Eli's Children: The Chronicles of an Unhappy Family

Part 1, Chapter XXXI.
In the Den

You had to pass through James Magnus’s studio to get to his sitting-room, and through the latter to get to his bed-room, and the task was not an easy one. Lord Artingale knew his way by heart, but a stranger would have been puzzled from the moment he entered the lobby or hall. For the place resembled a Wardour-street old curiosity shop more than the abode of a well-known artist. A woman with the bump of order thoroughly developed would, if she had been placed in charge, have immediately invested in a dozen dusters, a turk’s-head, and a feather brush, and gone to the attack, but only to sink down in utter despair.

Chaos seemed to have come back again at the abode of James Magnus, and modern nature and art to have joined hands to cover the aforesaid chaos with dust. For there was dust everywhere; thick, black, sooty dust of that peculiar kind that affects Fitzroy-square. It was never removed, save when a picture, chair, or “property” was taken from one part of the place to another, and the dust thus set floating, floated and settled upon something else. Certainly there was some kind of order in the sitting and bed-room, where the artists man attended, but it was mostly disorder.

“I hate having my things moved,” said Magnus. “When I set to work, I like to be able to begin at once, and not have to hunt for everything I want.”

“I think the place is just perfect,” said Harry Artingale. “One can get plenty of tidiness everywhere else, Jemmy, and I like coming to the den to be a beast.”

So to make matters more comfortable Artingale, at first out of fun, later on from habit, used to carefully place all his cigar ashes and ends wherever he could find a ledge – on the chimney-pieces, on the tops of upturned canvases, on the inner parts of their frames, and balance soda-water and beer or hock corks upon the properties.

You entered the lobby or hall to be confronted by dusty busts and casts, and you went thence into the studio to be confronted by more dusty busts and casts. There were life-sized plaster figures of plenty of well-known antiques mixed up with a heterogeneous collection of artistic odds and ends. There were canvases new and old, with charcoal drawings, sketches, and half-finished paintings, costumes of all kinds, savage weapons, arms and armour, easels from the simplest to the most modern with its screws, and racks and reflectors, and tubes for gas. Rich pieces of carpet partially covered the floor. On one side stood a large raised daïs for sitters, and for non-sitters who wished to sit down there were quaint old carven chairs.

The value of the contents of that studio must have been great, for James Magnus earned a great deal of money, and never grudged spending it upon what he called necessaries for his art. Hence it was that handsome vases and specimens of bronze and brass work were plentiful, but they were stuck anywhere, and as often as not held empty or full paint tubes, or served as supports to great palettes covered with pigments of every hue.

The sitting-room was almost a repetition of the studio, but it was thickly carpeted, and contained more furniture, with easy-chairs, a dining-table of massive oak, and had a free and easy, chaotic comfort about it that would make a bachelor feel quite at home.

The walls bore plenty of pictures, mostly from the brushes of brother artists, and these, with the great full folios, formed a most valuable collection.

It was here that Harry Artingale had taken most pains, as a very old friend and constant companion, to embellish the room with his cigar-ends. Here, too, he had at odd times shown his own love and reverence for art by improving some of the antique casts with whiskers and moustachios. There was a cast of Venus quite life-size, which, evidently for decorous reasons, he had dressed in a seventeenth-century brocade silk dress, from which she looked naïvely at a lay figure in Spanish costume and mantilla; while close by there was an Apollo Belvedere, half garbed in sixteenth-century armour, standing behind a large pair of jack boots that could not be put on.

There were, in fact, a hundred playful little relics of Lord Artingale’s diversions when in idle mood; one of the latest being the boring of a hole in a plaster Clytie’s lips, for the insertion of a cigar, and another the securing of a long clay pipe and a beer bock in the hands of a Diana, from which a bow and arrow had been removed.

“You see, he is sech a gent for his larks,” said Burgess, a nobly bearded, herculean, ungrammatical being, who looked big and bold enough to attack a Nemsean lion, or stride to an encounter in a Roman amphitheatre, but who had about as much spirit as a mouse.

Burgess was Magnus’s factotum, valet and houseman; and an excellent cook. He was not clever at cleaning, but the artist rather liked that, especially as he could admirably make a bed, and in addition was one of the noblest-looking and most patient models in London.

But now Burgess was developing a fresh facet in his many-sided character, namely that of nurse; and he had shown a sleeplessness and watchful care that were beyond praise.

“How is he, my lord?” he said, as he opened the door to Artingale, some months after the occurrences in the last two chapters.

“Well, my lord – ”

“Now look here, Burgess; haven’t I told you a dozen times over to say ‘sir’ to me when I’m here?”

“Yes, sir, but these are serious times, and I only meant it out of respect.”

“I know – of course, Burgess; but isn’t he better?”

