It was about
the close of the month, that,
yielding at length
to the urgent importunities of
Rose, I accompanied her in a
visit to Wildfell Hall. To our
surprise, we were ushered into
a room where the first object
that met the eye was a painter's
easel, with a table beside it
covered with rolls of canvas,
bottles of oil and varnish, palette,
brushes, paints, &c. Leaning
against the wall were several
sketches in various stages of
progression, and a few finished
paintings - mostly of landscapes
and figures.
'I must make you welcome to
my studio,' said Mrs. Graham;
'there is no fire in the sitting-room
to-day, and it is rather too
cold to show you into a place
with an empty grate.'
And disengaging a couple of
chairs from the artistical lumber
that usurped them, she bid us
be seated, and resumed her place
beside the easel - not facing
it exactly, but now and then
glancing at the picture upon
it while she conversed, and giving
it an occasional touch with her
brush, as if she found it impossible
to wean her attention entirely
from her occupation to fix it
upon her guests. It was a view
of Wildfell Hall, as seen at
early morning from the field
below, rising in dark relief
against a sky of clear silvery
blue, with a few red streaks
on the horizon, faithfully drawn
and coloured, and very elegantly
and artistically handled.
'I see your heart is in your
work, Mrs. Graham,' observed
I: 'I must beg you to go on with
it; for if you suffer our presence
to interrupt you, we shall be
constrained to regard ourselves
as unwelcome intruders.'
'Oh, no!' replied she, throwing
her brush on to the table, as
if startled into politeness.
'I am not so beset with visitors
but that I can readily spare
a few minutes to the few that
do favour me with their company.'
'You have almost completed
your painting,' said I, approaching
to observe it more closely, and
surveying it with a greater degree
of admiration and delight than
I cared to express. 'A few more
touches in the foreground will
finish it, I should think. But
why have you called it Fernley
Manor, Cumberland, instead of
Wildfell Hall, -shire?' I asked,
alluding to the name she had
traced in small characters at
the bottom of the canvas.
But immediately I was sensible
of having committed an act of
impertinence in so doing; for
she coloured and hesitated; but
after a moment's pause, with
a kind of desperate frankness,
she replied:-
'Because I have friends - acquaintances
at least - in the world, from
whom I desire my present abode
to be concealed; and as they
might see the picture, and might
possibly recognise the style
in spite of the false initials
I have put in the corner, I take
the precaution to give a false
name to the place also, in order
to put them on a wrong scent,
if they should attempt to trace
me out by it.'
'Then you don't intend to keep
the picture?' said I, anxious
to say anything to change the
subject.
'No; I cannot afford to paint
for my own amusement.'
'Mamma sends all her pictures
to London,' said Arthur; 'and
somebody sells them for her there,
and sends us the money.'
In looking round upon the other
pieces, I remarked a pretty sketch
of Linden-hope from the top of
the hill; another view of the
old hall basking in the sunny
haze of a quiet summer afternoon;
and a simple but striking little
picture of a child brooding,
with looks of silent but deep
and sorrowful regret, over a
handful of withered flowers,
with glimpses of dark low hills
and autumnal fields behind it,
and a dull beclouded sky above.
'You see there is a sad dearth
of subjects,' observed the fair
artist. 'I took the old hall
once on a moonlight night, and
I suppose I must take it again
on a snowy winter's day, and
then again on a dark cloudy evening;
for I really have nothing else
to paint. I have been told that
you have a fine view of the sea
somewhere in the neighbourhood.
Is it true? - and is it within
walking distance?'
'Yes, if you don't object to
walking four miles - or nearly
so - little short of eight miles,
there and back - and over a somewhat
rough, fatiguing road.'
'In what direction does it
lie?'
