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THE BOY-ARTIST.
THE PICTURE.]
THE BOY ARTIST
A TALE FOR THE YOUNG
T. NELSON AND SONS, LONDON, EDINBURGH AND NEW YORK
THE BOY-ARTIST.
A Tale for the Young.
_BY THE AUTHOR OF_
_"HOPE ON," "KING JACK OF HAYLANDS," ETC._
* * * * *
"When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take meup."
PSALM xxvii. 10.
* * * * *
LONDON: T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW; EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1872.
Contents.
THE BOY-ARTIST--
I. THE PICTURE, 7 II. THE RESOLVE, 20 III. THE FEVER, 29 IV. THE FRIEND, 45 V. THE INVITATION, 57 VI. THE SURPRISE, 66 VII. THE SUCCESS, 82
TOWN DAISIES--
I. A LONELY LIFE, 87 II. TRANSPLANTED DAISIES, 106
THE BOY-ARTIST.
CHAPTER I.
THE PICTURE.
"Oh, Madge, just stay as you are; there--your head a little more turnedthis way."
"But, Raymond, I can't possibly make the toast if I do."
"Never mind the toast; I shan't be many minutes," said the boy who waspainting in the window, while he mixed some colours in an excited, eagermanner.
"The fire is very hot. Mayn't I move just to one side?"
"No; it is the way that the firelight is falling on your hair and cheekthat I want. Please, Madge; five minutes."
"Very well," and the patient little sister dropped the toasting-fork,and folded her hands in her lap, with the scorching blaze playing on herforehead and cheek, and sparkling in her deep brown eyes.
The boy went on with rapid, bold strokes, while a smile played over hiscompressed lips as he glanced at Madge every few moments.
"The very thing I have been watching for--that warm, deliciousglow--that red light slanting over her face;--glorious!" and he shookback the hair from his forehead, and worked on unconscious of how theminutes flew by.
"Raymond, it is very hot."
"There--one moment more, please, Madge."
One minute--two--three, fled by, and then Raymond threw down his brushand came over to his sister's side.
"Poor little Madge," and he laid his hand coaxingly on her silky hair."Perhaps you have made my fortune."
This was some small consolation for having roasted her face, and shewent to look at the picture. "I'm not as pretty as that, Raymond."
"FACES IN THE FIRE."]
"Well, artists may idealize a little; may they not?"
"Yes. What is this to be called?"
"Faces in the Fire."
"Shall you sell it?"
"I shall try."
THE COTTAGE IN THE COUNTRY.]
Raymond Leicester had not a prepossessing face; it was heavy, and to acasual observer, stupid. He had dark hazel eyes, shaded by anoverhanging brow and rather sweeping eyelashes; a straight nose, andcompressed lips, hiding a row of defective teeth; a high massiveforehead and light hair, which was seldom smooth, but very straight.This he had a habit of tossing back with a jerk when he was excited; andsometimes the dull eyes flashed with a very bright sparkle in them whenhe caught an idea which pleased him,--for Raymond was an artist, not byprofession, but because it was in his heart to paint, and he could nothelp himself. He was sixteen now, and Madge was twelve. Madge was theonly thing in the world that he really cared for, except his pictures.Their mother was dead, Madge could hardly remember her; but Raymondalways had an image before him of a tender, sorrowful woman, who usedto hold him in her arms, and whisper to him, while the hot tears fellupon his baby cheeks,--"_You_ will comfort me, my little son. _You_ willtake care of your mother and of baby Madge." And he remembered thecottage in the country where they had lived, the porch where therose-tree grew, the orchard and the moss-grown well, the tall whitelilies in the garden that stood like fairies guarding the house, and thepear-tree that was laden with fruit.
He remembered how his mother had sat in that porch with him, readingstories to him out of the Bible, but often lifting her sad pale face andlooking down the road as if watching for some one.
And then there came a dark, dreary night, when the wind was howlingmournfully round the cottage and their mother lay dying. She had calledRaymond to her, and had pressed her cold lips on his forehead, tellinghim to take care of Madge; and if his father ever came, to say that shehad loved him to the end, and she had prayed God to bless him and totake care of her children. Then she had died, and the neighbours toldRaymond that he was motherless.
THE DYING MOTHER.]