“He says he is, sir; and the doctor – he’s only just this minute gone, sir.”

“Yes, I know. I saw his brougham.”

“The doctor says he’s better, sir, as he has for months; but he do keep so low, and,” continued the man in a despairing tone, “it ain’t no matter what I cook or make up, or try to tempt him with, he don’t seem to pick a bit.”

“Poor fellow!” muttered Artingale, handing his overcoat and hat to the man.

“I did think this morning that he was coming round, sir, for he has had his colours and a canvas on the bed, and I had to prop him up. I don’t know, sir, I – I – ”

The great Hercules of a fellow’s voice changed, and he turned aside to hide the weak tears that gathered in his eyes, and began to trickle slowly down his cheeks, though they had not far to go before they were able to hide themselves in his beard.

“Oh, come, come, Burgess,” cried Artingale, who felt touched at this display of affection on the part of servant towards master, “it isn’t so bad as that.”

The man hastily threw the light overcoat upon a chair, and turned sharply round to catch the visitors arm, and gaze earnestly in his eyes.

“Do you – do you really think, sir, that poor master will get well?”

“Yes, yes, of course I do, Burgess. I feel sure of it, my dear fellow. There, shake hands, Burgess. ’Pon my soul I like you, I do indeed.”

“And him a real true lord!” thought Burgess, as he gingerly held out a great hand, which the other shook.

“Get well? of course he will, if it’s only to help me break that scoundrel’s neck, – a blackguard!”

“I only wish I had my will of him, sir,” cried Burgess, grinding his teeth; “I’d serve him out.”

“Would you?” said Artingale, smiling. “What would you do?”

“I’d make him stand for the old man in the Laocöon sixteen hours a day for stoodents. He wouldn’t want anything worse. But please go in gently, sir, and don’t wake master if he’s asleep.”

“All right,” was the reply; and the young man made his way carefully amongst the artistic lumber, and through the studio into the dining-room, at one corner of which was the artist’s chamber.

Artingale sighed as he went silently across the thick carpet, for that room was full of memories of numberless merry evenings, and as he paused for a moment beside his friend’s empty chair, a dull sense of pain oppressed him, and he found himself wondering whether he was not taking too sanguine a view of his old companion’s state.

“Poor old chap!” he said. “How nice it would be if that could come off. Cynthy says it shall, and I don’t see why it shouldn’t. Let’s see; I’m to give him Cynthy’s love and this rosebud. She said he would be sure to find out that it was one that Julie had worn. I wonder whether old Mag does care for her; he’s such a close old oyster, and never did make up to women. Well, for the matter of that, no more did I till I met Cynthia – not much.”

He went gently on to the door in the corner, and listened, but all was very still, and he paused for a few minutes in a state of hesitation, for which he could not account, and with one hand raised to open the door.

“He must be asleep,” he said to himself.

“Poor old boy, only to think of it. One moment bright and happy and full of life, and the next moment a helpless mass, with hardly the strength to move. Well, poor fellow, Cynthy is right. If he does care for Julie he has just gone the way to find a tender spot in her heart.”

He took hold of the handle and turned it, to find that Burgess had been so busy with a feather and the salad oil flask, that the door yielded without a sound, and he glided into the darkened room.

It was handsomely furnished, but its occupant’s profession could be seen at every turn, for the rich litter of the studio that had overflowed into the dining-room, had come in here, and covered walls and filled corners with artistic trifles.

The room had been built for a smaller studio, and was lit from the roof, blinds being contrived so as to draw like a Roman velum across the glass.

These were partly undrawn now, giving a weird effect to the half-dark room, across whose gloom a boldly-defined broad bar of light, full of tiny dancing motes, shone down upon the artist’s bed.

The door was by the head of the couch, and the figure of its occupant was hidden by the hangings, as well as by a carefully-arranged screen covered with fantastic Japanese designs, but Artingale felt a strange thrill run through him as he caught sight of the lower portion of the bed, and took a couple of steps rapidly forward, but only to stop short the next moment, as if paralysed by what he saw.

Part 1, Chapter XXXII.
Magnus Makes Confession

Not many moments before, Artingale had wonderingly asked himself whether Magnus cared for her whom he regarded quite as a sister, and about whose state he was troubled in no small degree. The question was answered now without room for a doubt.

Poor fellow! It had been a terrible cut he had received upon his head in the fall that night. There had been concussion of the brain, with fever and delirium, and for a long time his state had been very serious. Then came some slight amendment, but only to be followed, for months, by a depression which seemed to master the strong man’s spirits; and this, too, in spite of the efforts of the medical men, constant nursing, and the companionship of Artingale, given to such an extent that Cynthia had pouted, and then thrown her arms round “dear Harry’s” neck, and told him she loved him ten thousand times better for his devotion to his friend.

