Mary sat down to compose her thoughts in quiet, for Mr. Crow had previously made his escape unobserved; and truly there was need of some repose for her agitated and wearied faculties. Her uncle's dependence upon her for everything, and her aunt's jealousy of the influence she had over him, placed her in a position of no common difficulty, and one of which every day seemed to increase the embarrassment. For a moment she thought she would have preferred a life of utter insignificance and obscurity; but as suddenly it occurred to her, “What had I been without these duties and these cares? For me there are few, if any, of the ties that bind other girls to their homes. I have neither mother nor sister; I have none of the resources which education suggests to others. My mind cannot soar above the realities that surround me, and seek for its enjoyments in the realms of fancy; but, perhaps, I can do better,” said she, proudly, “and make of these same every-day materials the poetry of an actual existence.” As she spoke, she threw open the window, and walked out upon the terrace over the sea. The fishermen's boats were all standing out from shore,—a tiny fleet, whose hardy crews had done no discredit to the proudest three-decker. Though the heavy gale of the morning had gone down, it still blew fresh, and a long rolling swell thundered along in-shore, and sent a deep booming noise through many a rocky cavern. High above this deafening clamor, however, rose the hearty cheers of the fishermen as they detected Mary's figure where she stood; and many a tattered rag of showy bunting was hoisted to do her honor. Never insensible to such demonstrations, Mary felt at the moment almost overpowered with emotion. But a moment back and she bewailed her isolation and friendlessness; and see, here were hundreds who would have resigned life in her behalf. Still, as the boats receded, the wind bore to her ears the welcome sounds; and as she heard them, her heart seemed to expand and swell with generous thoughts and good wishes, while along her cheeks heavy tears were rolling.
“What need have I of other friends than such as these?” cried she, passionately. “They understand me, and I them; and as for the great world, we are not made for each other!”
“My own sentiments to a 'T,' miss,” said a soft, mincing voice behind her; and Mary turned and beheld Mr. Crow. He had arrayed himself in a small velvet skull-cap and a blouse, and stood mixing the colors on his palette in perfect composure. “I 'm afraid, Miss Martin, there 's an end of the great 'Historical.' Your uncle will scarcely be persuaded to put on the robes again, and it's a downright pity. I was getting a look of weariness—imbecility I might call it—into his features that would have crowned the work.”
“I don't think I ever knew what your subject was!” said she, half indolently.
“The Abdication of Charles V., Miss Martin,” said he, proudly. “This is the fourteenth time I have depicted it; and never, I am bound to say, with more favorable 'studies.' Your uncle is fine; my Lady gorgeous; I don't say what I 'd like of another lovely and gifted individual; but even down to that old rogue of a butler that would insist on taking snuff through the bars of his helmet, they were all grand, miss,—positively grand!” Seeing that she appeared to bestow some attention to him, Mr. Crow went on: “You see, miss, in the beginning of a great effort of this kind there is no progress made at all. The sitters keep staring at one another, each amused at some apparent absurdity in costume or attitude; and then, if you ask them to call up a look of love, hate, jealousy, or the like, it's a grin you get,—a grin that would shame a hyena. By degrees, however, they grow used to the situation; they 'tone down,' as one might say, and learn to think less of themselves, and be more natural. It was sheer fatigue, downright exhaustion, and nothing else, was making your uncle so fine; and if he could have been kept on low diet,—I did n't like to mention it, though I often wished it,—I 'd have got a look of cadaverous madness into his face that would have astonished you.”
By this time Mr. Crow had approached his canvas, and was working away vigorously, the action of his brush appearing to stimulate his loquacity. Mary drew near to observe him, and insensibly felt attracted by that fascination which the progress of a picture invariably possesses.
“This is the Queen,” continued he; “she's crying,—as well she might; she doesn't rightly know whether the old fellow's out of his mind or not; she has her misgivings, and she does n't half like that old thief of a Jesuit that's whispering in the King's ear. This was to be you, Miss Martin; you were betrothed to one of the young princes; but somehow you weren't quite right in your head, and you are looking on rather more amused, you perceive, than in any way moved; you were holding up your beautiful petticoat, all covered with gold and precious stones, as much as to say, 'Ain't I fine this morning?' when you heard the herald's trumpet announce the Prince of Orange; and there he is,—or there he ought to be,—coming in at the door. There's a chap pulling the curtain aside; but I suppose, now,” added he, with a sigh, “we 'll never see the Prince there!”
“But where could you have found a study for your Prince, Mr. Crow?”
“I have him here, miss,” said Crow, laying down his brush to take a small sketch-book from the pocket of his blouse. “I have him here; and there wouldn't have been a finer head in the canvas,—pale, stern-looking, but gentle withal; a fellow that would say, 'Lead them to the scaffold,' as easy as winking, and that would tremble and falter under the eye of a woman he loved. There he is, now,—the hair, you know, I put in myself, and the bit of beard, just for a little Titian effect; but the eyes are his own, and the mouth not as good as his own.”
“It's a striking head, indeed,” said Mary, still contemplating it attentively.