A CAST IN THE WAGGON.
I.--DULCIE'S START IN THE WAGGON FOR HER COMPANY.
Old and young were clamouring hoarsely and shrilly by daybreak oneSeptember morning round a little girl, one of a cloth-worker's numerousfamily. She had been rather a tender lass, and change of air was thoughtgood for her full growth. Though she was still small, she was close onher one-and-twentieth year, and her friends held it was high time forher to see the world. It was seeing the world to go with a late mayor'sdaughter, an orphan and an heiress, who had been visiting thecloth-worker's family, and would have Dulcie to live with her for awhilein a neighbouring town as a friend and companion.
Mind those worthy warm-hearted relatives of Dulcie's had no idea of herreturning to her parents' nest in a hurry, though the two towns, Fairfaxand Redwater, were within a day's journey by waggon of each other.Dulcie would see the world, and stay in her new abode in the nextcountry town, or lose her character for dignity and spirit; and girlswere fain to be thought discreet and decided a hundred years ago or so.She might as lief marry as not, when she was away on her travels. Girlsmarried then with far less trouble than they accomplished such ajourney. They ran down to Richmond and married on a Sunday, to save atalk and a show; they walked out of the opera where Handel might beperforming, and observant gentlemen took the cue, followed on theirheels, and had the knot tied by a priest, waiting in the house oppositethe first chair-stand. Indeed, they contracted alliances sounceremoniously, that they went to Queen Caroline's or the Princesses'drawing-room, without either themselves or the world appearing quitesure whether they were maids or wives. Dear! dear! what did come ofthese foolish impulsive matches? Did they fulfil the time out of mindadage, "Happy's the wooing that's not long a-doing"? or that other oldproverb, "Marry in haste, and repent at leisure"? Which was the truth?
It is a pity that you should see Dulcie, for the first time, in tears.Dulcie, who only cried on great occasions, in great sorrow or greatjoy--not above half-a-dozen times in her life. Dulcie, whom thesmallpox could not spoil, with her pretty forehead, cat's eyes, andfine chin. Does that description give you an idea of Dulcie--DulcieCowper, not yet Madam, but any day she liked Mistress Dulcie? It seemsexpressive. An under-sized, slight-made girl, with a little faceclearly, very clearly cut, but round in all its lines as yet; anintelligent face, an enthusiastic face, a face that could be veryshrewd and practical, and, at the same time, a face that could belavishly generous. The chief merit of her figure lay in thisparticular, that she "bridled" well. Yes, it is true, we have almostforgotten the old accomplishment of "bridling"--the head up and thechin in, with the pliant knees bent in a low curtsey. Dulcie"bridled," as she prattled, to perfection. She had light brown hair,of the tint of a squirrel's fur, and the smoothness of a mouse's coat,though it was twisted and twirled into a kind of soft willowy curlswhen she was in high dress. Ah! no wonder that Kit Cowper, thecloth-worker, groaned to see that bright face pass from his ninepinalley; but it was the way of the world, or rather the will ofProvidence to the cloth-worker, that the child should fulfil herdestiny. So Dulcie was launched on the sea of life, as far asRedwater, to push her fortune.
No wonder Dulcie was liked by Clarissa Gage. Clarissa was two yearsyounger than Dulcie, but she was half-a-dozen years older in knowledgeof the world, and therefore fell in love with Dulcie for the sake ofvariety. Clarissa had the bones of a noble woman under her pedantry andaffectation; she was a peg above Dulcie in station, and a vast dealbefore her in the world's estimation. She was indeed "a fortune;" andyou err egregiously if you suppose a fortune was not properly valued ahundred years ago. Men went mad for fair faces and glib tongues, butsolidly and sensibly married fortunes, according to all the oldnews-prints. But Clarissa was also a beauty, far more of a regularbeauty than Dulcie, with one of those inconceivably dazzling complexionsthat blush on like a June rose to old age, and a stately height andpresence for her years. She had dark brown curls of the deep brown ofmountain waters, with the ripple of the same, hanging down in a wreathof tendrils on the bend of the neck behind. With all her gifts, MistressClary had the crowning bounty which does not always accompany so manyinferior endowments: she had sense under her airs, and she was goodenough to like Dulcie instinctively, and to think how nice it would beto have Dulcie with her and Mistress Cambridge in their formal brickhouse, with the stone coping and balcony, at Redwater. Besides, (creditto her womanhood,) Clarissa did reflect what a fine thing it would befor Dulcie Cowper getting up in years, really getting up in years,however young in spirit, to have the variety, and the additional chanceof establishing herself in life. Certainly, Redwater was a town of moreconsideration than Fairfax, and had its occasional assemblies andperformances of strolling players; and Clarissa, in right of herfather's family, visited the vicar and the squire, and could carryDulcie along with her, since the child's manners were quite genteel, andher clothes perfectly presentable.
It was a harmonious arrangement, in which not only Clarissa but MistressCambridge agreed. Cambridge was one of those worthy, useful persons,whom nobody in those strangely plain but decidedly aristocraticdays--not even Clarissa and Dulcie, though they sat with her, ate withher, hugged her when they wanted to coax her--ever thought or spoke ofotherwise than "Cambridge, a good sort of woman in her own way." Theonly temporary drawback to the contentment of the party was the showerof tears which fell at Dulcie's forcible separation from her relatives.It was forcible in the end; all the blessings had been given in thehouse--don't sneer, they did her no harm, no harm, but a vast deal ofgood--and only the kisses and tears were finished off in the street.
After all this introduction, it is painful to describe how the companytravelled. It was in a stage waggon! But they could not help it. Wenever stated that they were out-and-out quality; and not even all thequality could travel in four coaches and six, with twelve horsemenriding attendance, and an unpaid escort of butchers, bakers, andapothecaries, whipping and spurring part of the way for the custom. Whatcould the poor Commons do? There were not stage coaches in every quarterof the great roads; and really if they pocketed their gentility, thehuge brown waggons were of the two extinct conveyances the roomier,airier, and safer both from overturns and highwaymen. The seats weresoft, the space was ample, and the three unprotected females wereconsidered in a manner incognito, which was about as modest a style asthey could travel in. Of course, they were not in their flowered silks,their lutestrings, their mantuas. We are assured every respectable womantravelled then in a habit and hat, and no more thought of hoops than ofhair powder. The only peculiarity was that beneath their hats they woremob-caps, tied soberly under the chin, and red or blue handkerchiefsknotted over the hat, which gave them the air of Welsh market-women, ormarvellously clean and tidy gipsies. Clarissa was spelling out the wordsin _Pharamond_--a French classic; Dulcie was looking disconsolatelystraight before her through their sole outlet, the bow at the end of thewaggon, which circumscribed as pretty and fresh a circle of common andcornfield, with crimson patches of wood and the blue sky above, as onemight wish to see. Occasionally the crack of a sportsman's gun was heardto the right or left, followed by a pheasant or a string of partridgesdarting across the opening of the canvas car; but as yet no claimant hadsolicited the privilege and honour of sharing the waggon and the viewwith our fair travellers.
II.--TWO LADS SEEK A CAST IN THE WAGGON.
"Hullo, Joe! we want a lift," cries a brisk voice, and the couple ofgreat steeds--they might have been Flanders mares or Clydesdale horses,so powerful were they over the shoulders, so mighty in theflanks--almost swerved out of their direct line and their decorum. Twofellows suddenly started up from a couch where they had lain at lengthon a hay-stack, slid down the height, crashed over an intervening bit ofwaste land, and arrested the waggoner in his smock-frock and cloutedshoes.
"Get in, Will, and take possession. Ha! hum! here are ladies: where willwe stow our feet? I declare Will is on their skirts already, with moregreen slime than is carried on the breast of a pond. I believe he thinks
them baggage--lay figures, as they've turned aside their heads.Gentlefolks for a wager! duchesses in disguise! I must make up to them,anyhow. Ladies, at your service; I humbly beg your pardon for having somuch as thought of incommoding you, but indeed I was not aware of yourpresence. Come, Will, tumble out again instantly, and do not let us beso rude as to plague the ladies."
Poor Will! very stiff and tired, stared about him, disturbed anddiscomforted, and prepared to perform the behest of his more energeticcompanion.
Dulcie did a little of her "bridling," but said never a word; Clarissalifted her large, rather languishing eyes, let them fall again on hermittens, and remained dumb. They speak before they were spoken to? notthey, they knew better. At the same time, when Will stumbled as healighted on his weary feet, they were guilty of an inclination totitter, though the accident was excusable, and the point of the jokesmall.
"You are very polite, sirs," protested Cambridge, making round eyes, andreddening and blowing at being constituted the mouthpiece of the partyon any interest save that of victuals. "I vow it is very prettybehaviour; but as it is a public carriage, I don't think we are atliberty to deprive Joe of his money, and you, sirs, of your seats. Whatsay you, Mistress Clary?"
"I decline to give an opinion," answered Clarissa with great dignity; inwhich she broke down a little by adding hastily, in half audibleaccents. "Be quiet, Dulcie!" for Dulcie's risible faculties had beenexcited in a lively degree. She had been crying so lately that there wasa hysterical turn in her mirth, and having once given way to it shecould not restrain herself, but was making all sorts of ridiculous facesand spasms in her throat without effect. You see, these were twoordinary, happy young girls; and the stiff starch of their manners andpretensions only brought out in a stronger light, and with a broadercontrast, their youthful frolicsomeness.
"I think, sirs, you may come in--that is, if you keep your distance,"Mistress Cambridge decided, with solemn reservation. With a multitude ofapologies and thanks, the two young men, more considerate and courteousin their forward and backward fashion than many a fine gentleman of thetime, clambered up, and coiled themselves into corners, leaving arespectful void between them and the original occupants of the waggon.
