Percival proceeded: I pondered on these things till thought took its usual form—on canvas. I made this sketch; and, slight as it is, it has had a wondrous effect in allaying my natural impatience of disposition, and the irritability of nerves caused by my illness.
Seyton. I see that you have depicted the Master walking alone on the side of a hill. The landscape around is dreary and almost devoid of vegetation, save that thorn-bushes overgrow the path: some fluttering fragments of white clothing upon them denote that a way has had to be forced with difficulty through them. The Wanderer's feet look bruised; and there are red traces on His hands.
Percival. Yes, many were earth's thorns which wounded Christ's mortal frame, before they—as a climax—crowned His sacred brow.
Seyton. You have written under your sketch, "The Son of Man hath not where to lay His head;" and the picture forms a comment on the words. The sky above is dark and louring, showing that a storm is about to burst: we see lightning already flashing in the background. The Wanderer has no heavy mantle to wrap around His slightly clad form: every heavy drop will penetrate and chill. Christ's eyes are raised towards the mass of threatening clouds above Him. We see that He would willingly seek shelter; but none is near.
Percival. None for Him, the Lord of Creation. But notice yon small hole in the side of the sandy bank. The little fox of Palestine finds its home there; the fierce storm will not reach it. The wild creature knows more of comfort than does the Master! Seyton, when I had drawn this feeble picture of One who was homeless on the earth which He had made, I felt humbled and ashamed at ever having felt impatient under the slight annoyances which, cheerfully borne, will be found amongst the all things which work together for good to them that love God.
Here the conversation closed; but I may mention that by an arrangement with a kind relative of my own, Percival passed the short remainder of his life in comparative freedom from all trials from which woman's tenderness and considerate kindness could shield him.
[CHAPTER VI.]
Legend of the Self-made Grave.
THE next day Percival was moved to a house in Portland Place, in which my aunt, Lady Mar, resided. Every comfort was provided to make the little journey as easy as possible to one who could not even be carried downstairs without enduring a good deal of pain.