I took upon myself the care of arrangements for the removal of the very little property which my poor friend possessed. A few books, and clothes; a desk; materials for painting; a palette; and some dozen unframed pictures—comprised almost all that Percival owned in the world. He lay on his couch, watching my movements, as I wrapped up his pictures one by one.
"This one does not tell its own story," I observed.
"It illustrates the Legend of a sketch, which I made a short time ago; but I did not think it worth writing down," said my friend.
"I hope that at some leisure time you will repeat it: Lady Mar has a weakness for Legends. But here comes your landlady to bid you a tearful farewell: and Polly too; belikes in hope of a present, which she does not deserve."
Whether merited or not, the present was given; and a kindly good-bye was said to each of the women. Mrs. Bond declared that she had never had such a nice-spoken gentleman for a lodger—never! That she had done all for him that a mother could have done for a son; and that it was hard to have him go away and leave her. Polly was not so eloquent; but I forgave her the broken pane, and her little tempers, when I saw tears of genuine sorrow running down the poor girl's cheeks. Both mistress and servant felt that they would never look again on the pale, patient face of the lodger.
Percival was soon installed in his new, and comparatively luxurious, abode; but its comforts could only alleviate, not remove pain. He sometimes enjoyed conversation with my aunt, who is a very intelligent woman; yet at other times relaxed into greater languor, and did not care to touch his pencil.
Both Lady Mar and I more than once asked Percival to repeat to us his legend of the sketch, but he always evaded doing so.
"The story was too childish; too slight a thing for repetition to any one but a child," he said, a faint colour tinging his cheek. Percival was evidently shy in the presence of a lady.
My aunt, however, is one possessing tact to draw out those under her influence, and make them unconsciously follow her lead. She saw that Percival's spirits were drooping; and that, perhaps from fearing her critical eye, even his inclination to paint was passing away. Lady Mar noticed that her guest could hardly affect cheerfulness, though he manfully struggled to do so.
"My eyes are tired, and the daylight is fading," said my aunt one afternoon, laying down a book with which she had been vainly trying to amuse my poor friend. "The piano cannot be touched till after the visit of the tuner. We will not ring for candles yet; it is so pleasant to chat by twilight."