Tranquillity settled down on the travellers--a tranquillity only brokenby the drowsy rumble of the waggon-wheels, and the perennial whistle ofthe stooping, grizzled waggoner. Dulcie was just thinking that theymight have been Turks, they were so silent, when Mistress Cambridgestirred the still atmosphere by the inquiry--
"Pray, sirs, have you happened to fall in with any stubble chickens inyour walk; I think you said you had been walking hereabouts?" affordingClarissa an opportunity of complaining afterwards, in the retirement ofthe little inn's private room, that these young fellows would judge thema set of gluttons or farmers' daughters abroad for a holiday, apinggentlewomen, instead of being duchesses in disguise.
Although the girls never lifted their eyes, yet, by a magic only knownto such philosophers, they had taken as complete an inventory of theyoung men, beginning at their wardrobes, as if they had looked at themcoolly from head to foot for a whole half-hour. They were aware thatthe fellows were in plain suits, though one of them was not without theair of being fine on occasions. Their coats were cloth, not brocade orvelvet; their ruffles were cambric, not lace; their shoe-buckles wereonly silver; their hats were trimmed with braid, and neither with goldnor silver edging. They were not my lords; they were not in regimentals;they did not rap out oaths; they had not the university air; they showedno parson's bands; they were not plain country bumpkins--what were they?
After all, it was scarcely worth inquiry whether the newcomers belongedto law or physic; for the young women in their pride and petulance feltbound not to consider the investigation worth the trouble. The lad whowas the leader, and who was unquestionably of gentle enough nurture, wasa plain little fellow, sallow and homely-featured, although agood-natured person might suppose from his smiling sagacity that inanimated conversation it would be quite possible to forget his face inhis countenance. The other was ruddy, with a face as sharply cut as agirl's, and delicate features not fitting his long limbs--clearly he wasno better than a nincompoop. Yes, the girls were perfectly justifiablein whispering as the waggon stopped to bait at the "Nine Miles House,"and they got out to bait also--
"What a pair!"
"Such a fright, the little fellow, Clary!"
"Such a goose, the tall fellow, Dulcie!"
It is a sad truth that foolish young women will judge by the exterior,leap at conclusions, and be guilty of rude and cruel remarks.
What would come of it if the silly, sensitive hearts were in earnest, orif they did not reserve to themselves the indefeasible right of changingtheir opinions?
At the "Nine Miles House" the wayfarers rested, either in the sandedparlour, or the common kitchen of the ale-house. Mistress Clarissa andher party had the sanded parlour for themselves; the young men, withtheir cramped legs, stumbled into the flitch-hung kitchen, the moreentertaining room of the two, and had plates of beans and bacon, a toastand a tankard; for the day was in September, and the wind was alreadybracing both to body and appetite. Mistress Clarissa carried her privatestores, and Cambridge laid out her slices of roasts and broils, platesof buns and comforts, and cruets with white wines. But when did aheroine remain in a sanded parlour in an inn, when she could stroll overthe country and lose her way, and get run at by wild cattle, and staredat by naughty gentlemen? Clary was not so mean-spirited, though she wasphysically lazier than Dulcie; she was eager to scamper across thestubble fields (where Cambridge expected chickens to roam in flocks),and to wander, book in hand, by yon brook with the bewitching pollards.
Dulcie could not accompany her. Dulcie being a practical woman, a needlein innocent sharpness, had peeped about the waggon to inspect theirluggage, and had found to her horror that one of her boxes had burst itsfastenings--that very box with her respected mother's watered tabby, andher one lace head on the place of honour on the top. So she andCambridge had an earnest consultation on the accident, which resulted intheir proceeding to tuck up their skirts, empty the receptacle with thegreatest care and tenderness, and repack it with such skill that a ropewould replace its rent hinges. Dulcie was not for walking.
Clarissa was thus forced to saunter alone, and after she had got to thebrook and the pollards, she sat down, and leant her arms on the bars ofan old farm gate. Soon tiring of looking about her, staring at theminnows and the late orange coltsfoot and white wild ranunculus, and thestraw-coloured willow-leaves drooping into the water, she took out ofher pocket that little brown French classic, _Pharamond_, and startedagain to accompany the French storyteller, advancing on the very tallestof stilts that storyteller ever mounted. It was a wonder truly thatClary on her mossy bank, and by a rustic stile, had not preferred thevoices of the winds and the waters, the last boom of the beetle, thelast screech of the martin, the last loud laugh of the field-workersborne over a hedge or two on the breeze, to the click and patter ofthese absurd Frenchmen's tongues.
At last Clarissa bethought her of the hour, sprang up, carefully putaway her volume--volumes and verses were precious then--and began topick her steps homewards. Ah! there had been a wretch of a man lookingat her--actually drawing her in his portfolio--the ugly fellow in thewaggon. Thank goodness, he could not have recognized her as hisfellow-traveller; he had copied the old farm-gate from the other side,and he could only have got a glimpse of her figure through the bars withnot so much as the crown of her hat above them. He had only put her infaithfully by a line or two, and three dots, and he did not observe hernow as she passed behind him and scanned his performance ere shescampered off. But what a risk she had run of having her likeness takenwithout her knowledge or consent, and carried about the country by awalking gentleman!
It was quite an adventure; yet how could Clary think it so when anearthquake and a whole town burnt to ashes were nothing in her Frenchnovels! But, still true to the instinct of personality which causes
usto think a molehill in reference to our dear selves a world moremomentous and interesting than a mountain in reference to a princess ofthe blood-royal, stately Clarissa flew off like a lapwing to tell Dulciethat she had just had such an escape, and hit on such a discovery--shehad found out all about the two fellows; they were a couple of painters.Marry! it was a marvel to see the one so hearty, and the other so rosy.Doubtless they did not have an odd penny in their purse between them.
Clarissa came too late; she encountered Dulcie running out to meet her,all alive with the same news, only gathered in a more orthodox manner.The fair, soft lad, whom they had reckoned a nincompoop, had shakenhimself up in his companion's absence, and had offered his landlady adrawing for his share of the dinner, "if you will score the value offthe bill." And the landlady had repeated the story to Cambridge andDulcie when she showed the picture to them, and expressed her convictionthat the lad was far gone in the spleen--he seemed always in a brownstudy; too quiet-like for a lad. She should have no peace in her mindabout him if she were in any way related to him. Bless her heart! hewould sell another for something much less than a crown.
Dulcie, all in a glow, had actually been chaffering with the painter forone of those wonderful groups of luscious peaches, mellow pears, Julyflowers, and striped balsamine, singing birds and fluttering insects,full of extravagant beauty. In the business, too, Dulcie had been by farthe more overcome of the two. The painter, roused to a job, had notcheated her; on the contrary, he had been as usual a conscientiousspendthrift of his powers. He had conducted the negotiation in theplainest, manliest spirit, looking the eager girl in the face with hisblue eyes, and receiving her crown-piece in his hand, which was noblerthan his face, inasmuch as it was seamed with the action of his paintsand tools, without a notion of anything unbecoming or degrading.
The brother painter shook his head when he returned, and found what Willhad been about in his absence.
"Man, man, didn't I bargain that I was to pay for your company, andhaven't I put you in the worst bed, and allowed you the burnt meat andthe sodden bread, and the valise to carry twice as often as I took itmyself, to satisfy your plaguy scruples? And yet you could go andscurvily steal a march upon me the moment you were out of my sight!But," brightening immeasurably, and bowing low, "you have certainlycontrived what I had not the face to attempt--an introduction to theladies--although, no doubt, it was very simply done, and you are a verymodest man, as I do not need to tell them. Ladies, I am Sam Winnington,son of the late gallant Captain Winnington, though I should not callhim so; and this is Will Locke, the vagrant child of an excellent man,engaged, I believe, in the bookselling and stationery trade. We arepainters, if it please you, on a tour in search of sketches andcommissions. I beg to assure you, that I do portraits on a great scaleas well as a small, and Will sometimes does lions in the jungle, as wellas larks in a tuft of grass."
Cambridge was more posed than ever by the fresh advance included in thismerry speech; but the girls were quite of another mind, and took thematter forthwith into their own hands, as is usual with the class, andbore down caution and experience, particularly when it proceeded fromtheir housekeeper. They liked the young man's congenial sense andspirit, they secretly hankered after his vivacity; they were, with theirdear woman's romance, all afire in three minutes about pictures, gods,and goddesses, historic scenes, and even scratches in Indian ink. A truewoman and a painter are hand and glove at a moment's warning in any age.Cambridge could but drop naturally into the background, and regard theconstant puzzle, "How girls can talk with fellows!"
The chance companions were once more packed into the waggon, pleasantlymixed together this time, and away they trundled yet many weary miles bythe sunset and the light of the moon. The boughs in the horses' collarsdangled brown, Cambridge and the waggoner nodded drowsily; but, divineprivilege of youth! the spirits of the lads and lasses only freshened asthe long day waned and they neared the goal. They were _dramatispersonae_ on a moving stage, jesting like country folks going to a fair.Even Will Locke was roused and lively as he answered Dulcie'spertinacious, pertinent questions about the animal and vegetable life heloved so well; while Dulcie, furtively remembering the landlady'ssuggestion, wondered, kind heart! if she could use the freedom tomention to him that ground ivy was all but infallible in early stages ofthe spleen, and that turnip broth might be relied on to check everyincipient cough. Clarissa was coquettish, Sam Winnington was gallant.With all the girls' mock heroism, and all their arrogance and precision,trust me, girls and lads formed a free and friendly company in the end.
III.--REDWATER HOSPITALITY.
Clarissa and Dulcie did do the young men service in their calling. Theysaid it would be a shame not to help two such likely fellows (you knowthey had undauntedly set the one down as a fright and the other as agoose in the morning); they were sure they were industrious and worthy,and they would give bail for their honesty. So they spoke right and leftto the few influential families who were at Redwater of the two youngpainters, who by mere luck had come with them in the waggon, had put upat the "Rod and Fly," and were waiting for commissions. Had the Warrensor the Lorimers not heard of them? they would come bound they were acouple of geniuses, from their conversation.
