The young lad turned his head and respectfully saluted me, blushing as he did (and it was only when the blood mantled into his cheeks that one thought of him as a boy); his mother dropped a courtesy, with a grace that told its own tale, and replied:
“I am Mrs. Morton, sir, and this is my eldest son, Jamie. He is not very strong, but he dearly loves, when it is at all possible, to get out of doors, and do a little sketching.”
Her accent was distinctly Scotch, but I could easily perceive that she was a woman of education and refinement; and, while there was just a breath of pathos in her speech, there was at the same time a note of dignity and independence that warned me to be very guarded in what I had to say.
I glanced at the sketch, and even my dilettante knowledge of the canons of art could tell that here was an undeveloped genius, who only needed a master’s guidance to produce really good work.
“Has your son had any lessons, Mrs. Morton?” I said.
“No, sir, I am sorry to say, we have not been able to arrange for that as yet. My husband died three years ago, and I’ve been so much taken up with providing a home for my little flock, that lessons have been out of the question. My boy has been unable to move about like other bairns, which has not lessened the difficulty. But he’s a very sensible lad, Mr. Gray; he knows that it’s God’s will he should be as he is, and he’s quite content. Some day, no doubt, all will be light.”
It was not what she said, but the manner of saying it, which told me that I was speaking to one whose faith was a real, living principle, and who recognized the loving hand of the Father of Love, even in the heavy affliction laid upon her. I was touched by what I heard, and resolved to take an early opportunity of improving my acquaintance with the artist and his mother. At present, my engagement called for my moving on, so I shook hands warmly with both, and went on my way to the “big house.” As I neared it, and noted the sweet sylvan peacefulness of the surroundings, I could understand the evident pleasure afforded to the young artist by the scene. Here was an excellent specimen of Scottish castellated architecture, with round towers and high-pitched roofs, the white “harled” walls showing up in marked contrast to the lovely green ivy that in many places clung to them, and in the foreground a verdant lawn studded with trees that had seen centuries of growth—one in particular, a copper-colored beech, lending to the picture a bright tint that was very charming. It was easy to understand such a scene appealing to all that was romantic and artistic in the boy’s mind.
On the Sunday following I was delighted to hear the wheels of the invalid-chair passing up the nave of the church just before the commencement of evening service, and still more so to note the keen, intelligent eyes of my young friend looking up into my face as I stood in the pulpit. It is very hard sometimes to explain the cause of one’s confidence; but, somehow or other, I felt I had come into touch with one who would understand me, and who, in his own way, would be a source of encouragement to me. How fully this was realized I only knew when I was called upon to say good-by—for a time—“till the day break and the shadows flee away.”
A day or two afterwards I paid my first visit to Jamie’s home. Mrs. Morton herself opened the door in response to my knock, and ushered me into her modest sitting-room. It was a quaint old-fashioned room, with open rafters black with age. Near the big open fireplace Jamie sat in his easy-chair reading. I was introduced to the other members of the little household, and a chair was given to me in the family circle. At first my artist was shy and did not say much; but when I told him of visits I had paid to the National Gallery and the exhibition of the Royal Scottish Academy, in Edinburgh, his eyes sparkled again, and he could not help exclaiming:
“I wonder, mother, if I’ll ever be able to gang and see them. My! that would be grand.”