CHAPTER VII.—THE CROFTER'S COTTAGE.
So far as speed went, the children might as well have walked. The poor old horse, as miserable and starved-looking as his master, kept steadily on, with a sort of halting trot, varied every now and then by an awkward stumble, which was saved from being a fall by the man's prompt use of the reins.
It seemed as if they were hours on the road. The murky atmosphere, obscured by storm-clouds, made the evening grow dark earlier than is usual in northern latitudes. The heavy rumbling of the wretched vehicle, the cramped position in which they were obliged to sit, the fatigue of a long day's walking without rest or refreshment, the dreariness of the road and chill aspect of the weather, combined to make this journey as miserable a one as it well could be. Yet it was only the very beginning of the troubles Elsie had brought upon herself and Duncan.
She was not feeling in the best spirits just now, but she buoyed herself up by thinking of the future, and telling herself that every one who ever ran away from home had some adventures that seemed trying at the time, though they were quite interesting to hear of afterwards, and she tried to picture herself being put in a book as a heroine. And she was not in the least daunted, only inclined to feel very cross and snappish.
Duncan sat huddled up in a corner, with a face that might have served for a Dutch doll, it was so blank and wooden. He was not the sort of boy to cry, but down in his heart there was a very forlorn feeling, which he would not like Elsie to have known anything about.
Presently a drop of rain spattered on to Elsie's forehead—another, and another—and then, down it came in torrents. To Elsie's despair, the horse slackened his already slow pace, and finally stood still, trembling and snorting. They were on an open road, with not even a tree near by for shelter.
"Why don't he go on?" Elsie cried out.
"The rain blinds her. She can't see," the man replied.
"Then why don't you lead her?" Elsie cried, in her peremptory fashion.
Elsie was more inclined than ever to think that the man must be a little daft. He got down, and did as she had told him. It seemed as if he had not thought of it before. He was so dazed and muddle-headed, that he would have sat apathetically on his seat, waiting for the horse to go on, although he could certainly get no wetter than he was by walking.
The rain had added the last drop to their cup of discomfort. The children were wet through in a very short time, and they were far better clad than the man.
They went along in dismal procession, all reeking wet. It was now tolerably dark, and not a soul passed them. There was clearly nothing for it but to persuade the man to take them in at his cottage. Elsie began now to wonder what sort of a place so miserable-looking a creature lived in.
During this latter part of their journey, Duncan, too, had been wondering where they would sleep; but it was no good asking, he said to himself, for if Elsie didn't know she couldn't tell him, and he supposed she'd find out some place as soon as she could.
At last Elsie, straining her eyes through the gloom, could make out a twinkling light or two, and something like a cottage. The roadside was no longer open, but had the low stone walls so familiar to Scottish eyes. As they drew near Elsie could see that the tiny tenement was only some crofter's cottage, and that the walls enclosed his bit of land, not large enough to dignify with the name of farm. Then it suddenly dawned upon her that their friend of the cart was most likely one of these crofters, whose poverty and hardships she had often heard her mother and grandmother talk of.
They stopped at last before another of these tiny hovels, much farther up the road. A faint light struggled through the small thick panes of glass of a window little more than a half-yard square. The door opened as they drew up, and a woman came out, talking very fast and shrilly in the native Gaelic, which the children had often heard spoken, but understood scarcely at all. Elsie could make out that she was scolding very much, but that was all. As she came near her eyes fell upon the two children. She stood still for a moment, her voluble speech checked by amazement and dismay.
Elsie sprang out, and seized the moment. "We are wet through with the rain," she said; "and it is a long way yet to Killochrie. I have some pennies I will give you if you will let us stay to-night in your cottage."
The woman stood eyeing her cautiously. So little as Elsie could see of her, she was not a pleasant-looking individual. She seemed to be a big bony creature, with loose locks of hair hanging about her face, and great bare arms held a-kimbo.
"Show me the money," the woman said, holding out her hand greedily.