The old world grinned, and said to the girls' faces that the lasses hadbetter not be too zealous for the lads; they were generally fit tomanage their own business, and something more into the bargain. UncleBarnet would not care to have his niece Clary fling herself away withher tidy fortune on a walking gentleman, though he were a genius.
The result was that Dulcie "bridled" in a twitter of wounded faith andanger. Clarissa was superb and scornful. She ordered a full-lengthportrait, and fixed the hour for the sitting within the week. Dulcie setoff alone with Master Will Locke--Dulcie, who knew no more of Redwaterthan he should have done, if his wits had not been woolgathering--tofind the meadow which was beginning to purple over with the meadowsaffron.
But for all the townspeople laughed at Mistress Clary's and MistressDulcie's flights, they never dreamt of them as unbecoming or containinga bit of harm. Fine girls like Clary and Dulcie, especially anaccomplished girl like Clary, who could read French and do japan,besides working to a wish in cross-stitch and tent-sketch, were notpersons to be slighted. The inhabitants saw for themselves that thepainters had coats which were not out at elbows, and tongues, one ofwhich was always wagging, and the other generally at rest, but whichnever said a word fairly out of joint. They needed no furtherintroduction; the gentlemen called for the young men, the ladiescurtsied to them in the bar of the "Rod and Fly," in the church-porch,in the common shop, and began conversations with them while they werechaffering at the same counter for the same red ribbons to tie up themen and the women's hair alike; and they felt that their manners werevastly polite and gracious, an opinion which was not far from thetruth.
The Vicar lent the painters books. The Mayor invited them to supper. Thenearest Justice, who was a family man, with a notable wife, had them toa domestic party, where they heard a little girl repeat a fable, and sawthe little coach which the Justice had presented to his son and heir,then in long clothes, in which he was to be drawn along the smooth oakboarded passages of the paternal mansion as soon as he could situpright.
Lastly, Clarissa Gage, under the sufficient guardianship of Cambridge,treated the strangers to a real piece of sport--a hop on thewashing-green, under her mulberry-tree. It commenced at four o'clock inthe afternoon, and ended with dusk and the bats, and a gipsy fire, androasting groats and potatoes in the hot ashes, in imitation of thefreakish oyster supper which Clary had attended in town.
Clary took care to have her six couples well assorted, and not to besevered till the merry-making was over; she did not mind uniting herselfto Master Sam Winnington, and Dulcie to Master Will Locke--mind! thearrangement was a courteous compliment to the chief guests, and it gavecontinual point to the entertainment. The company took a hilariouspleasure in associating the four two-and-two, and commented openly onthe distrib
ution: "Mistress Clary is mighty condescending to thisjackanapes." "Mistress Dulcie and t'other form a genteel pair."
To be sure the two young men heard the remarks, which they might havetaken as broad hints, and the girls heard them too, uttered as they werewithout disguise; but so healthy were our ancestors, that nobody was putout--not even soft, mooning Will Locke. Nothing came of it thatevening, unless a way Dulcie had of pressing her red lips together,throwing back her little brown head, shaking out the powder from hercurls, and shaking down the curls themselves, with a gleeful laugh,which appeared to turn her own "bridling" into derision; and a highassertion of Clary's that she was determined never to wed a man beneaththe rank of a county member or a peer. Now, really, after Clary haddanced fifteen dances, and was about to dance other five, withoutstopping, with a portrait painter, of her own free will, this wasdrawing a longish and very unnecessary bow. But then Sam Winnington didnot take it amiss or contradict her. He said she was right, and he hadno doubt she would keep her word, and there was a quick, half-comic,half-serious gleam from the depths of his grey eyes which made ClarissaGage look more bashful and lovelier than any man had ever yet beheldher. Pity the member or the peer could not have been that man!
Imagine the party after Mistress Cambridge had provided them with someof her favourite chickens, and more substantial Dutch beef, with wetfruit and dry, cold Rhenish and sugar, and mulled wine against the dewand damp feet, collecting merrily round the smoky fire, with little jetsof flame shooting up and flashing out on the six couples! Sam Winningtonin his silk stockings and points neatly trussed at the knee, was onall-fours poking the blue and red potatoes into the glowing holes.Another man with rough waggishness suddenly stirred the fire with an oakbranch, and sent a shower of sparks like rockets into the dark blue sky,but so near that it caused the women to recoil, screaming and hidingtheir faces on convenient shoulders, and lodged half-a-dozen instrumentsof ignition and combustion in Sam Winnington's hair, singeing it andscorching his ears. Had Sam not been the best-natured and most politicfellow in the world, he would have dragged the aggressor by the collaror the cuff over the smoking crackling wood, and made the ladies shriekin greater earnest.
There was the strange ruddy light now on this face, now on that--on WillLocke's as he overturned a shovel of groats at Dulcie's feet, and onDulcie's, so eager to cover his blunder, that she quite forgot thecircumstances of the case, and never came to herself till she had burntall the five tips of her rosy fingers catching the miller's pearls. ThenWill Locke was so sorry, stroked the fingers so daintily, hung uponCambridge so beseechingly, imploring her to prepare a cool mash forMistress Dulcie's finger points, the moment they were all gone--thatDulcie could have cried for his tenderness of heart, and quickness andkeenness of remorse.
Conjure up the whole fourteen--the Vicar and Cambridge of thenumber--when the fire had sunk white in ashes, when they could scarcelysee each other's faces, and only guess each other's garments, having around at "Puss in the corner," running here and rushing there, seizingthis shoulder-knot, holding tight like a child by that skirt, drawingup, pulling back, whirling round all blowsy, all panting, all faint withfun and laughter, and the roguish familiarity which yet thought no evil.Very romping, was it not? very hoydenish? yes certainly. Very improper?by no means. It was practised by dignitaries of the Church, still moreclassic than the Vicar scuttling and ducking after Cambridge (you neversaw the like), and by the pink and pride of English womanhood.
Redwater was hospitable to these painter lads, as we understandhospitality, unquestionably, ungrudgingly hospitable; but it was morethan hospitable to them, it was profitable to them in a pecuniary sense,without which great test of its merits they could not long have tarriedwithin its bounds. They were neither fools nor hypocrites to pretend tobe clean indifferent to the main chance.
The Vicar fancied a likeness of himself in his surplice, which hisparishioners might buy and engrave, if they had a mind to preserve hislineaments when he was no longer among them. The Justice took a notionto have his big girls and his little girls, his boy and nurse, hiswife, and himself as the sheltering stem of the whole young growth, inone canvas.
But the great achievement was Sam Winnington's picture of Clarissa, "notas a crazy Kate this time," she told him saucily, "but myself in my hairand brocade, to show what a grand lady I can be." Thus Clarissa dressedherself out in one of those magnificent toilettes all in the autumnmornings, and sat there in state for hours, for the sole benefit ofposterity, unless Sam Winnington was to reap a passing advantage by theprocess. Clarissa in her brocade, with the stiff body and the skirtstanding on end, her neckerchief drawn through the straps of her bodice,her bouquet pinned, "French fashion," on her side; surely that picturewas a masterpiece. So speaking was the copy of her deep brown hair, hersoft, proud cheek, the wave of her ripe red lips, that a tame whitepigeon, accustomed to sit on her shoulder, flew into the window right atthe canvas, and, striking against the hard, flat surface, fellfluttering and cooing in consternation to the ground. If that was not anacknowledgment of the limner's fidelity, what could be?
Clary, in person, played my lady very well, reclining in her father'sgreat chair. Her hall was roomy enough; it had its space for SamWinnington's easel as well as Clary's harpsichord, and, what was moreuseful, her spinning-wheel, besides closets and cupboards withoutnumber. Sam Winnington entertained Clarissa; he was famous in years tocome for keeping his sisters in good humour. He told her of the academyand the president's parties, of the public gardens and the wild beastshows; and how the Princesses had their trains borne as they crossed thepark. He asked her what quality in herself she valued the most; andowned that he was hugely indebted to his coolness. When his colours werenot drying fast enough, he read her a page or two of grand heroicreading from Pope's 'Homer' about Agamemnon and Achilles, Helen andAndromache; when she tired of that he was back again to the sparklinggossip of the town, for he was a brilliant fellow, with a clearintellect and a fine taste; and he had stored up and arranged elegantlyon the shelves of his memory all the knowledge that was current, and alittle more besides.
When he was gone, Clary would meditate what powers of conversation hehad, and consider rather glumly how she would miss the portrait painterwhen he migrated to his native air, the town; how dull Redwater wouldbe; how another face would soon supplant hers on the canvas! He hadshown her others in his portfolio quite as blooming and dignified,though he had tumbled them carelessly over; and so he would treat herswhen another's was fresh before him. Clary would be restless and crossat her own suppositions; for where is the use of being a beauty and awit if one must submit to be either forgotten or beaten, even by aportrait painter?
In the meantime, the Vicar also wanted a _facsimile_ of his hayfield, asit looked when the haymakers were among the tedded grass, or under theRedwater ash-trees, to present him with a pleasant spectacle within, nowthat the bleak autumn was coming on, and there would be nothing withoutbut soaked or battered ground, dark skies, and muddy or snowy ways. TheMayor desired a pig-sty, with the most charming litter of little blackand white pigs, as nice as guinea-pigs, and their considerably coarsergrunting mamma, done to hand. He was a jolly, prosaic man, Master Mayor,very proud of his prosaicness, as you rarely see a real man of hispoetry: he maintained, though Mrs. Mayor nearly swooned at the idea,that he would sooner have a pig-sty than a batch of heroes. Perhaps theheroes of Master Mayor's day had sometimes wallowed in the mire tosuggest the comparison. And Clarissa Gage would have her bower done--herclematis bower before the leaves were brown and shrivelled and thereonly remained the loving spindle-shanked stems clinging faithfully tothe half-rotten framework which they could no longer clothe withverdure.
