Fairy Fingers / A Novel

by Anna Cora Ogden Mowatt Ritchie

This information was communicated with a quick, energetic intonation, while the speaker stood fanning Maurice, and preventing the hand which he flung about from striking against the wall. There was a confident rapidity in the stranger's movements, a vigorous manliness and self-dependence in his bearing, strikingly dissimilar to the deportment which usually characterizes young Parisians at the same age. Though he spoke the French language with fluent correctness, a slightly foreign accent betrayed to M. de Bois that he was not a native of France.

Gaston thanked him as warmly as his troublesome impediment permitted, and said that he would himself write to the Count de Gramont. Then, bending over his friend, took his hot, unquiet hand, and spoke to him again and again. His voice failed to touch any chord of memory and cause it to vibrate in recognition. Maurice was muttering the same word over and over; Gaston hardly needed to bow his head to catch the imperfect sound; he knew, before he heard distinctly, that it was the name of "Madeleine."

"Had you not better write your letter immediately?" asked young Walton. "Will you walk into my room? I do not see any writing materials here. Mine are at your service."

Gaston, as he followed the stranger into the adjoining chamber, could not but be struck by the easy, off-hand, decided manner in which he spoke, and the promptitude with which he desired to accomplish the work to be done.

Mr. Walton's sitting-room, which was separated from his bed-chamber, was much larger than the apartment of Maurice. It had an air of great comfort, if not of decided elegance, and testified to the literary and artistic taste of its occupant. The walls were decorated with fine photographic views, and some early efforts in painting. Here stood an easel, holding an unfinished picture; there an open piano; further on a convenient writing-table; in the centre another table covered with books and portfolios; materials for writing and sketching were scattered about with a bachelor's disregard for order.

"I will clear you a space here," said he, sweeping the contents of one table upon another, already overburdened. "Everything is in confusion; for I have been working at odd moments. I could not make up my mind to go to the studio. I would not leave that poor fellow until somebody claimed him. What an interesting face he has! If he were only better, I would make a sketch. His countenance is just my beau ideal of the young Saxon knight in a historical picture I am painting. A man always finds materials for art just beneath his hand, if he only has wit and thrift to stoop and gather them as he goes. But I fear I am interrupting you. Make yourself at home. I will leave you while you are writing. Really, I cannot express how glad I am that you have come at last. I have been looking for you—that is, for somebody who knew M. de Gramont—every moment for two days."

After drawing back the curtains to give M. de Bois more light, and glancing around to see that he was supplied with all he could require, the young artist returned to the apartment of Maurice.

Ronald Walton was born of South Carolinian parents,—their only child. His boyhood was not passed in a locality calculated to develop artistic instincts, nor had his education afforded him artistic advantages, nor had he been thrown into a sphere of artistic associates; yet from the time his tiny fingers could hold brush or pencil he had seized upon engravings of romantic scenery, copied them upon an enlarged scale, and painted them in oil, to the astonishment of his parents and friends. When his young companions extracted enjoyment from fish-hook and gun, and hilariously filled game-bags and fishing-baskets, he sat quietly drinking in a higher, more humane delight before his easel. These tastes, as they strengthened, caused his father, though a liberal and cultivated man, severe disappointment. At times he was even disposed to place a compulsory check upon his son's artist proclivities; but the soft, persuasive voice of the gentle, refined, clear-sighted mother interposed. She had made the most loving study of her child's character, and had faith in his fitness for the vocation he desired to adopt. She pleaded that his obvious gift might be tested, and proved spurious or genuine, before it was trampled under foot as unworthy of recognition; and her heart-wisdom finally prevailed.

Ronald was sent to Paris to study under a distinguished master. During three years he had made golden use of his opportunities. He was remarkable among his fellow-students for his indomitable perseverance, and his power of concentrating all his thoughts upon his work. He experienced a desire to attain excellence for its own sake, not for the petty ambition of excelling others. Thus he became very popular among his associates, and excited their admiration without ever awakening the jealousies of wounded self-love. Though he had determined to devote his life to art, from the conviction that it was the vocation for which he came commissioned from the Creator's hand, there was nothing morbid in his passion for his profession. It was a healthy love of the beautiful in outward form, springing from the love of all which the beautiful typifies, combined with a strong impulse to represent and perpetuate the haunting images of varied loveliness which constantly floated through his brain.