A Set of Rogues

by Frank Barrett

  CHAPTER XIX.

  _Of the business appointed to the painter, and how he set about thesame._

  The young man had risen and was standing by the table when we turnedfrom the window; he seemed greatly refreshed, his face had lost itslivid hue of passion and death, and looked the better for a tinge ofcolour. He met our regard boldly, yet with no braggart, insolent air,but the composure of a brave man facing his trial with a consciousnessof right upon his side.

  "I would ask you," says the Don, seating himself on t'other side thetable, "why you refused to do that before?"

  "Sir," answers he, "I have lost everything in the world save some smallmodicum of pride, which, being all I have, I do cherish, maybe, unduly.And so, when these unmannerly hinds took me by the throat, calling on meto tell my name and business, this spirit within me flaring up, I couldnot answer with the humility of a villain seeking to slink out of dangerby submissive excuses."

  "Be seated," says the Don, accepting this explanation with a bow. "Howmay we call you?"

  "In Venice," replies the other, with some hesitation, "I was calledDario--a name given me by my fellow-scholars because my English name wasnot to their taste."

  "Enough," says the Don. "I can understand a man of better fortune, as Iperceive you have been, wishing in such a position as this to retain hisincognito. There are no parks in Venice, to my knowledge, but surely,sir, you would not enter a palazzo there uninvited without somereasonable pretext."

  "It would be sufficient that in such a house as this I thought I mightfind some employment for a painter."

  "You are a painter?" says I.

  "A poor one, as you see," replies Dario, with a significant glance athis clothes.

  Don Sanchez turned to me, hunching his shoulders.

  "'Tis clear," says he, "that Signor Dario has been grossly abused by ourlady's over-zealous steward. You have but to tell us, sir, whatreparation we can make you."

  "I'll not refuse it," answers Dario, eagerly. "You shall grant mepermission to prove the honesty of my story--and something more thanthat. Somewhere here," adds he, glancing around him, "I'd leave atribute to the grace of that dear lady who brought me back to life."

  Don Sanchez assents with a bow to this proposal, but with a ruefulglance at the rich panels of the wall, as fearing this painter might beas poor in talent as in his clothes--the latter reflecting discredit onthe former--and would disfigure the handsome walls with some rude daub.

  "Ah!" cries Dario, casting his eye upon the ceiling, which was plasteredin the Italian mode and embellished with a poor design of cherubs andclouds, "this ceiling is ill done. I could paint a fresco that wouldless disgrace the room."

  "You will need materials," says the Don, laying his purse upon thetable. "When you return with them, you may rely upon having our lady'sconsent to your wishes."

  The painter took the purse with a bow of acknowledgment, and no morehesitation than one gentleman would show in receiving an obligation fromanother, and presently left us.

  "Shall we see him again, think ye, Senor?" I asked when we were left toourselves.

  He nodded, but with such a reflective, sombre air, that I was impelledto ask him if he lacked confidence in the story told us by the painter.

  "His story may be true enough, but whether Signor Dario be an honest manor not is another matter. A painter's but a man. A ruined gentleman willaccommodate his principles to circumstances" (with a side glance thatseemed to say, "I am a ruined gentleman")--"and my mind would be easierif I knew by what curious accident a painter in need should find himselfin the heart of Kent, and why fixing on this house to seek employment heshould linger to the point of starvation before he can pluck up courageto ask a simple question. We must keep our eyes open, Mr. Hopkins, and,"adds he, dropping his voice, "our mouths shut."

  I could not sleep that night for thinking of house-breakings and bloodystruggles for dear life; for 'tis a matter of common report that thissort of robbers, ere they make attack, do contrive to get one of theirnumber into the house that he may learn where good goods are stowed,which part is easiest of attack, etc. I know not whether these quakingswere shared by the Don, but certainly our misgivings never enteredMoll's little head. Nay, rather, her romantic disposition did lead her(when she heard our narration) to conceive that this mysterious Dariomight be some wandering genius, whose work upon our ceiling would makethe Court for ever glorious. And while in this humour she bade me go toSimon, whose presence she would not tolerate in her house, and make himacquainted with her high displeasure, and furthermore, to command thathe should make satisfactory apology to Dario upon his return. So to himI went, and he wringing his hands in anguish deplored that his bestendeavours to serve his mistress served only to incense her the moreagainst him. But for his apology he declared that has been made themoment he heard of the gentleman's release, at the same time that herestored to him his hat and a pocket-book which had fallen from hispocket.