He recollected how the sun shone brightly on the day that she wasburied, and that he and Madge stood by the grave crying, when she wasput down in the cold earth; and that a man rode up to the paling of thequiet green churchyard, and threw the reins over his horse's neck, andcame with hurried footsteps to the grave just as the last sod was thrownupon the coffin; and how this man had sobbed and cried, and had caughtthem in his arms, and said, "My poor little motherless ones," and hadkissed them and cried again so piteously and wildly, that the clergymanhad stopped in the service and had tried to comfort him. And when thefuneral was over, and the neighbours were taking the little ones home,how the man had held them tightly and said, "No; mine now, never toleave me again. I am their father. Margaret, I will try to make up tothem what I withheld from you; is it too late?"
This was the father whom their mother had spoken of with her dyingbreath; but who had come too late to implore her forgiveness for havingleft her in want, while he squandered his money upon his own pleasure.But now, in the impulse of grief and remorse, he had determined to actdifferently, and returned to London with his children.
Here they had lived ever since. Their father had returned to his old gaylife, and left the children very much to take care of themselves.Sometimes carelessly kind to them, more often harsh and impatient, Mr.Leicester supposed that he fulfilled the vow which he had made about herchildren, beside his wife's grave.
Raymond and Madge had no very definite idea as to what their father didwith his time. From time to time they changed their lodgings, alwayscoming to some quieter ones, and now they had got to the highest flightof a tall house in a very shady street. Their father was not at homevery often, but they did not mind this much, and were very happytogether.
Raymond made a little money by drawing pictures for a cheap periodical,and with this he bought materials for his darling pursuit. Madge watchedhim and gloried in him, and dusted the rooms, and laid the table formeals, and mended his clothes, and thought hopefully of the time whenRaymond should be a famous painter, and she should leave the dingyLondon lodging and live in the fresh breezy country which her brothertold her about.
Madge was not beautiful; her little face was sallow and pinched: but shehad two pretty things about her. One was her hair, which was of a richwarm brown colour, with a dash of chestnut in it, and when unbound itfell in ripples nearly to her feet; the other was her eyes--large,lustrous, brown eyes--with an intense earnestness in them, seldom to beseen in one so young. These eyes appeared in every one of Raymond'spictures, for they haunted him.
"Now, Raymond, come to breakfast," Madge said when she had finishedmaking the toast.
He did not appear to hear her, for he went to a little distance andsurveyed his picture with his head on one side.
Madge poured out the tea, and then came over to him, laid her hand onhis which held the brush, and said entreatingly, "Come."
"Well, it is too bad," he said laughingly, "first to make you roast yourface, and then to keep you from eating your breakfast;" and he laid downhis brush and pallette and came to the table; but he ate hurriedly andsoon returned to his work.
Madge put away the things and brought her sewing to the window, whereshe sat all the morning watching Raymond's busy fingers. Then she wentout to the colour-shop at the end of the next street, to buy somethingwhich her brother wanted, and to see if the picture he had left therewas sold.
Alas! it was still in the window along with several others; a fewbutchers' boys, working-men, and ragged little girls were eagerlypressing their faces against the glass looking at the pictures, but noneof them were likely to be purchasers. Raymond's picture was called "TheWelcome." There was a cottage room, and an open door, through which aworking man was coming in, while a little girl sprang to meet him. Thegirl had Madge's eyes; but no one in that wondering throng knew that.They were saying how well the workman's dress and the tools which hecarried were done.
BUSY FINGERS.]
Madge went into the shop. Mr. Jeffery was talking to a gentleman whostood by the counter; but he turned to serve her as soon as sheappeared.
She laid down her money and took her tiny parcel, then saidfalteringly, while the colour came into her pale cheeks, "Please, sir,is my brother's picture sold yet?"
"No, my dear, nor likely to be," said Mr. Jeffery, laughing.
"Poor Raymond," thought Madge, and as she turned away, she raised herhand to brush away the tears which filled her eyes.
The gentleman who had been standing, now stepped forward and opened thedoor for the little girl to go out.
She raised her face timidly and said, "Thank you, sir," in a soft, lowtone, then hurried off without trusting herself again to look in at theshop window.
"Who's that, Jeffery?"
"A little girl who comes here very often, sir. Her brother paints alittle, and he's left a picture here to try and get it sold."
"I should like to have her hair and eyes for a model," the artist said."Jeffery, if that child comes again send her up to me; she would exactlydo for my Ruth."
But it was many and many a long day before little Madge came to thatshop again.
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