What a bower Will Locke made of Clary's bower! as unique as SamWinnington's portrait of Clary herself. It was not the literal bower;and it would not have suited Master Mayor or the Justice, though itmight have had a charm for the Vicar. We will go with the Vicar;although he also had his bombast, and, when elevated by company andcheer, de
nominated Cambridge a goddess, and raised in the poor woman'sbreast expectations never to be realized. We don't altogether approvethat wonderful bit of work, but we like it. There never were such deepdamask roses as hung over the trellis, there never were such flamingsunflowers, or pure white lilies as looked in at the sides. Squirrelsdon't frequent garden bowers unless they are tamed and chained by theleg. Our robin redbreasts are in the fields in summer, and do not perchon boughs opposite speckled thrushes when they can get abundance ofworms and flies among the barley. We have not little green lizards atlarge in England; the only one ever seen at Redwater was in theapothecary's bottle. Still what a bower that is! What a blushing,fluttering bower, trilling with song, glancing and glowing with thebronze mail of beetles and the softened glory of purple emperors! What athing it was to examine; how you could look in and discover afresh, anddwell for five minutes at a time on that hollow petal of a flowersteeped in honey, on that mote of a ladybird crawling to its couch ofolive moss.
Dulcie was speechless with admiration before this vision of Clarissa'sbower. Heigho! it was an enchanted bower to Dulcie as to Will Locke. Itwas veritably alive to him, and he could tell her the secrets of thatlife. What perfume the rose was shedding--he smelt it about his palette;what hour of the clock the half-closed sunflower was striking; whencethe robin and the thrush had come, and what bean fields they had flownover, and what cottage doors they had passed; of what the lizard wasdreaming in south or east as he turned over on his slimy side--all wereplain to him.
Ostensibly Dulcie was taking lessons from Will Locke in flower-painting,for Dulcie had a delicate hand and a just eye for colours, and thesweetest, natural fondness for this simple, common, beautiful world. AndWill Locke was a patient, indulgent teacher. He was the queerest mixtureof gentleness and stubbornness, shyness and confidence, reserve andcandour. He claimed little from other people, he exacted a great dealfrom himself. He was the most retiring lad in society, backward and outof place; he was free with Dulcie as a girl of her own stamp could be.He had the most unhesitating faith in his own ability, he relied on itas on an inspiration, he talked of it to Dulcie, he impressed it uponher until he infected her with his own credulity until she believed himto be one of the greatest painters under the sun. She credited hisstrangest imagination, and that quiet lad had the fancy of a prince ofdreamers.
In the end Dulcie was humble and almost awed in Will Locke's presence.Now here comes the sign of Dulcie's innate beauty of character. HadDulcie been a commonplace, coarse girl, she would have been wearied,aggrieved, fairly disgusted by Will Locke in three days. But Dulcie wasbrimfull of reverence, she was generous to the ends of her hair, sheliked to feel her heart in her mouth with admiration.
The truth of the matter was, Dulcie would have been fain to lift up WillLocke's pencil as they pretend Caesar served Titian, to clean hispalette, gather flowers for him, busk them into a nosegay, preserve themin pure water, and never steal the meanest for her own use. Will Lockewas her saint, Dulcie was quite ready to be absorbed in his beams. Wellfor her if they did not scorch her, poor little moth!
Oh! Dulcie, Dulcie, your friends could not have thought it of you--noteven Clary, tolerably misled on her own account, would have believed youserious in your enamourment, though you had gone down on your knees andsworn it to them. It was nothing but the obliging humour of MistressDulcie and the single-heartedness of the youth; still even in this mildview of the case, if their friends had paid proper attention to them,they would have counselled Dulcie to abide more securely by her chaircovers, and my simple man to stick more closely to his card or hisivory, his hedges or his hurdles.
Sometimes, late as the season was, Will Locke and Dulcie went outpicking their steps in search of plants and animals, and it wasfortunate for Dulcie that she could pull her mohair gown through herpocket-holes, and tuck her mob-cap under her chin beneath her hat, foroccasionally the boisterous wind lifted that trifling appendage rightinto the air, and deposited it over a wall or a fence, and Will Lockewas not half so quick as Dulcie in tracing the region of its flight,neither was he so active, however willing, in recovering the truant.Why, Dulcie found his own hat for him, and put it on his head to bootone day. He had deposited it on a stone, that he might the better lookin the face a dripping rock, shaded with plumes of fern and tufts ofgrass, and formed into mosaic by tiny sprays of geranium faded intocrimson and gold. It was a characteristic of Will that while he was sofanciful in his interpretation, the smallest, commonest text sufficedhim. The strolls of these short autumn days were never barren ofinterest and advantage to him. The man carried his treasures withinhimself; he only needed the slightest touchstone from the outsideworld to draw them out. A fieldmouse's nest was nearly as good to himas an eagle's eyrie, an ox-eyed daisy as a white rose, a redhemp-nettle as a foxglove. He put down his hat and stood contemplatingthe bit of rock, until every morsel of leaf told him its tale, andthen proceeded to fill his pockets and hands with what the poorestcountry boy would have deemed the veriest weeds; and at last he wouldhave faced round, and marched home, unconscious that his fair hair,bleached like a child's, was undefended from a pitiless showerimpending over his head. Dulcie lingered dutifully behind, picked upthat three-cornered hat timidly, called his attention to hisnegligence, and while he stooped with the greatest ease in life, she,bashfully turning her eyes another way, finally clapped the coveringon his crown, as a mother bonnets her child.
IV.--OTHER CASTS FOLLOWING THE CAST IN THE WAGGON.
Clary and Dulcie were slightly censured for their officiousness in theaffairs of these painter fellows: but it is in the nature of women notto take well with contradiction: it is in the nature of good women tofly furiously in the face of whatever crosses their generosity, orthwarts their magnanimity.
The crisis came about in this way: Will Locke had finished his work longbefore Sam; not that Will was more industrious, but he had not got halfthe commissions at only half the price, and that was about the usualdivision of labour between them. The two men were born to it. Sam's arttook the lucrative shape of portrait-painting; Will's the side of flowerand fruit and landscape painting, which was vilely unremunerative then,and allegorical painting, which no one will be at the pains tounderstand, or, what is more to the purpose, to buy, in this enlightenednineteenth century. Sam, who was thriving already, fell in love withClarissa Gage, with her six thousand pounds fortune: there was nopremeditation, or expediency, or cunning, in the matter; it was the luckof the man. But Will Locke could never have done it: he, who could nevermake a clear subsistence for himself, must attach himself to apenniless, cheery, quick little girl like Dulcie; and where he could notwell maintain one, must provide for two at the lowest estimate. WillLocke was going, and there was no talk of his return; Dulcie washelping him to put up his sketches with her orderly, ready, andrespectful hands.
"When we are parted for good, I shall miss you," he said, simply.
Her tender heart throbbed with gratitude, but she only answered, "Are weto be parted for good? Will you never come back to Redwater?"
"I cannot come back like Sam," he affirmed, sadly, not bitterly; "I amnot a rising man, Dulcie, though I may paint for future ages."
A bright thought struck Dulcie, softening and warming her girlishface, till it was like one of those faces which look out of FraAngelico's pictures, and express what we are fond of talkingabout--adoration and beneficence: "Could I paint for the potteries,Master Locke?" For, in his noble thriftless way, he had initiated herinto some of the very secrets of his tinting, and Dulcie was made boldby the feats she had achieved.
"What should set you labouring on paltry porringers?--you are providedwith your bit and sup, Mistress Dulcie."
"I thought it might be fine to help a great painter like you," confessedthe gentle lass; very gently, with reluctance and pain, for it was wrungby compulsion from her maidenliness.
"Do you think so? I love you for thinking it," he said directly: but hewould never have done so, brave as he was in his fantasies, without herdr
awing him on.
However, after that speech, there was no further talk of their partingfor good: indeed, Dulcie would do her part; and slave at these "mugs andpigs" to any extent; and all for a look of his painting before hequitted the easel of nights; a walk, hanging upon his arm, up PrimroseHill; a seat by his side on the Sundays in the city church where heworshipped. Dulcie did not care to trouble her friends at home with thematter: instead, she had a proud vision of surprising them with thesight of--her husband. "They would be for waiting till they could sparemoney to buy more clothes, or perhaps a chest of drawers; they could notafford it; no more could Will find means to fly up and down the country.Father dear will be pleased to see him so temperate: he cannot drinkmore than a glass of orange-wine, or a sip of cherry-brandy; he says itmakes his head ache: he prefers the clear, cold water, or at most a dishof chocolate. Mother may jeer at him as unmanly; she has a fine spirit,mother: and she may think I might have done better; but mother has growna little mercenary, and forgotten that she was once young herself, andwould have liked to have served a great genius with such a loving heartand such blue eyes as Will's. Ah! the girls will all envy me, when theyget a glance from Will's blue eyes: and let them, for he is too good afellow to look at anybody but his poor ordinary silly wife, and if hedid, the odds are that he would not see them: could not see whethertheir hair were black or red. Ah me! I am not sure whether Will alwayssees me--poor me--and not one of his angels from paradise."
But Dulcie did mean to tell Clary, and to ask her what she wouldadvise her to wear for her wedding-gown, and whether she and SamWinnington would be best maid and best man. But Clary put her footthrough the plan neatly. Clary was in one of her vapourish moods whenshe inquired one night, "Is Will Locke coming down again, Dulcie? Oh!what ever is he seeking here? What more can we do for him? Nobodywants any more sheep or goats (were they sheep or goats, Dulcie?), orstrawberries and currants, unless as mutton, and kid, and preserves.And, Dulcie, you must not stand in your own light, and throw away anymore notice upon him; it is wasting your time, and the word of him maykeep away others. A match with him would be purely preposterous: evenSam Winnington, who is a great deal more of a scamp, my dear, treatshim as a sublime simpleton."