Elsie hesitated, for the incident with the bread made her afraid of letting her whole stock be seen, but the rain was still pouring down, and a night's shelter must be secured somehow. She drew her handkerchief out of her pocket, and untying the knots, tried to slip a few pennies out, and keep the others unobserved among the folds.
"THE CHILDREN ... MADE THEIR WAY UP TO THE COTTAGE DOOR."
But the woman watched her fumbling movements very narrowly, and suddenly made a dart at the handkerchief, chinking the copper coins together, with a rattle that betrayed them at once.
"I will take care of them," the woman said, holding out her hand. "Go in, then—you can," she added, with a shrug of the shoulder which did not express a very warm welcome.
However, there was nothing else to be done, so the children, Elsie leading Duncan by the hand, made their way up to the cottage door, while the woman went off with her husband to some unknown region, either to assist him with the horse, or, what was much more likely, to talk to him about the strange load he had brought home with him.
Elsie thought she had never seen anything so horrible as the sight that greeted her when she pushed the door wide open, and stood on the threshold of the crofter's home.
The tiny place was dirty in the extreme. The floor, which had been of boards, had rotted away in several places, showing the bare ground beneath. A broken rickety table and a few dilapidated chairs and stools were the only furniture, with the exception of an old clock standing against one of the walls. A shelf in one corner displayed a few odd pieces of coarse crockery, for the most part chipped and cracked, and some pieces of bread.
Elsie perceiving a door, ventured to lift the latch and look in. It opened into a still smaller apartment, the principal part of which was occupied by something on the floor intended for a bed, where two children lay sleeping. The ceiling was very low, and had an open space at one end, with a ladder, which appeared to lead into a kind of loft, where onions seemed to be stored, by the odour coming from it. As far as she could discover, these comprised the whole accommodation of the crofter's cottage.
While Elsie was wondering where they would have to sleep, the man and woman came in. Elsie had stripped off her soaking jacket, and was standing near the smoky peat fire, endeavouring to dry her wet skirts and feet. Poor Duncan had no outer coat to protect him, and was consequently wet to the very skin. He was standing in his shirt-sleeves, shivering, by Elsie's side.
"What is your name?" the woman asked of Elsie, in the slow measured accents of one who speaks a language not perfectly familiar.
"Our name is Grosvenor," Elsie said, with a warning glance at Duncan, which, however, the woman's quick eyes noted.
"What for you are going to Killochrie by yourselves?"
"Our mother is dead, and we are going to find our father," Elsie replied. "We were living with some one who was unkind to us."
"Oh, Elsie!" Duncan whispered, under his breath; but Elsie checked him peremptorily. Poor Duncan had never felt so wretched in his life before.
"Where was that?" the woman asked.
"Oh! a long way off," Elsie replied. "We've come miles and miles."
"What you call the place you ran away from?" the woman asked, angrily.
"It hadn't got any particular name," Elsie replied. "It was out on the moor."
"You will know the way back?" the woman asked.
"But I am not going back," Elsie said, defiantly. "We are going to Killochrie to-morrow morning."
The woman only smiled grimly, and pointing to two stools, signified to the children that they might sit down.
"Will you give us something to eat?" Elsie asked. "We are hungry—he took our bread and cheese."
"Cheese?" the woman said, eagerly. "Where is it?"
"He ate it," Elsie replied.
"The pig! the greedy one!" the woman cried, angrily, as she reached down a plate of bread from the corner shelf.
It was coarse and stale, but the children were too hungry to be disdainful. At home they would have scorned such a supper with infinite disgust, but now they ate it readily.
Presently, however, the woman got some more plates, and taking the lid off an iron pot that stood beside the fire, she ladled out a mass of what proved to be boiled onions. Having served her husband and herself, she handed a small quantity to the children, which they found palatable and comfortable in their wet, cold condition.
When this frugal meal was ended, she signed to them to follow her, and taking them into the next apartment, led the way up the ladder. They found themselves presently in a tiny loft, where all sorts of rubbish was stored, together with a stack of onions. The woman cleared a space by piling the things together in a more huddled mass than they were already, and bringing several sacks out of the confusion, threw them down on the floor to form a bed.
