“That's exactly what it is; none of your common brain-boxes, but a grand specimen of the classic head, civilized down to a mediaeval period; the forty-first descendant of an Emperor or a Proconsul, living at the Pincian Hall, or at his villa on the Tiber, sitting for his likeness to Giordano.”
“There's a painful expression in the features, too,” added she, slowly.
“So there is; and I believe he 's in bad health.”
“Indeed!” said Mary, starting. “I quite forgot there was an original all this time.”
“He's alive; and what's more, he's not a mile from where we 're standing.” Mr. Crow looked cautiously about him as he spoke, ac if fearful of being overheard; and then approaching close to Miss Martin, and dropping his voice to a whisper, said, “I can venture to tell you what I dare n't tell my Lady; for I know well if she suspected who it was would be the Prince of Orange, begad, I might abdicate too, as well as the King. That young man there is-the son of a grocer in Oughterard,—true, every word of it,—Dan Nelligan's son! and you may fancy now what chance he 'd have of seeing himself on that canvas if her Ladyship knew it.”
“Is this the youth who has so distinguished himself at college?” asked Mary.
“The very one. I made that sketch of him when he was reading for the medal; he did n't know it, for I was in a window opposite, where he couldn't see me; and when I finished he leaned his chin in his hand and looked up at the sky, as if thinking; and the expression of his up-turned face, with the lips a little apart, was so fine that I took it down at once, and there it is,” said he, turning over the page and presenting a few pencil lines lightly and spiritedly drawn.
“A young gentleman left this packet, Miss Mary, and said it was for you,” said a servant, presenting a small sealed enclosure. Mary Martin blushed deeply, and she opened the parcel, out of which fell her own glove, with a card.
“The very man we were talking of,” said Mr. Crow, lifting it up and handing it to her,—“Joseph Nelligan. That's like the old proverb; talk of the—” But she was gone ere he could finish his quotation.
“There she goes,” said Crow, sorrowfully; “and if she 'd have stayed ten minutes more I 'd have had her all complete!” and he contemplated with glowing satisfaction a hasty sketch he had just made in his book. “It's like her,—far more than anything I have done yet; but after all—” And he shook his head mournfully as he felt the poor pretension of his efforts. “Small blame to me to fail, anyhow,” added he, after a pause. “It would take Titian himself to paint her; and even he couldn't give all the softness and delicacy of the expression,—that would take Raffaelle; and Vandyke for her eyes, when they flash out at times; and Giordano for the hair. Oh, if he could have seen it just as I did a minute ago, when the wind blew it back, and the sunlight fell over it! “Arrah!” cried he, impatiently, as with a passionate gesture he tore the leaf from his book and crushed it in his hand,—“arrah! What right have I even to attempt it?” And he sat down, covering his face with his hands, to muse and mourn in silence.