What induced Clary to attempt to lock the stable after the steed wasstolen? What drove her off all of a sudden on this dreadfully candid andprudent tack? She only knew. Possibly it was to ease her own troubledconscience: but with Sam Winnington constantly dangling about herskirts, and receiving sufficient encouragement, too, it was hard forDulcie to bear. She was in a fine passion; she would not tell Clary,after that round of advice; no, not a word. How did she know what Clarywould do next? Perhaps forbid Will the house, when he came back fromLondon with the licence, lock her into a room, and write an evil reportto her friends? No, Dulcie could keep her own counsel: she was sorry tolive in Clary's house, and eat the bread of deceit, but she would notrisk Will's happiness as well as her own.
Will Locke reappeared on the scene within a fortnight. The lad did nottell Dulcie, though, that he had walked the most of the way, and thathe had rendered himself footsore, in order to be able to count outDulcie's modest expenses up to town, and perhaps a month'shousekeeping beforehand: for that was the extent of his outlook. WillLocke appointed the Vicar to meet him and a young woman in Redwaterchurch, the very morning after his return: there was no use in delay,except to melt down the first money he had hoarded; and Will andDulcie were like two children, eager to have the business over anddone with, and not to do again by the same parties. The Vicar wasquite accustomed to these sudden calls, and he submitted to them witha little groan. He did not know who the young woman might be, and hedid not care; it might be Mistress Cambridge, it might be MistressClarissa herself, it might be the still-room maid, or the barmaid atthe "Rod and Fly;" it was all one to him. As for the young painterfellow, the quiet lads were as likely to slip into these scrapes asthe rattles; indeed, the chances were rather against them: the Vicarwas inclined to cry, "Catch Mr. Sam Winnington in such a corner." Butthe Vicar was in no way responsible for a youth who was not even hisown parishioner; he was not accountable for his not having worldlygoods wherewith to endow the young woman whom he was to lead to thealtar. Oddly enough, though worldly goods are undoubtedly introducedinto the service, there are no accompanying awkward questions: suchas, "What are your worldly goods, M.?" or, "Have you any worldlygoods, M.?" The Vicar did not care at all, except for his incipientyawns, and his disordered appetite; he was a rebuke to gossips.
When the hour came, Dulcie was distressed: not about wrongdoing, for thegirl had no more idea that she was doing wrong than you have when youwrite a letter on your own responsibility, and at your own dictation;not at the absence of friends, for in Dulcie's day friends wereconsidered very much in the way on such occasions. Indeed, the bestaccredited and most popular couples would take a start away from theircompanions and acquaintances, and ride ten miles or so to be marriedprivately, and so escape all ceremony. Dulcie was troubled by the wantof a wedding-gown; yes, a wedding-gown, whether it is to wear well ornot, is to a woman what a wig is to a barrister, what a uniform is to asoldier. Dulcia's had no existence, not even in a snip; no one couldcall a half-worn sacque a wedding-gown, and not even her mother's tabbycould be brought out for fear of observation. Only think! a scouredsilk: how could Dulcie "bridle" becomingly in a scoured silk? Therewould have been a certain inappropriateness in its shabbiness in thecase of one who had done with the vanities of this world: but a scouredsilk beside bridal blushes!--alas, poor Dulcie!
In every other respect, there appears something touching as well ashumorous in that primitive marriage-party on the grey October morning,with the autumn sunbeams, silver not golden, faintly brightening theyellowing vine, over the sexton's house, and the orange and greylichens, the only ornaments outside the solid old church, with its low,heavy Saxon arches. The Vicar bowed with ceremony, and with a dignifiedand deliberate air, as he recognised Mistress Dulcie; the old clerk andhis wrinkled wife stumbled into an apprehension that it was MistressClarissa Gage's friend who was to have the knot tied all by herself soearly: but it was nothing to them either--nothing in comparison with theChristmas dole. The lad and lass so trustful, so isolated, making such atremendous venture, deserved to have the cheery sunshine on their lot,if only for their faith and firmness.
When it was over, Dulcie plucked Will's sleeve, to turn him into thevestry. One must be the guide if not the other, and "it's main often thewoman," the old clerk would tell you, with a toothless grin.
Then Dulcie went with Will straight to the "Rod and Fly;" for such wasthe established rule. These occurrences were so frequent, that they hadtheir etiquette cut out for them. From the "Rod and Fly" Will and Dulciesent the coolest and most composed, the most perfectly reasonable andpolite of messages, to say they had got married together that morning,and that Mistress Cambridge need not have the trouble of keepingbreakfast for Mistress Dulcie. A separate apology was sent from Dulciefor not having procured the watercresses which she was to have soughtfor Cambridge. Further, Mr. and Mrs. Will Locke would expect all oftheir friends who approved of the step they had taken to come to the"Rod and Fly," and offer their congratulations and drink their healthsthat morning without fail; as the young couple had to start by the verywaggon in which they had first set eyes on each other. "Think of that,Will!" Dulcie had exclaimed, breathlessly, as if she was calling hisnotice to a natural phenomenon. They had now to ask and receiveDulcie's parents' blessing before they began housekeeping in Will'slodgings in London, on the strength of a month's prices with futureorders and outwork from the potteries. Oh! these old easy beginnings!What have we gained by complicating them?
Will Locke and Dulcie had cast the die, and, on the first brush of theaffair, their friends at Redwater took it as ill as possible: Clarissawas hysterical, Sam Winnington was as sulky as a bear. If this treatmentwere to be regarded as a foreshadowing of what the behaviour of theauthorities at Fairfax would prove, then the actors in the litt
le dramamight shake in their shoes. But Will Locke placidly stood the storm theyhad brewed, only remembering in years to come some words which Dulciedid not retain for a sun-down. Dulcie was now affronted and hurt, nowsteady as a stepping-stone and erect as a sweet-pea, when either of thetwo assailants dared to blame Will, or to imply that he should haverefrained from this mischief. Why, what could Will have done? What couldshe have done without him? She was not ashamed to ask that, the momentthey reflected upon Will Locke, though she had not borne his name anhour. Oh! child, child!
Notwithstanding, it was very trying to Dulcie when Clary protestedthat she never would have believed that Dulcie could have stolen sucha march upon her; never. Dulcie to deceive her! Dulcie to betray her!Poor Clary! Whom could she turn to for affection and integrity, in thedays that might remain to her in this wicked world? She had walked allalong the street with its four or five windows in every gable turnedto the thoroughfare, with her handkerchief at her eyes, while thewhole town was up, and each window full. She was so spent now, withher exertions and her righteous indignation, that she sat fanningherself in the bar: for Will and Dulcie could not even afford aprivate room to receive their wedding company so summarily assembled.Never was such a business, in Clary's opinion; not that she had notoften heard of its like--but to happen to a kind, silly, credulouspair, such as Dulcie and Will Locke! Clary sat fanning herself, andcasting knots on her pocket-handkerchief, and glancing quickly at SamWinnington's gloomy, dogged face, so different from the little man'swonted bland, animated countenance. What on earth could make SamWinnington take the wilful deed so much to heart? Hear him ratingWill, whom he had been used to patronize in a careless, graciousstyle, but upon whom he now turned in strong resentment. Thesereproaches were not unprovoked, but they were surely out of bounds;and their matter and manner rankled in the breasts of both these menmany a day after they had crossed the Rubicon, and travelled far intothe country on whose borders they were still pressing.
"You have disgraced yourself and me, sir! You have gone far to ruin thetwo of us! People will credit us of the same stock: a pair of needy andreckless adventurers!"
"Master Winnington, I was willing: I could do what I liked with myselfwithout your leave; and I suppose Will Locke was equally independent,"fired up Dulcie.
"We'll never be mistaken for the same grain, Sam Winnington," declaredWill Locke, with something like disdain. "I always knew that we wereclean different: and the real substance of the wood will come out moreand more distinctly, now that the mere bark is rubbed off."
Clary was modified at last; she kissed and sobbed over Dulcie, wishedher joy sincerely, half promised to visit her in town, and slipped aposy ring from her own hand to the bride's, on the very finger whereWill Locke had the face to put the marriage-ring which wedded a comely,sprightly, affectionate young woman to struggles and disappointments,and a mad contest between spirit and matter. But Sam Winnington wouldnot so much as shake hands with Will; though he did not bear any maliceagainst Dulcie, and would have kissed her fingers if she would haveallowed it: and the young men, erstwhile comrades, looked so glumly andgrimly at each other, that it was a universal relief when the greatwaggon drew up at the inn door.
Dulcie, in another character now, and that even before the fall ofthe russet leaves--half ashamed but very proud, the little goose! ofthe quick transformation--stepped into the waggon; the same boxeswere piled beside her; Will leapt in after her, and away theyrolled. There was nothing more for Dulcie to do but to wave her handto Clary and Cambridge, and the women of the inn (already fathomsdeep in her interest), and to realize that she was now a marriedwoman, and had young Will Locke the great painter, in his chrysalisstate, to look after.
But why was Sam Winnington so irate? He had never looked sweet on Dulciefor half a second. Was it not rather that a blundering dreamer like WillLocke had anticipated him, marred his tactics, and fatally injured hisscientific game? Sam came dropping down upon Redwater whenever he couldfind leisure, when the snow was on the ground, or when the peaches wereplump and juicy, for the next two or three years. If he had not beencoming on finely in his profession, heightening his charges five guineasat a time, and if Clary had not possessed that six thousand pounds'fortune, they would have done off the matter in a trice, like Will Lockeand Dulcie Cowper. Poor Sam! poor Clary!--what an expenditure of hoursand days and emotions, they contrived for themselves! They were oftenwretched! and they shook each other's faith: it is doubtful if they everquite recovered it. They were so low occasionally that it must have beendreadfully difficult for them to get up again; they were so bitter thathow they became altogether sweet once more, without any lingeringremains of the acrid flavour in their mouths, is scarcely to beimagined. They were good and true in their inmost hearts; but it doesappear that some of the tricks of which they were guilty left them lesshonest human creatures. There was a strong dash of satire in Sam's funafterwards; there was a sharpness in Clary's temper, and a despotism inher dignity. To be sure, Clary always liked Sam's irony a thousand timesbetter than another man's charity, and Sam ever thought Clary'simpatient, imperious ways far before the cooing of any turtle-dove inthe wood; but that was only an indication that the real metal wasthere, not that it was not smirched and corroded with rust.