"Is that where we are to sleep?" Elsie asked. "What are we to have over us?"
The woman pointed to one of the sacks.
"Look how wet my frock is!" Elsie cried, almost in despair. "Can't you give us something to put over us while our things are getting dry?"
The woman went rummaging among the lumber, and presently brought out a ragged, old gown of her own. Elsie took it from her almost with a shudder of loathing.
She took off her sopping frock, and gave it to the woman to hang up. Then she rolled Robbie up in one of the sacks as well as she could, and spread another for him to lie down upon, leaving herself one sack to serve as a bed, and only the old rags the woman had given her for a covering.
They lay down, not in the highest possible spirits. Elsie was so angry at being robbed of her food and of her money, that she dwelt more upon this grievance than the wretched discomfort they were enduring, until she heard a faint sound of sobbing emerging from the sack in which Duncan was encased.
That sound smote her with an uncomfortable sense of reproach. "Never mind, dear," she whispered softly; "it'll be all right to-morrow. Get to sleep and forget it."
"If it were not for being poked up in this loft, I'd slip out, without bidding them 'good-bye,' as soon as it is light to-morrow morning," Elsie said to herself, with an uneasy reflection of what disagreeable greedy people they seemed to be. "Any way, we won't stay a minute longer than we're obliged."
Fortunately for Elsie, she had no idea how long that was to be. Nance Ferguson knew what she was doing, and why she had put them up in the loft.
(To be continued.)
HINTS ON CANVASINE PAINTING.
This is the art of colouring a photograph so as to imitate an oil-painting. Although we know that no imitation of this kind can ever reach the perfection of the real article, yet we can obtain very fair copies. The work, when well done, is really pretty, and it makes a good show on the walls. It is not at all difficult, and those who have a slight knowledge of painting can easily accomplish some creditable pieces that they will enjoy seeing in their rooms, and that their friends will consider welcome presents. The colours are unobjectionable as regards smell, for they have none, and the work is clean, and can be rapidly done.
The choice of the photograph is of importance, for it must be a good one, and suitable for the purpose. Those taken from the pictures in the Munich, Dresden, and Italian galleries will be found best to select from. The outlines of the subject should be well defined, and the whole photograph clear and distinct. It is advisable to begin on figure subjects, as they are easiest, and certainly the most effective. The picture should not contain many figures, or they must necessarily in that case be small, and some difficulty will, in consequence, be met with in colouring them. Young amateurs seem to think that small pieces are more within their province: they are afraid to attempt a larger size, but we assure them this is a fallacy. Minute details require great care, and it is more awkward to get small washes level than larger ones.
The first thing to be done is to buy our materials, and these we can get all neatly arranged in a box. The colours are: two flesh tints, light and golden yellow, vermilion and carmine, blue, violet, purple, light and wood brown, green, and black. All the colours are dry, except black; and ordinary Chinese white is used, as there is no white specially made for canvasine.
There are two bottles of medium, one adhesive and one preservative. Camel's-hair brushes of various sizes, canvas and stretchers, a roller, and a squeegee, or presser, are also requisite.
Having all our materials at hand, let us set to work. The stretcher has been bought to suit the size of the photograph, but probably the latter will have to be cut a little round the edges, to make it just about an eighth of an inch smaller than the former. Take some of the prepared canvas, and cut it an inch and a half larger than the photo; wet it thoroughly, and fasten it to a board with drawing-pins, the prepared side uppermost. The back of the photo will require to be rubbed with glass-paper, if it is a thick one; not otherwise, for fear of making holes in it. To manage this carefully is important.
A sheet of clean paper should be laid on a drawing-board, and the photo placed on it face downwards, and firmly secured with drawing-pins. Now rub it gently with the glass-paper, until the picture is rendered semi-transparent. Then take it from the board, and give it a bath in the solution. Lay it in a dish, and cover it entirely with the solution, letting it remain there for a few minutes; lift it out, and again lay it on the board face downwards, and with a small sponge dab off any superfluity of liquid. Pour that which is left in the dish back into the bottle.