Artingale had been with Magnus the night before, but had been kept away that morning, and it was now close upon five o’clock when he stood as it were petrified at the sight which met his eyes.

As has been said, the greater portion of the chamber was in a state of semi-obscurity; but a broad band of light fell direct from the skylight upon the bed where James Magnus had been propped up with pillows before a dwarf easel and canvas, upon which, rapidly dashed in by his masterly hand, showing in every line the inspiration that had been thrown upon the canvas by the artist’s mind, was the work upon which he had been engaged.

Had been engaged, for, palette in one hand, brush in the other, he had sunk back, his pallid face, with the hair cut closely now, giving him in the gloom wherein he lay the aspect of some portrait by Rembrandt or Velasquez, the stern lines cut by sickness softened by a contented smile.

He must have fallen back as he was raising his hand to continue his work, for the colour-charged brush in his thin white fingers had fallen upon the white sheet, making a broad smear, and as he gazed Artingale thought that he was dead.

It was but for an instant though, for the loose open collar of the shirt was rising and falling gently at each respiration, and even as the young man went over towards the bed a low sigh escaped from the invalid’s lips.

Satisfied upon that point, Artingale’s eyes were turned upon the canvas illumined by the soft white light; and for the moment, simple and unfinished as the portrait was, he could almost have fancied that it was Julia’s self gazing up at him with a sweet pensive smile upon her lips, but with the strange nameless horror in her appealing eyes.

It was wonderful. He had often watched with interest the way in which some face would grow up beneath the pencil of his friend, but in this case there was the effort of genius at its best, and he stood there gazing in rapt admiration at the portrait.

His question was answered, for no one but a man who loved could so perfectly have reproduced those features from memory.

“I wish Cynthia could see it,” he thought; and he took another step forward.

That broke the sick man’s slumber, for he started into wakefulness, and made a snatch at the canvas, to hide it from his friend, two red spots burning in his pallid cheeks, and a look of anger flashing from his sunken eyes; but Artingale laid a hand upon his arm.

“Don’t hide it, old fellow,” he said. “Why should you?”

Magnus looked at him as if in dread and shame.

“Why should you mind?” continued Artingale. “I’ve never been ashamed to confess to you. But how wonderfully like.”

Magnus still gazed at him in a troubled way, but he did not speak, and the two men remained looking into each other’s eyes as Artingale seated himself upon the edge of the bed.

“Mag, old fellow,” said Artingale at last, “I’m very, very glad.”

“Why should you be?” said the other, in a low, weak voice. “It is only an empty dream.”

“No, no. Nonsense, man. Why, come, with that idea in your brain you ought to be up and doing.”

“What!” said Magnus, bitterly; “trying to make her life unhappy by my mad love?”

“Mad love! Is it mad to love a beautiful woman with all your heart, as I’m sure you do, with that confession before my eyes?”

“Yes, when she is engaged to be married to another.”

“But that would never be if she knew of your love.”

“Harry, my dear boy,” said the artist sadly, “it comes very easy to you to make sketches or build castles in the air. You love little Cynthia, and your love is returned.”

“Yes; of course.”

“And you both think how pleasant it would be for the sister of both to become the wife of the friend.”

“Yes. Well, where’s the madness?”

Magnus shook his head sadly.

“Why should I tell you?” he said. “I have studied nature too long not to know something of women. Do you think I could see and converse with – with – her without knowing something of her heart?”

“Her heart is untouched. Of that I am sure,” cried Artingale.

“I don’t know that,” said Magnus, sadly; “but this I do know – that no word I could utter, no look I could give, would ever make it throb.”

“Nonsense, man,” said Artingale, merrily. “Why, Mag, where’s your courage? Up, lad, and try. Don’t lie there and let that piece of imitation human being carry her off.”

Magnus, who was very weak, lay back thinking.

“Why,” continued Artingale, “you are bound to succeed. What could be better? She was insulted, and you seized the scoundrel who insulted her, and became seriously injured in her service. Nothing could be more fortunate.”

“Have you found out anything more about that fellow?” said Magnus, at last.

“No: nothing; and the police have given it up. I want you to get well and help me.”

“Nothing more has been seen of him, then?”

“Indeed but there has,” said Artingale; “he has turned up no less than three times by the carriage when the girls have been out, and poor Julia has been frightened almost into hysterics. Come, you must get well, Mag, for if ever poor girl wanted a stout protector, it is Julia Mallow.”

“Tell me about her engagement.”

“What for? To make you worse?”

“It will not make me worse, Harry. Tell me. She is engaged to Perry-Morton, is she not?”

“Hang him! Well, I suppose there is something of the kind. My respected papa-in-law-to-be seems to have run mad over the fellow, and suffers himself to be regularly led by the nose. But it can’t last; it’s impossible. No sane man could go on long without finding out what an ass the fellow is, with his vain conceit and pretensions to art and poetry. It is all the Rector’s doing, and he is everything; poor Mrs Mallow, as you know, never leaves her couch.”