The first effect of Will and Dulcie's exploit was extremely prejudicialto the second case on the books. Uncle Barnet, a flourishing Londonbarrister, a man with strong lines about his mouth, a wart on hisforehead, and great laced flaps at his coat pockets, and who wassupposed to be vehemently irresistible in the courts, hurried down toRedwater on purpose to overhaul Clary. What sort of doings were thoseshe presided over in her maiden house at Redwater? Not the runawaymarriage of a companion; that occurred every day in the most politecircles; Clary could not fairly be called to account for such a trifle;besides, a girl without a penny might do as she chose. But there wassomething a vast deal more scandalous lurking in the background: therewas word of another fellow of the same kidney buzzing about Clary--Clarywith her six thousand pounds' fortune, her Uncle Barnet, her youth, herhandsome person, her what not? Now, as sure as Uncle Barnet's name wasBarnet, as he wore a wig, as there was justice in the country, he wouldhave the law of the fellow. Don't tell him the man was advancing rapidlyin his profession. What was a painter's profession?--or the son of agallant Captain Winnington? If a gallant Captain Winnington could donothing more than gallant, he did not deserve the name; it was a pieceof fudge to cheat foolish women with. Yes; he would have the law of thefellow if he buzzed about his niece; he would have the law of Clary ifshe encouraged him.
What could Clary do? she had been taught to look up to Uncle Barnet;she had seen polite society under his wife's wing; she had obeyed him atonce as her Mentor and her Maecenas--as her father and prime-minister.She cried and kissed his hand, and promised not to forget her position,and to be a good girl; and as she was not engaged to Sam Winnington, anddid not know for certain that he would return to Redwater for thegrass-mowing or the hop-gathering, she thought she might be free topromise also that she would not see him again with her will. Of course,she meant to keep her word if she might; but there are two at abargain-making: and observe, she said "with her will;" she made noreference to Sam Winnington's pleasure. And yet, arrogant as Clary couldbe on her worst side, she had found her own intentions and purposesknocked down by Sam Winnington's determinations before now.
When Sam Winnington did come down next, Clary had such honour andspirit, that she ordered the door to be shut in his face; but then shecried far more bitterly than she had done to Uncle Barnet, in the samehall where Sam had painted her and jested with her; and somehow heraffliction reached Sam's ears, living in a little place like Redwater atthe "Rod and Fly" for several days on end.
At last another spice entered into the dish; another puppet appeared onthe boards, and increased the disorder of the former puppets. The countymember did turn up. Clary was a prophet: he came on a visit to hiscousin the Justice, and was struck with tall, red and white, andlarge-eyed
Clary; he furbished up an introduction, and offered her themost marked attention.
Mistress Clarissa was in ecstasy, so her gossips declared, and so shealmost persuaded herself, even after she had certain drawbacks to herpleasure, and certain cares intruding upon her exultation; after she wasagain harassed and pestered with the inconvenient resuscitation of thatincorrigible little plain, vain portrait painter, Sam Winnington. He wasplain--he had not the county member's Roman nose; and he was vain--Claryhad already mimicked the fling of his cravat, and the wave of his whitehands. Clever, smart fellows, like Sam Winnington, are generallycoxcombs. Oh, Sam! where, in order to serve your own turn now, be yourpurple shadows, your creamy whites, your marvellous reading of people'scharacters, and writing of the same on their faces, their backs, theirvery hands and feet, which should leave the world your delighted debtorlong after it had forgotten yon member's mighty services?
Clarissa had never danced so many dances with one evening's partner aswith the smitten member, at the assembly given on the spur of themoment in his honour, whereat Sam Winnington, standing with his hatunder his arm, and leaning against the carved door, was an observantspectator. He was not sullen as when Will Locke and Dulcie tumbledheadlong into the pit of matrimony! he was smiling and civil; but hislips were white and his eyes sunken, as if the energetic young painterdid not sleep of nights.
Clary was not sincere; she gave that infatuated, tolerably heavy,red-faced, fox-hunting member, own cousin to the Justice, every reasonto suppose that she would lend him the most favourable ear, when hechose to pay her his addresses, and then afforded him the amplestprovocation to cry, "Caprice--thy name is woman." She had just sung"Tantivy" to him after supper, when she sailed up to Sam Winnington, andaddressed him demurely:--
"I have come to wish you good-night, sir."
"And I to wish you farewell, madam."
"Farewell is a hard word, Master Winnington," returned Clary, with agreat tide of colour rushing into her face, and a gasp as for breath,and tracing figures nervously on the floor with her little shoe and itsbrave paste-buckle.
"It shall be said though, and that without further delay, unless threevery different words be put in its place."
"Sir, you are tyrannous," protested Clary, in a tremulous voice.
"No, Mistress Clarissa, I have had too good cause to know who has beenthe tyrant in this business," declared Sam Winnington, speaking outroundly, as a woman loves to hear a man, though it be to her owncondemnation, "You have used me cruelly, Clarissa Gage; you have abusedmy faith, wasted the best years of my life, and deceived my affections."
"What were the three words," asked Clary, faint and low.
"'Yours, Sam Winnington;' or else, 'Farewell, Clarissa Gage?'"
"Yours, Sam Winnington."
He caught her so sharp up by the arm at that sentence, that some personssaid Mistress Clarissa had staggered and was about to swoon; others,that the vulgar fellow of a painter had behaved like a brute, pulled herto his side as she was marching past him, and accused her of perjurybefore the whole ball-room. Bold men were apt at that time to seizeaggravating women (especially if they were the wives of their bosoms) bythe hairs of their heads, so that a trifling rudeness was little thoughtof. The county member, however, pricked up his long ears, flushed,fiercely stamped to the particular corner, and had a constable in hiseye to arrest the beggarly offender; but before he could get at thedisputants, he had the mortification to see them retreat amicably into aside room, and the next thing announced to him was, that MistressClarissa had evanished home, before anybody could get rightly at thebottom of the mystery.
Very fortunately, the county member ascertained the following day,before he had compromised his pride another hair's-breadth, that thefickle damsel had accepted the painter's escort the previous evening,and had admitted the painter at an incredibly early hour the subsequentmorning. After such indiscretion, the great man would have nothing moreto say to Mistress Clarissa, but departed in great dudgeon, and wouldnever so much as set his foot within Redwater again; not even at thefollowing election.
Uncle Barnet was forced to come round and acknowledge, with a very badgrace, that legislation in heiresses' marriages--in any marriage--is outof the question. No man knew how a marriage would turn out; you might aswell pledge yourself for the weather next morning; certainly there weresigns for the wise; but were weather almanacs deceptive institutions orwere they not? The innocent old theory of marriages being made in heavenwas the best. Clary was not such a mighty catch after all: a sixthousand pounds' fortune was not inexhaustible, and the county membermight never have come the length of asking its owner's price. People didtalk of a foolish engagement in his youth to one of his yeomen'sdaughters, and of a wealthy old aunt who ruled the roast; though herwell-grown nephew, not being returned for a rotten borough, voted withdignity for so many thousands of his fellow-subjects in the Commons.Uncle Barnet, with a peculiarly wry face, did reluctantly what he didnot often advise his clients to do, unless in desperatecircumstances--he compromised.
Clary was made a wife in the height of summer, with all the rites andceremonies of the Church, with all the damasks, and laces, and leadingsby the tips of the fingers, and lavishings of larkspurs, lupins, andtiger-lilies proper for the occasion, which Dulcie had lost. Nay, thesupper came off at the very "Rod and Fly," with the tap open to theroaring, jubilant public; a score of healths were drunk upstairs withall the honours, the bride and bridegroom being king and queen of thecompany: even Uncle Barnet owned that Sam Winnington was verycomplaisant--rather exceed in his complaisance, he supplementedscornfully; but surely Sam might mend that fault with others in thebright days to come. It is only the modern English who act Hamlet_minus_ the Prince of Denmark; sitting at the bridal feast without brideor bridegroom. They say hearts are often caught on the rebound, and ifall ill-treated suitors spoke out warmly yet sternly like SamWinnington, and did not merely fence about and either sneer or whine,more young fools might be saved, even when at touch-and-go with theirfolly, after the merciful fate of Clary and to the benefit of themselvesand of society.
V.--DULCIE AND WILL, AT HOME IN ST. MARTIN'S LANE.
While Sam and Clarissa were fighting the battles of vanity and theaffections down in the southern shire in quite a rural district, amongmills and ash-trees, and houses with gardens and garden bowers, Williamand Dulcie were combating real flesh-and-blood woes--woes that would notso much set your teeth on edge, as soften and melt your tough, dryheart--among the bricks and mortar of London. These several years werenot light sunshiny years to the young couple. It is of no use sayingthat a man may prosper if he will, and that he has only to cultivatepotatoes and cabbages in place of jessamine and passion flowers; no usemaking examples of Sir Joshua and Vandyke, and telling triumphantly thatthey knew their business and did it simply--only pretending to get alivelihood and satisfy the public to the best of their ability, butending in becoming great painters. One man's meat is another man'spoison; one man's duty is not his neighbour's. When shall we apprehendor apply that little axiom? The Duchess of Portland killed threethousand snails in order that she might complete the shell-work forwhich she received so much credit; Dulcie would not have put her footvoluntarily on a single snail for a pension.
It was Will Locke's fate to vibrate between drudgery and dreaming;always tending more inevitably towards the latter, and lapsing into moredistant, absorbing trances, till he became more and more fantastic andunearthly, with his thin light hair, his half-transparent cheek, and hisstrained eyes. To prophesy on cardboard and canvas, in flower andfigure, with monster and star, crescent and triangle, in emerald greenand ruby red and sea blue, in dyes that, like those of the Bassani,resembled the clear shining of a handful of jewels, to prophesy in highart, to be half pitied, half derided, and to starve: was that WillLocke's duty?