The bottle of canvasine adhesive is next needed. With a brush well filled with it, lay a thick coating all over the back of the photo as evenly as possible, then take up the picture, and place it in exact position on the canvas which is stretched on the board, and now the face must be uppermost. Notice particularly that the photo lies straight with the threads of canvas; if it is crookedly placed it cannot be expected to look well; the perpendicular and horizontal threads should run perfectly level with the top and bottom and sides of the picture. Press down the photo with the hand, and then slightly roll it out.
Take another piece of canvas of the same size as the first: this has now to be pressed thoroughly, the roller being passed in every direction over the surface. Continue rolling it for five minutes or more, so that the canvas lines become indented in the paper and are distinctly visible. Watch it constantly during the process, and if it does not adhere quite firmly to the stretched canvas, put a little more adhesive solution round the edges, and pass the presser quickly up and down over the photo, still with the spare canvas between, to rid it of all air-bubbles; then repeat the rolling.
Not until every part of the photo adheres, and all the canvas lines are clearly marked, must the process of rolling be discontinued. After this, the photo must be allowed to dry gradually, still stretched on the board. No painting must be attempted until it is quite dry, which it will be in about three hours. Some prefer to paint it when it is so far prepared, and afterwards to fix it on the stretcher; others consider the better plan is to fix it first on the wooden stretcher and then to paint it; but this is a matter of choice, and workers may follow either plan with equal chances of success.
To stretch it, we must proceed in the following manner. Lay the canvas evenly on the frame and nail it over the back; when all four sides are thus secured, take the wedges, and hammer them into the holes made purposely for them until the canvas is sufficiently stretched. Be careful to place the board in a good light for painting; it takes much longer to do, and cannot be done half as well either, if the worker sits so that the shadow of her hand falls on the picture. A piece of clean writing-paper to place at times under the hand to prevent finger-marks may be found useful.
Now for the painting. We will begin with the face. In colouring photographs, the paints have to be constantly washed off, and it is a well-known fact that nothing does this so well as the tongue, because it acts on the photo so as to remove all grease better than anything else will: but some people will perhaps be somewhat afraid thus to wet the surface, on account of the nature of the paints. The tongue may, however, be used at any rate for the flesh parts, and a small wet sponge can be employed for the rest of the picture. Wet the complexion over with the tongue, then wash in the shadows with some flesh shadow mixture, to which a little canvasine medium and water have been added, and wipe it off again at once. Pay attention to the shadows that they are of the right tints: for fair children they will be of a slightly blue hue; for dark complexions a little wood brown must be added to the shadow colour. Now lay over the complexion a wash of flesh-tint No. 1, and wipe it off again directly; repeat the wash as often as necessary until a good colour is obtained. Sometimes as many as six applications are needed; the great point is to get a good even layer of colour. In rendering dark complexions, a trifle of wood brown may be added to flesh No. 2, and this will give the requisite depth of colour. Put in the warm complexion-tints with flesh No. 2. Place a drop of it, modified with No. 1, over the whole cheek, and wipe it off again immediately. Repeat until the right strength of colour is secured; deepen the tint as it nears the centre of the cheek, so as to preserve the rounded appearance that is one of the greatest charms that youth and beauty possess. Strengthen the shadows under eyes and eyebrows, round the nostrils, and on the chin.
Mixtures of blue and brown, and of green and brown, serve for the demi-tints which soften the deep shadows by gentle gradations into the local colouring. The tints may be effectually blended into one another by an occasional wash of flesh No. 1 being carried over the whole.
Between each operation the colour must be dabbed off as soon as it has had time to sink into the photograph; it must not in any case be allowed to rest long, or the wash will dry spotty, and when that happens it is exceedingly difficult to remedy. The draperies are washed in before the details of the face are begun, as when the latter are painted the colours must not be wiped off afterwards; they are not treated in the same way as the washes, but more as finishing-touches.
Draperies and backgrounds are laid in with a full brush in broad washes, the photograph being first damped slightly with canvasine medium; the colours are laid on freely with decisive strokes, and sponged off, the washes being continued until the tint is dark enough. Skies may be represented with blue tinged with green, and when dry, some light clouds may be dabbled in with Chinese white.