I described the situation as
well as I could, and was entering
upon an explanation of the various
roads, lanes, and fields to be
traversed in order to reach it,
the goings straight on, and turnings
to the right and the left, when
she checked me with, -
'Oh, stop! don't tell me now:
I shall forget every word of
your directions before I require
them. I shall not think about
going till next spring; and then,
perhaps, I may trouble you. At
present we have the winter before
us, and - '
She suddenly paused, with a
suppressed exclamation, started
up from her seat, and saying,
'Excuse me one moment,' hurried
from the room, and shut the door
behind her.
Curious to see what had startled
her so, I looked towards the
window - for her eyes had been
carelessly fixed upon it the
moment before - and just beheld
the skirts of a man's coat vanishing
behind a large holly-bush that
stood between the window and
the porch.
'It's mamma's friend,' said
Arthur.
Rose and I looked at each other.
'I don't know what to make
of her at all,' whispered Rose.
The child looked at her in
grave surprise. She straightway
began to talk to him on indifferent
matters, while I amused myself
with looking at the pictures.
There was one in an obscure corner
that I had not before observed.
It was a little child, seated
on the grass with its lap full
of flowers. The tiny features
and large blue eyes, smiling
through a shock of light brown
curls, shaken over the forehead
as it bent above its treasure,
bore sufficient resemblance to
those of the young gentleman
before me to proclaim it a portrait
of Arthur Graham in his early
infancy.
In taking this up to bring
it to the light, I discovered
another behind it, with its face
to the wall. I ventured to take
that up too. It was the portrait
of a gentleman in the full prime
of youthful manhood - handsome
enough, and not badly executed;
but if done by the same hand
as the others, it was evidently
some years before; for there
was far more careful minuteness
of detail, and less of that freshness
of colouring and freedom of handling
that delighted and surprised
me in them. Nevertheless, I surveyed
it with considerable interest.
There was a certain individuality
in the features and expression
that stamped it, at once, a successful
likeness. The bright blue eyes
regarded the spectator with a
kind of lurking drollery - you
almost expected to see them wink;
the lips - a little too voluptuously
full - seemed ready to break
into a smile; the warmly-tinted
cheeks were embellished with
a luxuriant growth of reddish
whiskers; while the bright chestnut
hair, clustering in abundant,
wavy curls, trespassed too much
upon the forehead, and seemed
to intimate that the owner thereof
was prouder of his beauty than
his intellect - as, perhaps,
he had reason to be; and yet
he looked no fool.
I had not had the portrait
in my hands two minutes before
the fair artist returned.
'Only some one come about the
pictures,' said she, in apology
for her abrupt departure: 'I
told him to wait.'
'I fear it will be considered
an act of impertinence,' said
'to presume to look at a picture
that the artist has turned to
the wall; but may I ask -'
'It is an act of very great
impertinence, sir; and therefore
I beg you will ask nothing about
it, for your curiosity will not
be gratified,' replied she, attempting
to cover the tartness of her
rebuke with a smile; but I could
see, by her flushed cheek and
kindling eye, that she was seriously
annoyed.
'I was only going to ask if
you had painted it yourself,'
said I, sulkily resigning the
picture into her hands; for without
a grain of ceremony she took
it from me; and quickly restoring
it to the dark corner, with its
face to the wall, placed the
other against it as before, and
then turned to me and laughed.
But I was in no humour for
jesting. I carelessly turned
to the window, and stood looking
out upon the desolate garden,
leaving her to talk to Rose for
a minute or two; and then, telling
my sister it was time to go,
shook hands with the little gentleman,
coolly bowed to the lady, and
moved towards the door. But,
having bid adieu to Rose, Mrs.
Graham presented her hand to
me, saying, with a soft voice,
and by no means a disagreeable
smile, - 'Let not the sun go
down upon your wrath, Mr. Markham.
I'm sorry I offended you by my
abruptness.'
When a lady condescends to
apologise, there is no keeping
one's anger, of course; so we
parted good friends for once;
and this time I squeezed her
hand with a cordial, not a spiteful
pressure.
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