Will thought so, in the most artless, unblemished, unswerving style; andhe was a devout fellow as well as a gifted one. He bowed to revelation,and read nature's secrets well before he for
sook her for heaven, orrather Hades. He devoted himself to the sacrifice; he did not grudge hislust of the eye, his lust of the flesh, his pride of life. He devotedDulcie, not without pangs; and he devoted his little sickly childrenpining and dying in St. Martin's Lane. He must follow his calling, hemust fulfil his destiny.
Dulcie was not quite such an enthusiast; she did love, honour, and obeyWill Locke, but she was sometimes almost mad to see him such a wreck. Ithad been a sent evil, and she had looked down into the gulf; but she hadmissed the depths. She had never seen its gloomy, dark, dreary nooks,poor lass! in her youthful boldness and lavishness; and our littlefeminine Curtius in the scoured silk, with the powdered brown curls, hadnot merely to penetrate them in one plunge, but had to descend,stumbling and groping her way, and starting back at the sense ofconfinement, the damp and the darkness. Who will blame her that shesometimes turned her head and looked back, and stretched up her armsfrom the desert to the flesh-pots of Egypt? She would have borneanything for her husband; and she did work marvels: she learned toengrave for him, coloured constantly with her light, pliant fingers, anddrew and painted from old fresh memories those articles of stoneware forthe potteries. She clothed herself in the cheapest and most lasting ofprinted linen sacques and mob caps, and hoods and aprons, fed herselfand him and the children on morsels wellnigh miraculously. She evenswallowed down the sight of Clary in her cut velvet and her own coach,whose panel Sam Winnington himself had not thought it beneath him totouch up for Clary's delectation and glory. If Will would only havetarried longer about his flowers and bees, and groves and rattlesnakes:if he had even stopped short at faces like those of Socrates, Caesar,Cleopatra, Fair Rosamond--what people could understand with help--andnot slid off faster and more fatally into that dim delirium of good andevil, angels and archangels, the devil of temptation and the goblin ofthe flesh, the red fiend of war, and the pale spirit of peace!
The difference which originated at Will and Dulcie's marriage hadended in alienation. Dulcie thought that Sam Winnington would havebridged it over at one time, if Will would have made any sign ofmeeting his overtures, or acknowledged Sam's talents and fortune: nay,even if Will had refrained from betraying his churlish doubts of Sam'sperfect deserts.
But no, this Will would not deign to do. The gentle, patient painter,contented with his own estimation of his endowments, and resigned tobe misjudged and neglected by the world, had his own indomitabledoggedness. He would never flatter the world's low taste forcommonplace, and its miserable short-sightedness; he would never payhomage to Sam Winnington which he did not deserve--a man very far fromhis equal--a mere clever portrait-painter, little better than askilled stonemason. Thus Sam Winnington and Will Locke took toflushing when each other's names were mentioned--sitting bolt uprightand declining to comment on each other's works, or else dismissingeach other's efforts in a few supremely contemptuous words. Certainlythe poor man rejected the rich not one whit less decidedly than therich man rejected the poor, and the Mordecais have always the best ofit. If we and our neighbours will pick out each other's eyes, commendus to the part of brave little Jack, rather than that of thebelligerent Giant, even when they are only eyeing each other previousto sitting down to the ominous banquet.
But this was a difficulty to Dulcie, as it is to most women. No onethinks of men's never showing a malign influence in this world; it isonly good women who are expected to prove angels outright here below.But it does seem that there is something more touching in their havingto stifle lawful instincts, and in their being forced to oppose andovercome unlawful passions--covetousness, jealousy, wrath, "hatred,malice, and all uncharitableness."
Dulcie, with the sharpness of her little face, divested of all itscounterbalancing roundness--a keen, worn little face since the day ithad smiled so confusedly but generously out of the scurvy silk in thechurch at Redwater--was a sweet-looking woman under her care-laden air.Some women retain sweetness under nought but skin and bone; they willnot pinch into meanness and spite; they have still faith and charity.One would not wonder though Dulcie afforded more vivid glimpses of _ilBeato's_ angels after the contour of her face was completely spoilt.
You can fancy the family room in St. Martin's Lane, some five or sixyears after Will Locke and Dulcie were wed, with its strange litter ofacids and aquafortis, graving tools and steel plates. Will and Dulciemight have been some of the abounding false coiners, had it not been forthe colours, the canvas, and the vessels from the potteries, all huddledtogether without attention to effect. Yet these were not without order,for they were too busy people to be able to afford to be purelydisorderly. They could not have had the curtain less scant, for thedaylight was precious to them; they had not space for more furniturethan might have sufficed a poor tradesman or better sort of mechanic;only there were traces of gentle birth and breeding in the casts, theprints and portfolios, the Dutch clock, and the great hulk of astate-bed hung with the perpetual dusky yellow damask, which served as anursery for the poor listless little children.
Presently Dulcie looked after the sops, and surreptitiously awarded Willthe Benjamite's portion, and Will ate it absently with the only appetitethere; though he, too, was a consumptive-looking man--a good deal moreso than when he attracted the pity of the good wife at the "Nine MilesInn." Then Dulcie crooned to the children of the milk-porridge she wouldgive them next night, and sang to them as she lulled them to sleep, herold breezy, bountiful English songs, "Young Roger came tapping atDolly's window," and "I met my lad at the garden gate," and brushedtheir faces into laughter with the primroses and hyacinths she hadbought for Will in Covent Garden Market. Will asked to see them in thespring twilight, and described the banks where they grew, with somerevival of his early lore, and added a tale of the fairies who made themtheir round tables and galleries, which caused the eldest child (theonly one who walked with Dulcie in his little coat to the church wherehe was christened) to open his heavy eyes, and clap his hot hands, andcry, "More, father, more." Will and Dulcie looked gladly into eachother's eyes at his animation, and boasted what a stamping, thunderingman he would yet live to be--that midge, that sprite, with Dulcie'ssmall skeleton bones, and Will's dry, lustreless, fair hair!
Anon while Dulcie was still rocking one of these weary children moaningin its sleep, Will must needs strike a light to resume his belovedlabours; but first he directed his candle to his canvas, and called onDulcie to contemplate and comprehend, while he murmured and raved to herof the group of fallen men and women crouching in the den--of the windof horror raising their hair,--of the dawn of hope bursting in theeastern sky, and high above them the fiendish crew, and the captains ofthe Blessed still swaying to and fro in the burdened air, and strikingdeadly blows for supremacy. And Dulcie, open-eyed and open-mouthed as ofold, looked at the captives, as if listening to the strife that was tocome, and wellnigh heard the thunder of the captains and the shouting,while her eye was always eagerly pointed to that pearly streak which wasto herald the one long, cool, calm, bright day of humanity. No wonderDulcie was as demented as Will, and thought it would be a very littlematter though the milk-porridge were sour on the morrow, or if thecarrier did not come with the price in his pocket for these sweet pots,and bowls, and pipkins: she believed her poor babies were well at restfrom the impending dust, and din, and danger; and smiled deep, quietsmiles at Clary--poor Clary, with her cut velvet, her coach, and herblack boy. Verily Will and Dulcie could afford to refer not onlypleasantly but mercifully, to Sam Winnington and Clary that night.
"It is contemptible to lose sight of the sublimity of life even to enjoyperfect ease and happiness." That is a very grand saying; but, oh dear!we are poor creatures; and though Dulcie is an infinitely nobler beingnow than then, the tears are fit to start into our eyes when we rememberthe little brown head which "bridled finely," the little feet whichpranced lightly, and the little tongue which wagged, free from care, inthe stage waggon on the country road yon clear September day.
VI.--SAM AND CLARISSA IN COMPANY IN LEICESTER SQUARE.
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sp; Sam and Clarissa were worshipful people now. Uncle Barnet no longerinvited them to his second-rate parties; Uncle Barnet was really proudto visit them in their own home. Sam Winnington was a discerningmortal; he had a faculty for discovering genius, especially thatwork-a-day genius which is in rising men; and he certainly hadbird-lime wherewith he could fix their feet under his hospitabletable. The best of the sages and wits of the day were to be met in SamWinnington's house; the best of the sages and wits of the day thoughtClary a fine woman, though a little lofty, and Sam a good fellow, anhonest chum, a delightful companion, and at the same time the princeof portrait-painters. What an eye he had! what a touch! How muchperception of individual character, and at the same time, what soberjudgment and elegant taste to preserve his sitters, ladies andgentlemen, as well as men and women! Cavaliers would have it, theladies and gentlemen, like Sam's condescension at his wedding-feast,overtopped the mark; but it was erring on the safe side. Who would notsink the man in the gentleman? After all, perhaps the sages and witswere not altogether disinterested: almost every one of them filled SamWinnington's famous sitter's chair, and depended on Sam's tastefulpencil handing down their precious noses and chins to posterity.
Sam and Clary were going abroad, in that coach, which had made DulcieLocke look longingly after it, and ponder what it would be for one ofher frail children to have "a ride" on the box as far as Kensington.They were bound for the house of one of the lordly patrons of arts andletters. They were bound for my Lord Burlington's, or the Earl ofMulgrave's, or Sir William Beechey's--for a destination where they werea couple of mark and distinction, to be received with the utmostconsideration. Sam reared smartly his round but not ill-proportionedperson in his rich brocade coat, and Clary towered in the corner withher white throat, and her filmy ivory-coloured laces.