Now we return to the face. With flesh No. 2 touch in the lips carefully, and shade the tint off gently, for they must on no account look hard; also mark in the nostrils with a little of the same, but now the colour must not be washed off. For the eyes, use blue, brown, or grey, as requisite; grey is composed of a mixture of blue and brown. The pupil of the eye is put in with black, and the light with a touch of Chinese white. In the corner of the eye a trifle of flesh No. 2 will be needed. The eyebrows should be rather darker in colour than the hair, but they must not be too heavily painted; the best plan is to wash them in with a lighter tint first, working them up afterwards with a fine brush and almost dry colour of a darker shade. The eyelashes, too, must be washed in along the eyelid, and then a few hairs marked out with the point of the brush. It would never do to put them in entirely in thin fine strokes, for they would be sure to look hard. A little blue added to brown will make a tint dark enough for most purposes, and the use of black should be avoided whenever possible.
The hair will need our next consideration. For fair hair, golden brown must be employed; it is applied in washes, wiped off as before, and repeated until the desired depth of local colouring is obtained; the shadows are worked in with light brown, the lights with a little Chinese white. For dark hair, use wood-brown and sienna; and the darkest hair may be rendered with washes of blue, which must be applied before the sienna, with Chinese white used freely for the lights. Colour which has once been allowed to sink in cannot be removed, therefore we must be careful not to use a wrong one, or even too dark a shade. Then, again, colours dry darker than they appear when first laid on, so we must take the precaution to make our washes lighter than we intend them to be when finished.
Beautiful tints can be produced by the admixture of the colours, and charming effects by the juxtaposition of colours that form an agreeable contrast.
"A FOX AND OTHER COUNTRY FOLK UPON THE BEACH HAD MET."
A RACE ON THE SANDS.
One cool and pleasant afternoon,
Before the sun was set,
A fox and other country folk
Upon the beach had met.
The creeping tide far out had ebb'd,
And by the shelving strand
There stretch'd a wide and level plain
Of glist'ning yellow sand.
The hare, the hound, the neighing steed,
The lowing ox, the deer,
The sheep, the hog, the braying ass,
The sea-gulls hovering near,
With groups of various birds and beasts,
Of sorts both tall and scrimp,
Were gather'd there upon the sands;
And thither came a shrimp.
Now Reynard, who was eager bent
Upon some cunning wile,
Did boldly challenge any beast
To race with him a mile.
But when nor horse, nor hare, nor hound
His challenge would receive,
Up started Shrimp, and cried, "Good sir,
To race you give me leave."
A burst of merriment then brake
From all the beasts around,
The westward-sinking sun did smile,
Though he utter'd not a sound.
Then out spoke Reynard, red with rage,
"Thou mak'st a mocking boast!"
But near him whisper'd Master Hare,
"Forget not how I lost."
The race anon was quickly plann'd,
Eftsoons a judge was nam'd,
And Fox and Shrimp quite ready stood,
Though Shrimp seem'd half-asham'd.
And now they start, one, two, away!
See, Reynard darts ahead,
Unconscious that sly Shrimp had jump'd
Upon his tail outspread.
There snug he lay, so close and warm,
While Reynard tore apace,
And laugh'd, as only shrimps can laugh,
In his comfortable place.
At length, as Reynard near'd the goal,
He slowly slacken'd speed,
And stopping, ere he touch'd the post,
He turn'd—he did indeed.
Then off hopp'd Shrimp, and stood at once
Up at the winning-place;
While Reynard still look'd back and cried,
"How now, who wins the race!
Where are you, villain? where are you?
Not e'en in sight, I trow!"
"Nay, pardon, sir," behind him cried
That sly Shrimp with a bow.
Then Reynard, all abash'd, did stare
To find himself outdone!
While the jeering crowd, in high delight,
Went wild at all the fun.
But Reynard could not bear their gibes:
He slunk in haste away;
Nor ever guess'd how Shrimp contriv'd
To win the race that day.