Immediately his face became very bright, and into his eyes returned the far-off look already described.

'I will first take the predella, which represents Isis behind the Veil,' said he. 'Imagine yourself thousands of years away from this time. Imagine yourself thousands of miles away, among real Egyptians.'

'Real 'Gyptians!' cried Sinfi. 'Who says the Romanies ain't real 'Gyptians? Anybody as says my daddy ain't a real 'Gyptian duke'll ha'

to set to with Sinfi Lovell.'

'Nonsense,' said Cyril, smiling, and playing idly with a coral amulet dangling from Sinfi's neck; 'he's talking about the ancient Egyptians: Egyptian mummies, you silly Lady Sinfi. You're not a mummy, are you?'

'Well, no, I ain't a mummy as fur as I knows on,' said Sinfi, only half-appeased; 'but my daddy's a 'Gyptian duke for all that,--ain't you, dad?'

'So it seems, Sin,' said Panuel, 'but I ommust begin to wish I worn't; it makes you feel so blazin' shy bein' a duke all of a suddent.'

'Dabla!' said the guest Jericho Boswell. 'What, Pan, has she made a dook on ye?'

The Scollard began to grin.

'Pull that ugly mug o' yourn straight, Jim Herne,' said Sinfi, 'else I'll come and pull it straight for you.'

Wilderspin took no notice of the interruption, but addressed me as though no one else were within earshot.

'Imagine yourself standing in an Egyptian city, where innumerable lamps of every hue are shining. It is one of the great lamp-fetes of Sais, which all Egypt has come to see. There, in honour of the feast, sits a tall woman, covered by a veil. But the painting is so wonderful, Mr. Aylwin, that, though you see a woman's face expressed behind the veil--though you see the warm flesh-tints and the light of the eyes through the aerial film--you cannot judge of the character of the face--you cannot see whether it is that of woman in her n.o.blest, or woman in her basest, type. The eyes sparkle, but you cannot say whether they sparkle with malignity or benevolence--whether they are fired with what Philip Aylwin calls "the love-light of the seventh heaven," or are threatening with "the hungry flames of the seventh h.e.l.l"! There she sits in front of a portico, while, asleep, with folded wings, is crouched on one side of her the figure of Love, with rosy feathers, and on the other the figure of Faith, with plumage of a deep azure. Over her head, on the portico, are written the words:--"I am all that hath been, is, and shall be, and no mortal hath uncovered my veil." The tinted lights falling on the group are shed, you see, from the rainbow-coloured lamps of Sais, which are countless. But in spite of all these lamps, Mr. Aylwin, no mortal can see the face behind that veil. And why? Those who alone could uplift it, the figures with folded wings--Faith and Love--are fast asleep at the great Queen's feet. When Faith and Love are sleeping there, what are the many-coloured lamps of science?--of what use are they to the famished soul of man?'

'A striking idea!' I exclaimed.

'Your father's,' replied Wilderspin, in a tone of such reverence that one might have imagined my father's spectre stood before him. 'It symbolises that base Darwinian cosmogony which Carlyle spits at, and the great and good John Ruskin scorns. But this design is only the predella beneath the picture "Faith and Love." Now look at the picture itself, Mr. Aylwin,' he continued, as though it were upon an easel before me. 'You are at Sais no longer: you are now, as the architecture around you shows, in a Greek city by the sea. In the light of innumerable lamps, torches, and wax tapers, a procession is moving through the streets. You see Isis, as Pelagia, advancing between two ranks, one of joyous maidens in snow-white garments, adorned with wreaths, and scattering from their bosoms all kinds of dewy flowers; the other of youths, playing upon pipes and flutes, mixed with men with shaven shining crowns, playing upon sistra of bra.s.s, silver, and gold. Isis wears a Dorian tunic, fastened on her breast by a ta.s.selled knot,--an azure-coloured tunic bordered with silver stars,--and an upper garment of the colour of the moon at moonrise. Her head is crowned with a chaplet of sea-flowers, and round her throat is a necklace of seaweeds, wet still with sea-water, and shimmering with all the shifting hues of the sea. On either side of her stand the awakened angels, uplifting from her face a veil whose folds flow soft as water over her shoulders and over the wings of Faith and Love. A symbol of the true cosmogony which Philip Aylwin gave to the world!'

'Why, that's esackly like the wreath o' seaweeds as poor Winnie Wynne used to make,' said Rhona Boswell.

