“If it had not been one, laddie,” said Mrs. Lascelles, philosophically, “it would have been the other. Had I prophesied, I should have said that destiny would have made her a duchess. But either way, I don’t think it matters. I feel sure that Lord Cheriton will be very good to her, although there is little consolation in that.”
Precious little consolation, in Jim’s opinion. By the time October came he was worn to a shade, and the masterpiece was finally completed. His mother was alarmed for him then. She suggested a voyage to Spain and a visit to the Prado, in order that he might pay homage at the shrine of the great Velasquez. The suggestion was a good one, but unfortunately it did not come within the range of practical politics. They had both spent all their money. Mrs. Lascelles had overdrawn her meager allowance, and Jim was in debt.
“Tell Lord Cheriton his picture is complete, and dun him for the price of it.”
“No, old lady,” said Jim, with a sad shake of the head; “we have to look to what we can raise on that little work to keep a roof over our heads during the winter.”
His mother showed a most resolute optimism.
“Lay out every penny of the money on a visit to Spain,” said she. “Velasquez will inspire you. You will return with a cubit added to your stature; you will finish The Naiad triumphantly, and, once you have done that, you will have convinced the world you can paint.”
“And in the meantime, old lady, what about the rint?” said Jim.
“Oh, that,” said his mother, airily—“that can take care of itself. Besides, I dreamt last night that the publishers had accepted ‘The Fair Immortal.’”
“That is not quite the same thing, señora, as receiving a check for it,” said Jim, gloomily.
It would seem, however, that Providence was keeping its eye on the Acacias. For the very next morning brought a solution of the difficulty. The marquis wrote from Yorkshire to suggest that during the following week, if convenient to himself, Mr. Lascelles should come to Barne Moor, as previously arranged, to paint the fair Priscilla.