“You said the other day that they were going back into the country.”

“Yes, and I shall be obliged to go too.”

Magnus smiled.

“Well, yes, of course,” said Artingale, quickly, “I want to be near Cynthy. There, I’m not ashamed; I am very fond of the little girl. I must be, or I should never stand those brothers of hers.”

“Anything fresh about them?” said Magnus, who seemed deeply interested in the conversation.

“Fresh? Yes – no – only the old game. Being so near down there, my people hear everything at Gatley, and though I don’t encourage tattling, I can’t help hearing a lot about my beautiful brothers-in-law, and yours too if you like.”

“Don’t be foolish. Go on.”

“Well, ’pon my soul, Mag, they’re a pair of scamps, and once I’ve got my little Cynthy, hang me if I don’t cut them. They haven’t the decency to wait till I am their brother, but are always borrowing money. Sort of blackmail for letting me court their sister,” he added, bitterly. “’Pon my word, Mag, it would be a charity to get Julia away as well.”

“It is a great pity,” said Magnus, thoughtfully. “What an anxiety to the poor sick mother!”

“Who is quite an angel of goodness in her way, Mag, only too ready to look over those two fellows’ faults. Bah! I haven’t patience with them.”

“Why does not the Rector get them away?”

“Get them away? Well, he has, over and over again, but they always come back. The townspeople call them The Bad Shilling and The Boomerang on that account. The Rector’s a good old fellow, only obstinate and weak, and with too big an idea of his sacred prerogative, which the folks down there won’t stand. Here, get well, Mag, and come down and help me rout the enemy.”

“I wish I could,” sighed Magnus. “Only wants will, my lad. If you are using my billiard-table and horses it will keep those fellows off, but mind they don’t rook you.”

“I thought you told me that Frank had made a lot of money at the gold fields?”

“So he gives it out, but I don’t believe it. If he had he wouldn’t be borrowing of me and getting Perry-Morton to do bills for him.”

“It seems strange.”

“Strange! yes. I believe it’s all gammon. Hang that fellow, I don’t like him at all. Of course this is all in confidence, Mag.” Magnus looked up at him with a smile. “My people tell me that he is always going over to Lewby, close by my place. It’s one of the farms that came to me. Nice jolly farmer fellow there. Bluff chap, John Berry, with a pretty little wife fifteen years younger; and it seems there was something on between the lady and Master Frank before he went to the antipodes.”

“That’s bad,” said Magnus, frowning.

“Damn bad,” said Artingale; “but I try to make it smooth by thinking he is interceding for his brother.”

“Interceding for his brother? What do you mean?”

“Well, you see, Mrs Berry was Rue Portlock, and Cyril has been paying attentions to her sister Sage.”

“Rue? Sage?”

“Yes; rum idea. Two such pretty girls. I call ’em the sweet herbs. Quaint idea of their father.”

“And Cyril is paying attentions to one of them?”

“Yes; little Sage. She is the Lawford schoolmistress, and engaged to some one else.”

“Humph! Better than paying attentions to a married lady, as his brother does.”

“Oh, bless him, he is not perfect. Master Cyril has an affair on at the ford just outside Lawford. There is a pretty wheelwright’s wife – no, hang it, I mean the pretty wife of a wheelwright there. She used to be Julia’s and Cynthia’s maid, you know, and I hear that Master Cyril has been seen hanging about.”

“They seem to be a nice pair,” said Magnus, gruffly.

“Beauties,” said Artingale, sharply. “Hang ’em, they shall have it warmly when once I have got Cynthia away. Of course I have to swallow it all now. There, you see how badly you’re wanted. It’s an unhappy family, and you would be doing a charitable act in giving Julia a good husband.”

“Let her marry Perry-Morton,” said Magnus, changing his position with a weary sigh.

“Bah! you need not mind that, my dear boy. I feel certain that some fine morning the Rector will prick Perry-Morton and find out what a bag of wind he is. Besides, see what allies you have – Cynthia, your humble servant, and the lady’s heart.”

Magnus shook his head sadly.

“But I say you have, and that it is waiting to beat to any tune you like to teach. Come, the will has no end to do with the body. Just swear you will get well and come and help me put those big brothers in order, and thrash the big rascal who – No, I say though, Magnus, ’pon my word, I think you ought to bless that fellow, for he will frighten poor little Julie right into your arms.”

Whether it was his friend’s encouraging words, and that hopes were raised in the artist’s breast, or whether it was simply the fact that he was already mending fast, at all events James Magnus rapidly got better now, and at the end of another two months he was about once more, though still weak from his injury, and likely to be for months.