'The photograph of Raxton Fair!' I cried. 'Frank and Winnie, and little Bob Milford, and the seaweeds!' The terrible past came upon my soul like an avalanche, and I leapt up and walked frantically towards my own waggon. The picture, which was nothing but an idealisation of the vignette upon the t.i.tle-page of my father's book--the vignette taken from the photograph of Winnie, my brother Frank, and one of my fisher-boy playmates--brought back upon me--all!

Sinfi came to me.

'What is it, brother?' said she.

'Sinfi,' I cried, 'what was that saying of your mother's about fathers and children?'

'My poor mammy's daddy, when she wur a little chavi, beat her so cruel that she was a ailin' woman all her life, and she used to say, "For good or for ill, you must dig deep to bury your daddy."'

I went back and resumed my seat by Wilderspin's side, while Sinfi returned to Cyril.

Wilderspin evidently thought that I had been overcome by the marvellous power of his description, and went on as though there had been no interruption.

'Isis,' said he,' stands before you; Isis, not matronly and stern as the mother of Horus, nor as the Isis of the licentious orgies; but (as Philip Aylwin says) "Isis, the maiden, gazing around her, with pure but mystic eyes."'

'And you got from my father's book,--_The Veiled Queen_, all this'--I was going to add--'jumble of cla.s.sic story and mediaeval mysticism,'--but I stopped short in time.

'All this and more--a thousand times more than could be rendered by the art of any painter. For the age that Carlyle spits at and the great and good John Ruskin scorns is gross, Mr. Aylwin; the age is grovelling and gross. No wonder, then, that Art in our time has nothing but technical excellence; that it despises conscience, despises aspiration, despises soul, despises even ideas--that it is worthless, all worthless.'

'Except as practised in a certain temple of art in a certain part of London that shall be nameless, whence Calliope, Euterpe, and all the rhythmic sisters are banished,' interposed Cyril.

'But how did you attain to this superlative excellence, Mr.

Wilderspin?' I asked.

'That would indeed be a long story to tell,' said he. 'Yet Philip Aylwin's son has a right to know all that I can tell. My dear friend here knows that, though famous now, I climbed the ladder of Art from the bottom rung; nay, before I could even reach the bottom rung, what a toilsome journey was mine to get within sight of the ladder at all!

The future biographer of the painter of "Faith and Love" will have to record that he was born in a hovel; that he was nursed in a smithy; that his cradle was a piece of board suspended from the smithy ceiling by a chain, which his mother--his widowed mother--kept swinging by an occasional touch in the intervals of her labours at the forge.'

I did not even smile at this speech, so entirely was the effect of its egotism killed by the wonderful way of p.r.o.nouncing the word 'mother.'

'You have heard,' he continued in a voice whose intense earnestness had an irresistible fascination for the ear, like that of a Hindoo charmer--'you have heard of the mother-bird who feeds her young from the blood of her own breast; that bird but feebly typifies her whom G.o.d, in His abundant love of me, gave me for a mother. There were ten of us--ten little children. My mother was a female blacksmith of Old Hill, who for four shillings and sixpence a week worked sixteen hours a day for the fogger, hammering hot iron into nails. The scar upon my forehead--look! it is shaped like the red-hot nail that one day leapt upon me from her anvil, as I lay asleep in my swing above her head. I would not lose it for all the diadems of all the monarchs of this world. She was much too poor to educate us. When the wolf is at the door, Mr. Aylwin, and the very flesh and blood of the babes in danger of perishing, what mother can find time to think of education, to think even of the salvation of the soul,--to think of anything but food--food? Have you ever wanted food, Mr. Aylwin?' he suddenly said, in a voice so magnetic from its very earnestness that I seemed for the moment to feel the faintness of hunger.

'No, no,' I said, a tide of grief rushing upon me; 'but there is one who perhaps--there is one I love more dearly than your mother loved her babes--'

Sinfi rose, and came and placed her hand upon my shoulder and whispered,

'She ain't a-starvin', brother; she never starved on the hills. She's only jest a-beggin' her bread for a little while, that's all.'

And then, after laying her hand upon my forehead, soft and soothing, she returned to Cyril's side.

'No one who has never wanted food knows what life is,' said Wilderspin, taking but little heed of even so violent an interruption as this.'No one has been entirely educated, Mr. Aylwin--no one knows the real primal meaning of that pathetic word Man--no one knows the true meaning of Man's position here among the other living creatures of this world, if he has never wanted food. Hunger gives a new seeing to the eyes.'