We won't see many more distinguished men and women than the members ofthe set who frequented the old London tea-parties; and Sam Winningtonand Clary were in it and of it, while Will Locke and Dulcie werepoverty-stricken and alone with their bantlings in the garret in St.Martin's Lane. What becomes of the doctrine of happiness being equallydivided in this world, as so many comfortable persons love to opine?Possibly we don't stand up for it; or we may have our loophole, by whichwe may let ourselves out and drag it in. Was that illustrious voyage allplain sailing? Sam Winnington used to draw a long sigh, and lay back hishead and close his eyes in his coach, after the rout was over. He wasnot conscious of acting; he was not acting, and one might dare another,if that other were not a cynic, to say that the motive was unworthy. Hewanted to put his sitters on a good footing with themselves; he wantedto put the world on a good footing with itself; it was the man's nature.He did not go very far down; he was not without his piques, and likeother good-natured men--like Will Locke, for that matter--when he wasonce offended he was apt to be vindictive; but he was buoyant, and thatlittle man must have had a great fund of charity about him somewhere tobe drawn upon at first sight. Still this popularity was no joke. Therewere other rubs. The keen love of approbation in the little man, whichwas at the bottom of his suavity, was galled by the least condemnationof his work and credit; he was too manly to enact the old man and theass, but successful Sam Winnington was about as soon pricked as a manwho wears a fold of silk on his breast instead of the old plate armour.
Clary had her own aggravations: with all her airs Clary was not a matchfor the indomitable, unhesitating, brazen (with a golden brazenness)women of fashion. Poor Clary had been the beauty at Redwater, the mostmodish, the best informed woman there; and here, in this world ofLondon, to which Sam had got her an introduction, she was a nobody;scarcely to be detected among the host of ordinary fine women, except bySam's reflected glory. This was a doubtful boon, an unsatisfactory risein the social scale. Then Clary had nobody beyond Sam to look to, andhope and pray for: she had not even sickly children to nurse, likeDulcie. Sam would only live to future generations in his paintings. Ah,well! it was fortunate that Sam was a man of genius.
You may believe, for all the grand company, the coach, the cut velvet,the laces, and the black boy, that this world was but a mighty sorry,uneasy place to Sam and Clarissa as they rolled home over the pavement,while Will and Dulcie slept with little betwixt them and the stars.
VII.--STRIPS SOME OF THE THORNS FROM THE HEDGE AND THE GARDEN ROSES.
Will Locke lay dying. One would have thought, from his tranquillity,confidence, and love of work, even along with spare diet, that he wouldhave lived long. But dreamland cannot be a healthy region for a man inthe body to inhabit. Will was going where his visions would be as noughtto the realities. He was still one of the most peaceful, the happiest offellows, as he had been all his life. He babbled of the pictures hewould paint in another region, as if he were conscious that he hadpainted in a former state. It seemed, too, that the poor fellow'sspiritual life, apart from his artist career, took sounder, cheeriersubstance and form, as the other life grew dimmer and wilder. Dulcie wasalmost reconciled to let Will go; for he would be more at home in thespirit-world than here, and she had seen sore trouble, which taught herto acquiesce, when there were a Father and a Friend seen glimmeringlybut hopefully beyond the gulf. Dulcie moved about, with her childholding by her skirts, resigned and helpful in her sorrow.
The most clouded faces in the old room in St. Martin's Lane--with itsold litter, so grievous to-day, of brushes, and colours, and gravingtools, and wild pictures which the painter would never touch more--werethose of Sam Winnington and Clary. Will had bidden Sam and Clary be sentfor to his deathbed; and, offended as they had been, and widely severedas they were now, they rose and came trembling to obey the summons.Clary gave one look, put her handkerchief quickly to her eyes, and thenturned and softly covered the tools, lifted the boiling pot to the sideof the grate, and took Dulcie's fretful, wondering child in her lap. Shewas not a fine lady now, but a woman in distress. Sam stood immoveableand uncertain, with a man's awkwardness, but a face working withsuppressed emotion.
Will felt no restraint; he sat up in his faded coat with his cravat opento give him air, and turning his wan face with its dark shadow towardsSam Winnington in his velvet coat, with a diamond ring sparkling on hissplashed hand, and his colour, which had grown rosy of late years,heightened with emotion, addressed his old friend.
"I wanted to see you, Sam; I had something on my mind, and I could notdepart with full satisfaction without saying it to you; I have doneyou wrong."
Sam raised his head, startled, and stared at the sick man: poor WillLocke; were his wits utterly gone? they had always been somewhat toseek: though he had been a wonderful fellow, too, in his ownway--wonderful at flowers, and birds, and beasts, if he had but beencontent with them.
"I called you a mere portrait-painter, Sam," continued the dying man; "Irefused to acknowledge your inspiration, and I knew better: I saw thatto you was granted the discernment to read the human face and the soulbehind it, as to me it was given to hold converse with nature and thesubtle essence of good and evil. Most painters before you have paintedmasks; but yours are the clothings of immortals: and your flesh iswonderful, Sam--how you have perfected it! And it is not true what theytell you of your draperies: you are the only man alive who can renderthem picturesque and not absurd, refined and not stinted. You were agenteel fellow, too, from the beginning, and would no more do a dirtyaction when you had only silver coins to jingle in your pockets, thannow when they are stuffed with gold moidores."
"Oh, Will, Will!" cried Sam, desperately bowing his head; "I have donelittle for you."
"Man!" cried Will, with a kingly incredulity, "what could you do for me?I wanted nothing. I was withdrawn somewhat from my proper field, tomould and colour for daily bread; but Dulcie saved me many a wastedhour, and I could occupy the period of a mechanical job inconceiving--no, in marshalling my visions. Mine was a different, analtogether higher line than yours, Sam; you will forgive me if I havetold you too abruptly," and the poverty-stricken painter, at his lastgasp, looked deprecatingly at his old honoured
associate.
But he was too far gone for ceremony; he was too near release for pain.He had even shaken hands with the few family cares he was capable ofexperiencing, and had commended Dulcie to Sam Winnington without asingle doubt. He felt, like Gainsborough, that they were all going toheaven, and Vandyke was in the company. Where was the room formisunderstanding now! Here was the end of strife, and the conclusion ofthe whole matter. Some other sentences Will spoke before his partingbreath; and when his hearers heard him murmuring the word "garment,"they fancied he still raved of his calling--on to the end. But his mindhad turned and taken refuge in another calling, and it was in referenceto it that he quoted the fragment of a verse, "And besought him thatthey might touch if it were but the border of his garment; and as manyas touched him were made whole." "Sam, have you put forth your hand?"
Thus Will Locke departed rejoicing. Dulcie, a thin forlorn widow woman,talked with a lingering echo of his elevation, of her Will's beingbeyond lamentation, and of herself and her boy's being well off withtheir faith in the future. Dulcie had a proud, constant presentiment inthe recesses of her woman's heart that the husband and father's goodname and merited reputation would surely find his memory out in thisworld yet. She had no material possessions save a few of his gorgeous,gruesome, hieroglyphical pictures, and what she had borrowed orinherited of his lower cunning in tinting, a more marketable commodityin the present mind of society.
Dulcie disposed of Will's paintings, reluctantly, realizing anastonishing amount; astonishing, unless you take into account the factthat his companions and contemporaries were not sure that he was a meremadman now that he had gone from their ranks. They wished to atone fortheir dislike to his vagaries by preserving some relics of the curioushandling, the grotesque imagination, the delicate taste, and the finelyaccurate knowledge of vegetable and animal forms which had passed away.
Then Dulcie went back in the waggon to her old friends at Fairfax,and, by so doing, probably saved her sole remaining child. Dulcie didnot know whether to be glad or sorry when she found that Will's boyhad no more of his father's genius than might have been derived fromher own quick talents, and neat, nice fingers. And she was comforted:not in the sense of marrying again--oh dear, no! she cherished thememory of her Will as a sacred thing, and through all her returningplumpness and rosiness--for she was still a young woman--never forgotthe honour she had borne in being a great painter's wife and companionfor half-a-dozen years. Perhaps, good as she was, she grew rather tobrandish this credit in the faces of the cloth-workers and theirwives; to speak a little bigly of the galleries and the Academy, ofchiaroscuro and perspective, of which the poor ignoramuses knewnothing: to be obstinate on her dignity, and stand out on hergentility far before that of the attorneys' and the doctors'wives;--and all this though she had been, as you may remember, theleast assuming of girls, the least exacting of wives. But women havemany sides to their nature, and remain puzzles--puzzles in theirvirtues as in their vices; and if Dulcie were ever guilty ofostentation, you have not to dive deep to discover that it was out ofrespect to her Will--to her great, simple, single-hearted painter.
No, Will Locke's was not a life wrecked on the rocks of adversity, anymore than Sam Winnington's was stranded on the sandbanks of prosperity.The one did a little to mellow the other before the scenes closed, andWill Locke was less obliged to Sam Winnington than Sam to Will in theend. Will's nature and career were scarcely within the scope of Sam'sgenial material philosophy; but the thought of them did grow to crossSam's mind during his long work-hours; and good painters' hours aremostly stoutly, steadily, indefatigably long. He pondered them even whenhe was jesting playfully with the affable aristocrat under his pencil;he spoke of them often to Clary when he was sketching at her work-tableof an evening; and she, knitting beside him, would stop her work andrespond freely. Then Sam would rise, and, with his hands behind hisback, go and look at that lush, yet delicate picture of the RedwaterBower which he had got routed out, framed, and hung in Clary'sdrawing-room. He would contemplate it for many minutes at a study, andhe would repeat the study scores and scores of times with always thesame result--the conviction of the ease and security resulting fromspiritualizing matter, and the difficulty and hopelessness ofmaterializing spirit. And after these long looks into the past, Samwould be more forbearing in pronouncing verdicts on his brethren,worsted in the effort to express what was inherent in their minds; wouldnot decide quite so dogmatically, that all a man had to do was to besound and diligent, and keep himself far apart from high-flown rubbish,like a common-sense, sober-minded Englishman. And Sam came to be lessfeverishly anxious about his own monopoly of public esteem; less nettledat art-criticism; perhaps less vivacious in his talents and well-doing,but more manly and serene in his triumph, as Will Locke had been manlyand serene in his failure.
Will Locke's life and death, so devoid of pomp and renown, might bebeyond lamentation, after all.