Clearly it was of poor Severn she was thinking. Poor Severn, of whom it
was certainly the fact that he never did anything good except in
sketches. Laurie’s heart rose magnanimous at this thought. If that was
all, how soon he could prove to her that he was a different man from
poor Severn! ‘It is not worth a tear,’ he said; ‘never mind it. I ought
to have known that it would bring things to your mind----’
‘It is not that,’ said the padrona, recovering herself; ‘it is because I
am anxious you should not waste your strength. Put it up again where it
can be seen, or, rather, bring it into the other room, where there is a
better place. Take the lamp, and I will take the picture. I like it,’
she said, as she followed him into the larger drawing-room. ‘Let it
stand here, where it can be seen. And I will send for Mr. Welby if he is
at home. I like it very much;--but I don’t want you to paint the big
picture all the same.’
‘If you like it, that is reason enough why I should paint the big
picture,’ said Laurie. If the padrona discerned the touch of tender
enthusiasm in his tone, she took no notice whatever of it, but busied
herself placing the sketch in the most favourable light.
‘Mr. Welby came up-stairs, and insulted me, all on your account,’ she
said with a laugh. ‘Oh, don’t look furious. I don’t want any one to
fight my battles. But it is cruel of him, all the same. He congratulated
me on my energy, and on sending six pictures to the Exhibitions where he
sent one. It was very ill-natured of him,--a man who has had a whole
long life to perfect himself, and nothing to hurry him on. Does not he
think, I wonder, that even I would like to take time and spare no
labour, and paint something that would last and live?’ Mrs. Severn said,
with a flush coming over her face.
‘And so you do, and so they will,’ said Laurie, carried away by his
feelings. The padrona shook her head.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t deceive myself. I get money for my pictures,
and that is about what they are worth. But don’t you think, Laurie,--you
who understand things that are not spoken,--don’t you think it sometimes
makes my heart sick, to feel that, if I could but wait, if I could but
take time, I might do work that would be worth doing,--real work,--one
picture, say, that would have a whole soul in it? But I can’t take time:
there are the children, and daily bread; and--he taunts me that I paint
six pictures for his one!’
‘Padrona mia, nothing that could be painted would be half so good as you
are,’ cried Laurie, not knowing in the thrill and pain of sympathy what
he said.
‘I should like to paint something that would be better than me,’ said
the padrona, ‘but I cannot. I have to work for their bread,--and you
feel for me when I tell you this. And don’t you see,--don’t you see why
I bid you work?’ cried the artful woman, suddenly turning upon him,
standing on her own heart, as it were, to reach him. ‘There is nothing
to urge you into execution, to compel you to exhibit and sell and get
money. Why don’t you take the good of your blessed leisure, you foolish
boy? Never think of the Academy, nor of what you will paint, nor of
what people think. Make yourself a painter, Laurie, now that you have
your life in your hands, and heaps of time, and nothing to urge you on.
But, good heavens! here are people coming,’ cried Mrs. Severn,--‘to find
me flushed and half crying over all this, I declare. Talk to them till I
come back, and I will send down the child to help you; and don’t forget
what I’ve been saying,’ she said, as she rushed out of the room.
This assault had been so sudden, so trenchant, so effective;--he had
been led so artfully to the softness of real feeling, in order to have
the thrust made at his most unguarded moment, that Laurie stood confused
when his Mentor left him, not quite sure where he was, or what had
happened. Had it been any stranger who had appeared, Mrs. Severn’s young
friend would have made a poor impression upon her visitor; but, happily,
it was Alice who came in,--Alice with her curls,--harmonious spirit,
setting the house to music, as her mother said. This was all poor Laurie
made by his honesty in carrying his Edith, in her earliest conception,
for the approval of the Square.
THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON:
STRANGEWAYS AND WALDEN, PRINTERS,
28 Castle St. Leicester Sq.