  This did somewhat reassure me, knowing full well that Simon would nothave given up this book without first acquainting himself with itscontents, and urging that had there been anything in it to incriminatehim, he had certainly laid it before his mistress for his ownjustification.

  A couple of days after this, as Don Sanchez and I were discoursing inthe great avenue, Dario presents himself, looking all the better for adecent suit of clothes and a more prosperous condition, and Moll joiningus at that moment, he makes her a very handsome obeisance and standinguncovered before her, begs to know if it is her will that he shouldpaint the ceiling of her dining-hall.

  As he spoke, the colour rose on his cheek, and a shaft of sunlightfalling on his curling hair, which shone with the lustre of health, madehim look as comely a man as ever I did see, and a good five yearsyounger than when he stood before us in the extremity of distress.

  "Sir," says Moll, "were you my debtor as much as I am yours, I could notask for better payment."

  Don Sanchez put an end to this pretty exchange of courtesies--whichmaybe he considered overmuch as between a lady of Moll's degree and onewho might turn out to be no more than an indifferent painter at thebest--by proposing that Dario should point out what disposition he wouldhave made for his convenience in working. So he went within doors, andthere Dario gave orders to our gardener, who was a handy sort ofJack-of-all-trades, what pieces of furniture should be removed, how thewalls and floor should be protected, and how a scaffold should be set upfor him to work on. And the gardener promising to carry out all theseinstructions in the course of the day, Dario took his leave of us in avery polished style, saying he would begin his business the next morningbetimes.

  Sure enough, we were awoke next day by a scraping below, and comingdown, we found our painter in a scull-cap and a smock that covered himto his heels, upon his scaffold, preparing the ceiling in a veryworkmanlike manner. And to see him then, with his face and beard thicklycrusted over with a mess of dry plaster and paint, did I think somewhatdispel those fanciful illusions which our Moll had fostered--she,doubtless, expecting to find him in a very graceful attitude andbeautiful to look at, creating a picture as if by inchantment. Hermortification was increased later in the day when, we having invited himon her insistence to dine at our table, he declined (civilly enough),saying he had brought his repast with him, and we presently found himseated astride one of his planks with a pocket knife in one hand and athumb-piece of bread and bacon in the other, which he seemed to beeating with all the relish in the world.

  "Why, he is nought but a common labourer," says Moll, disgusted to seehim regaling himself in this fashion, as we returned to our room. "Apretty picture we are like to get for all this mess and inconvenience!"

  And her idol being broken (as it were), and all her fond fancies dashed,she would not as much as look at him again nor go anigh the room, to bereminded of her folly.

  However, on the third day Dario sent to ask if she would survey hisoutlines and decide whether the design pleased her or not. For thispurpose he had pushed aside his sca
ffold, and here we saw a perspectivedone on the ceiling in charcoal, representing a vaulted roof with anopening to the sky in the middle, surrounded by a little balcony withtrailing plants running over it, and flowers peeping out betwixt thebalusters. And this, though very rough, was most artificial, making theroom look twice its height, and the most admirable, masterly drawingthat I did ever see.

  And now Moll, who had prepared a courteous speech to cover the contemptshe expected to feel for the work, could say nought for astonishment,but stood casting her eyes round at the work like one in a maze.

  "If you would prefer an allegory of figures," says Dario, misconceivingher silence.

  "Nay," answers she, "I would have nothing altered. 'Tis wonderful howsuch effect can be made with mere lines of black. I can scarce believethe ceiling is flat." And then she drops her eyes upon Dario, regardinghim with wonder, as if doubting that such a dirty-looking man could haveworked this miracle.

  "You must have seen better designs in Rome," says he.

