The Painter's Family, Part I [pp. 145-148]

146 APPLETONS' JO (JR NAL OF POPULAR [SEPTEMBER 15,
eyes; "misers have no tears for other folks' troubles, and I am cry ing this minute. No, Maggie, you're not miserly; but you've a tem per of your own, and you must come out of that, my dear friend, for
these ways ain't becoming to an old woman. Ah, but it's a hard
matter to make one's self.over after sixty years! Never mind, as our
minister, the Reverend Josaphat Berlington, says,'It's never too late
to turn into the path of salvation.'"
Thus discoursing with herself, the fish-wife passed in review all
the pictures and sketches that covered the cracked wall of the paint er's workroom.
All of a sudden her eyes were riveted upon one portrait.
"What is this? Am I dreaming awake? That countenance!
That dress! Why, yes,'tis he himself. By what singular chance?
Ah, John, here's another of your tricks, sir!"
Sarah was now back again, loaded with a great six-pound loaf of
brown bread. She laid this down on a crazy old table, and holding
out her hand to Maggie:
"Here, kind dame, is three pence change of your shilling; and
there now are six pounds of bread, that will do us good service."
"You are poking fun at me surely, Sarah; keep the pennies,
honey; you'll find use for them."
Meanwhile the four little ones had waked up. At the sight of the
bread they began to twitter, like a nest of young swallows. Sarah
went to them.
"My little darlings; no chit-chat before prayers. On your knees
now!"
The four children knelt upon their rags, and lisped a little prayer
to the God of the poor and the afflicted. After asking the Almighty
to bless their father, their sister, and themselves, Sarah added, "God
bless good Mistress Graham, who gives us bread for the love of
Thee."
Taken thus by surprise, the old woman's heart overflowed.
"There, there," said she, wiping her eyes with a large Madras silk
handkerchief, "see if old Maggie isn't crying like a child! Come,
come, Sarah, don't mind me, but dress these little angels."
While Sarah was busied with these motherly cares, Maggie, planted
in the middle of the studio, said, in a careless way:
"Miss Sarah, you have very fine pictures here; they must be good
likenesses. By the whale of the prophet Jonah! here is one," and
she pointed to her son's portrait, "that is alive enough to talk.
Those pictures ought to bring your father a mint o' money, Sarah!"
"Don't speak of them, Mrs. Graham," replied the girl; "the por traits you see there have brought distress upon our family."
"So, really? How did that happen, Miss Sarah?"
"'Tis a short story, madam. A little after mother's death, three
young noblemen of Oxford, down at London on a frolic, were ad dressed to my father, and asked to have their portraits taken, as they
said, for their parents."
"And the names of these young nobles, if you please?"
"One of them was the Earl of Clarendon, another was the Marquis of Norfolk; as for the third, who was decidedly the handsomest
and the most polite," added Sarah, ingenuously, "he belonged to one
of the richest families of London; he did not tell his name. His two
friends called him John."
"John! That's him, indeed," growled the old matron, taking a
huge pinch of snuff.
"Do you know him, mistress?"
"Ah! Everybody knows John; the name is so common. Maybe
I know him, maybe I don't know him. But it seems to me that this
young gentleman-for all those Oxonians are young gentlemen-has
not made an enemy of you, Miss Sarah."
"Indeed," replied she, blushing under Maggie's gaze, "this Mr.
John seemed so genteel, so kind and manly, his face was so frank and
open, that I felt confidence in him at once."
"And your heart, Miss Sarah?"
Her eyes sought the ground.
"Come, come, Sarah, there's no harm in that; and you needn't
blush as though you'd been in fault; but go on, please, about the portraits."
"These gentlemen sat to my father for their portraits, which you
see there. Poor father was hardly able to paint them; he was grieving so after our mother; but anxiety, on our account, made him consent. He got to work in earnest, and, in less than two months, he
finished these three portraits. He seemed almost happy at having
succeeded so well, and hurried with his pictures to the hotel where
the young gentlemen put up. You may judge how he felt when told
that they had left for Oxford the evening before, and without a word
or line for him! Father was in despair; but the hotel-keeper said
that perhaps it would all come out fair; that these young gentlemen
had spent a deal of money in the city; that they belonged to noble
and rich families, who might sooner or later reward his pains. Father
came home sad and bitter. To give all his time to this work and
satisfy the young gentlemen, who were pressing him, he had declined
an offer from the Dean of Westminster to undertake the restoration
of the paintings and frescoes of the Hall of the Order of the Garter.
It was very imprudent; but father is just so; when he gets interested
in a painting, nothing can tear him away from it; he says it would
haunt him like the ghost of an injured man, unless he finished it.
That hall would have been a paying job, and it would have brought
father again before the public; it was given to another artist. Is it
not true, Mrs. Graham, that these portraits have brought us ill hap?"
"The confounded giddy pates!" exclaimed old Maggie; "but tell
me, didn't your father try to fish up these debtors of yours?"
"My father would have gone to Oxford; but he couldn't raise the
money. It's many a long day now since we have had a guinea to live
on, much less to travel with."
"You should have written."
"So father did."
"Well, did they show no signs of life?"
"Excuse me, mistress; one of our debtors answered the letter...
it was Mr. John. He was polite, and even kindly; but he sent no
money."
"Ah, John! And so John wrote to you? If it wouldn't be ask ing too much, Miss Sarah, will you show me that letter?"
"To be sure, Mrs. Graham. I am glad I can show you why it is
no fault of ours that we cannot pay. The letter lies in that portfolio
of sketches, and you will know it by the Oxford postmark."
Maggie rummaged a little, and soon found the letter.
"Yes," said she, "this is John's handwriting. "Oh, the rascal l"
I see now where those fifty pounds sterling he asked me for, to
pay his graduation-fee, have gone. He has been taking out his license
at the theatres and routs."
"What is that you were saying, mistress?" asked Sarah, as she
finished dressing her little brothers.
"Nothing-oh, nothing at all, Miss Sarah; I was only thinking
what scamps these Oxonians are-regular sword-fish that run a muck
at their relations and other folks, without the least bit of conscience.
It is abominable!"
While fulminating this anathema against the unresisting Univer sity of Oxford, Mistress Graham opened the letter, and read as fol lows:
'MY DEAR AND VERY HONORABLE MR. OSBY-'
" Oh, the serpent!" remarked Maggie; "it's little fine words cost
him."
She resumed:
"' It would afford me great satisfaction to meet your just and legitimate claim, were it now in my power. Unluckily, both myself and
friends are very hard up at this moment, for, having been on somewhat of a breeze on our late trip to London, we dissipated, in a few
weeks, sums greater than we can yet awhile recover. This, sir, is not
said as an excuse, nor in any wise to justify our heedless behavior
toward you, but simply to propitiate your indulgent patience by a candid confession.
"' Be well assured, dear sir, that you will not be the loser by waiting. You know that the Earl of Clarendon and the Marquis of Norfolk are heirs to.immense fortunes. I shall myself have a comfortable
nest-egg.'We all love art and artists, and shall take a pride in becoming your Muecenas and Medicis. A little more patience, then, my honored friend, and your incontestable and splendid talents will resume,
through our patronage, all the lustre that misfortune has eclipsed.
"'Norfolk and Clarendon are through with their examinations,
and will shortly return to their homes. After having defended my
thesis, I also shall leave Oxford; hence you may presume upon a
prompt solution of the difficulty in question.
"'Until our next meeting, then, O rival of Caravaggio and of
APPLETO-S' JO U:R-YAL OF.POPULA.R
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[SEPTEmBER 18,