"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 circ.u.mstances, 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 sc.r.a.p 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, gra.s.s, 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 sh.o.r.e life, the ships which fleck its surface, and the seafarers it bears upon its bosom."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

"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 s.p.a.ce 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.ses, 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 s.p.a.ce of one second.

CHAPTER VIII.

MR. FISHER'S SUBSt.i.tUTE.

"Mr. Fisher!"

Thus invoked by his name, the hairdresser who had the honor of attending the leading artists of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, stopped suddenly upon the dim staircase which led to the dressing-rooms.

"Who is it?" he inquired, striving to distinguish the person who had accosted him. "What do you want? I am in a hurry. Miss Woodville waits.

What! _You_, my lord?" he added as his interlocutor advanced into the doubtful radiance shed by the argand-lamp upon the upper landing.

A trifle arrogant at first, with a mingling of poorly dissimulated nervousness (for courage was not Mr. Fisher's besetting virtue), the tone of the worthy hairdresser had become obsequious in the extreme.

Lord Mowbray was one of his best clients.

"Mr. Fisher," said the young n.o.bleman, "you are going straight home and to bed."

"I, my lord! Your lordship must surely be jesting. They are waiting for me up-stairs, and I must--"