"But I am preaching now. Forgive me, and my tale—alas! it is an all too common one as far as it regards myself—shall soon be told.
"I was not by any means what is called a wild youth, while pursuing my studies under masters in London, and elsewhere: the ordinary and sinful frivolities of youths about town had no charm for me. I loathed them, and despised the empty-headed fools who gave way to them. I did not quarrel with these men, I simply avoided them. I preferred my own company to theirs, and my own thoughts. I was often to be seen alone at the play, or opera, or alone in the picture galleries. It was a pity for me I did not visit the latter in company with art critics, but I had found out that some of these were lacking not only in knowledge but in honesty, so I avoided them all, as a child who has been burned fears flame in any and every form.
"Did I work well? I worked fairly well. My fault, and it is a radical one, was, that I was in too great a hurry to be a painter—the rudiments of drawing were to me a weary task. Like a boy I gloated over colour and effect. But I had one picture hung. Oh, bless that day for just one reason—it made my poor dear mother happy! When she received the letter in which I announced my success, she shed more tears over it than if the missive had been one announcing the death of a dear friend. Yes, they were tears of joy.
"Did my single success have a good effect on me? Alas! no, the very reverse. I fancied myself—fool that I was—upon a mountain top of fame and glory. High up among the rosy clouds of sunrise, with all the world at my feet. I determined to do no more work for a time, not genuine study at least—I should set out on a grand walking tour! What a happy idea I thought this was! Mind you, I still was the poet at heart, and Nature in every form still appealed to me. I had come to hate my sky-high studio in London, the dusty winding stairs that led to it, its furniture and furnishings, and even the outlook from its windows.
"I was like a boy while preparing for this grand tour. For more than a week my time by day was occupied in shopping. All my purchases might soon have been made had I been content with the ordinary outfit of a walking artist. But this would not suit my vanity. I believe I was a rather handsome young man then. Was I not, Eppie?"
Birr-rr-rr went the wheel. No word came from Eppie, only a smile lit up her face for a moment.
"So," continued Eean, "I determined to take heavy baggage as well as a knapsack and cudgel. This I would arrange to be sent on by train or coach. Guns, fishing-rod and tackle, books, the best of novels, the best of poets, I even took dress suits. Yes, boys, I feel ashamed now when I think of it, but my vanity led me to believe that I should be fêted and feasted at the houses of the wealthy.
"Away I went, and for many weeks of wandering I was truly happy. I worked too by fits and starts, and my portfolios were getting filled with pretty bits that I culled upon my rambles. I had not yet found out, nor could I have believed, that rural England was so charmingly sweet and pretty. No great wonder that I lingered therein for months and months. True, my dress suits were never once taken out from the trunk that contained them, nor was any squire or nobleman ever likely, I began to think, to invite the wandering artist to dinner or give him even a day's fishing or shooting. Was this fame then? Surely everyone had heard of the rising artist who had had a picture hung. And prettily criticised too. Well, I did not break my heart. I ate my humble meals and slept at village inns, and if I was taken for anything at all by the villagers, it was either for 'a kind of surveyor,' a 'strolling sign painter,' or 'something in tea.'
"But during these long rambles there had been the glamour of spring, and the glory of summer, over all the land, and I was contented and happy.
"I hardly ever thought of writing even, wicked that I was, to my mother. But when at last the summer commenced, and I saw one day a pale yellow splash of foliage on a green ash tree, as if some tint of last night's sunset had fallen on it and lingered there, I bethought me of the purple and crimson heather on the bonnie Highland hills of my wild native land. And in a week's time I was home at my father's house.