  At this I took alarm, not thinking for the moment that he might havepicked up some particulars of Judith Godwin's history from Mrs.Butterby, or the curious servants who were ever prying in the room.

  "'Tis so long ago," says Moll, readily.

  "I think I have seen something like it in the Holy City," observes theDon, critically.

  "Probably. Nothing has been left undone in Rome--I am told. It has notbeen my good fortune to get so far."

  This was good news; for otherwise he might have put some posers to Moll,which she had found it hard to answer without betraying her ignorance.

  Having Moll's approval, Dario set to work forthwith to colour hisperspective; and this he did with the sure firm hand of one whounderstands his business, and with such nice judgment, that no builder,whose design is ordered by fixed rule and line, could accomplish hiswork with greater truth and justice. He made it to appear that the lowerpart of his vaulted roof was wainscoted in the style of the walls, andto such perfection that 'twould have puzzled a conjurer to decide wherethe oaken panels ended and the painted ones began.

  And now Moll suffers her fancies to run wild again, and could notsufficiently marvel over this poor painter and his work, of which shewould discourse to such lengths, that both the Don and I at times hadsome ado to stifle our yawns. She would have it that he was no commonman, but some great genius, compelled by misfortune or the persecutionof rivals, to wander abroad in disguise, taking for evidence the veryfacts which had lately led her to condemn him, pointing out that,whereas those young gentlemen who courted her so persistently didendeavour, on all occasions, to make their estate and natural partsappear greater than they were, this Dario did not, proving that he hadno such need of fictitious advancement, and could well afford to let theworld judge of his worth by his works, etc. This point we did notcontest, only we were very well content to observe that he introduced noone into the house, had no friends in the village (to our knowledge),and that nought was lacking from our store of plate.

  She never tired of watching him at his work--having the hardihood tomount upon the scaffold where he stood, and there she would sit by thehour on a little stool, chatting like any magpie, when the nature of hisoccupation allowed his thoughts to wander, silent as a mouse when sheperceived that his mind was absorbed in travail--ready at any moment tofetch this or hold t'other, and seizing every opportunity to serve him.Indeed, I believe she would gladly have helped him shift the heavyplanks, when he would have their position altered, had he permitted herthis rough usage of her delicate hands. One day, when he was about tobegin the foliage upon his balcony, he brought in a spray of ivy for amodel; then Moll told him she knew where much better was to be found,and would have him go with her to see it. And she, coming back from thisexpedition, with her arms full of briony and herbage, richly tinted bythe first frost, I perceived that there was a new kind of beauty in herface, a radiance of great happiness and satisfaction which I had neverseen there before.

  Here was herbage enough for a week, but she must have fresh the nextmorning, and thenceforth every day they would go out ere the sun washigh, hunting for new models.

  To prepare for these early excursions, Mistress Moll, though commonlydisposed to lie abed late in the morning, must have been up by daybreak.And, despite her admiration of Dario's simplicity in dress, she showedno inclination to follow his example in this particular; but, on thecontrary, took more pains in adorning her person at this time than evershe had done before; and as she would dress her hair no two morningsalike, so she would change the fashion of her dress with the sameinconstancy until the sly hussy discovered which did most please Dario'staste; then a word of approval from him, nay, a glance, would suffice tofix her choice until she found that his admiration needed rekindling.And so, as if her own imagination was not sufficiently forcible, shewould talk of nothing with her friends but the newest fashions at court,with the result that her maids were for ever a-brewing some new wash forher face (which she considered too brown), compounding charms to removea little mole she had in the nape of her neck, cutting up one gown tomake another, and so forth. One day she presented herself with a blackpatch at the corner of her lip, and having seen nought of this fashionbefore, I cried out in alarm:

  "Lord, child! have you injured your face with that mess Betty wasstewing yesterday?"

  "What an absurd, old-fashioned creature you are!" answers she, testily."Don't you know that 'tis the mode now for ladies to wear spots? SignorDario," adds she, her eyes lighting up, "finds it mighty becoming." WhenI saw her thus disfiguring her pretty face (as I considered it then,though I came to admire this embellishment later on) to please SignorDario, I began to ask myself how this business was likely to end.