'That's as true as the blessed stars,' muttered old Mrs. Boswell, Rhona's beloved granny, who was squatting on a rug next to her son Jericho, with a pipe in her mouth, weaving fancy baskets, and listening intently. 'The very airth under your feet seems to be a-sinkin' away, and the sweet sunshine itself seems as if it all belonged to the Gorgios, when you're a-follerin' the patrin with the emp'y belly.'

'I thank G.o.d,' continued Wilderspin, 'that I once wanted food.'

'More nor I do,' muttered old Mrs. Boswell, as she went on weaving; 'no mammy as ever felt a little chavo [Footnote 1] a-suckin' at her burk [Footnote 2] never thanked G.o.d for wantin' food: it dries the milk, or else it sp'iles it.'

[Footnote 1: Child.]

[Footnote 2: Bosom.]

'In no way,' said Wilderspin, 'has the spirit-world neglected the education of the apostle of spiritual beauty. I became a "blower" in the smithy. As a child, from early sunrise till nearly midnight, I blew the bellows for eighteen pence a week. But long before I could read or write my mother knew that I was set apart for great things.

She knew, from the profiles I used to trace with the point of a nail on the smithy walls, that, unless the heavy world pressed too heavily upon me, I should become a great painter. Except anxiety about my mother and my little brothers and sisters, I, for my part, had no thought besides this of being some day a painter. Except love for her and for them, I had no other pa.s.sion. By a.s.siduous attendance at night-schools I learnt to read and write. This enabled me to take a better berth in Black Waggon Street, where I earned enough to take lessons in drawing from the reduced widow of a once prosperous fogger. But ah! so eager was I to learn, that I did not notice how my mother was fading, wasting, dying slowly. It was not till too late that I learnt the appalling truth, that while the babes had been nourished, the mother had starved--starved! On a few ounces of bread a day no woman can work the Oliver and prod the fire. Her last whispers to me were, "I shall see you, dear, a great painter yet; Jesus will let me look down and watch my boy." Ah, Sinfi Lovell! that makes you weep. It is long, long since I ceased to weep at that.

"Whatsoever is not of faith is sin."'

Rhona Boswell, down whose face also the tears were streaming, nodded in a patronising way to Wilderspin, and said, 'Reia, my mammy lives in the clouds, and I'll tell her to show you the Golden Hand, I will.'

'From the moment when I left my mother in the grave,' said Wilderspin, 'I had but one hope, that she who was watching my endeavours might not watch in vain. Art became now my religion: success in it my soul's goal. I went to London; I soon began to develop a great power of design, in ill.u.s.trating penny periodicals.

For years I worked at this, improving in execution with every design, but still unable to find an opening for a better cla.s.s of work. What I yearned for was the opportunity to exercise the gift of colour.

That I did possess this in a rare degree I knew. At last I got a commission. Oh! the joy of painting that first picture! My progress was now rapid. But I had few purchasers till Providence sent me a good man and great gentleman, my dear friend--'

'This is a long-winded speech of yours, _mon cher_,' yawned Cyril.

'Lady Sinfi is going to strike up with the Welsh riddle unless you get along faster.'

'Don't stop him,' I heard Sinfi mutter, as she shook Cyril angrily; 'he's mighty fond o' that mother o' his'n, an', if he's ever sich a horn nataral, I likes him.'

'I never exhibited in the Academy,' continued Wilderspin, without heeding the interruption, 'I never tried to exhibit; but, thanks to the dear friend I have mentioned, I got to know the Master himself.

People came to my poor studio, and my pictures were bought from my easel as fast as I could paint them. I could please my buyers, I could please my dear friend, I could please the Master himself; I could please every person in the world but one--myself. For years I had been struggling with what cripples so many artists--with ignorance--ignorance, Mr. Aylwin, of the million points of detail which must be understood and mastered before ever the sweetness, the apparent lawlessness and abandonment of Nature can be expressed by Art. But it was now, when I had conquered these,--it was now that I was dissatisfied, and no man living was so miserable as I. I dare say you are an artist yourself, Mr. Aylwin, and will understand me when I say that artists--figure-painters, I mean,--are divided into two cla.s.ses--those whose natural impulse is to paint men, and those who are sent into the world expressly to paint women. My mother's death taught me that my mission was to paint women, women whom I--being the son of Mary Wilderspin--love and understand better than other men, because my soul (once folded in her womb) is purer than other men's souls.'