'On hospitable thoughts intent'
than when I quitted the room, the horrid ghoul! I was so rejoiced to escape with my treasures safe from his blighting gaze! But now for the moral of my story, dear Colonel, for every story has its moral, I suppose,—John, Ernest's man, told nurse, who, by the way, was so highly indignant on the occasion, as to assure me afterwards, that if she had been a man, she'd have just pitched the selfish brute beast out of the chair, and taken it for Mr. V——, without so much as a 'by your leave.'"——
I could not refrain from interrupting Mrs. —— to say that I thought I should have been sorely tempted to some such act myself, under the circumstances.
"Yes," pursued Mrs. V——, "nurse still recurs to that 'awful cold night in A——' with an invariable malediction upon the 'bad speret as kept the chair.' But, as I was saying, John told her afterwards that the ghoul asked him who that sick gentleman was, and said that his wife appeared to be in so much trouble that he should have offered to help her along a little, but he wasn't acquainted with her!"
"Uncle Hal, isn't an artist a gentleman?" inquired Blanche of me one morning, during a recent visit to our great Commercial Metropolis, as the newspaper writers call it. "What do you mean, child," said I, "you cannot mean to ask whether artists rank as gentlemen in society, for that does not admit of question." I saw there was something troubling her, the moment she came down, for she did not welcome her old uncle with her usual sparkling smile, though she snugged close up to me on the sofa, and kept my hand in both of hers, while we were arranging some matters about which I had called.
"Is not an engraver an artist?" she inquired, with increased earnestness of tone. "Does not an engraver who has a large atelier, numbers of employés, and does all kinds of beautiful prints, heads, and landscapes, and elegant figures, take rank in social life with other gentlemen?"
"Certainly, my dear; but tell me what you are thinking of; what troubles you my child?"
"Well, you remember, dear uncle, perhaps, the young orphan boy in whom papa and all of us used to be so interested the summer you spent with us, long ago, when we were all children at home. He is now established in this city, after years of struggle with difficulties that would have crushed a less noble spirit, and his sisters, for whom he has always provided, in a great degree, though at the cost of almost incredible self-denial, as I happen to know, are now nearly prepared for teachers. We have always retained our interest in them all; and they always make us a visit when they are at D——. Indeed, papa always says he knows few young men for whom he entertains so high a regard; and I am sure he is very good-looking, and though he may not be very fashionable,—you needn't smile, uncle Hal, I"——
"My dear, I am charmed with your sketch, and shall go, at once, and have my old visage engraved by your handsome artist-friend; and when I publish my auto-biography, it shall be accompanied by a 'portrait of the author,' superbly engraved by a 'celebrated artist.'"
"He is celebrated, uncle, really; you have no idea of the vast number of orders he has from all parts of the country, nor how beautifully he gets up everything. But I must tell you," proceeded the sensitive little thing, with more cheerfulness, for I had succeeded in my design of cheering her up a little—"Mr. Zousky—Henry, as we always call him, has been engraving the head of one of our friends at home for a literary affair—some biographical book, or something of that sort, and he came up to show me one of the 'first impressions,' as I think he calls them, and to bring a message from his sister, last evening—wishing me to 'criticise,' he told me, as he had nothing but rather an indifferent daguerreotype to copy from. It was just before tea that he called—because he is busy all day, I suppose, and perhaps, he thought he should be sure of finding me, then. Indeed, he said something about fearing to intrude later, when there might be other visitors—he is the most sensitive and unobtrusive being! Well, just as we were having a nice little chat about old times at D——, cousin Charles came home and came into the parlor. Of course, he knows Henry very well, for he has seen him often and often at our house, when he used to be there in vacations with my brothers; and, indeed, once before Henry came here to live, was one of a party of us, who went to his little studio, to see his self-taught paintings and sketches. When he entered the room, I said, 'cousin Charles, our friend Mr. Zousky does not need an introduction to you, I am sure.' I cannot describe his manner. I did not so much mind its being cold and indifferent, but it was not that of an equal—of one gentleman to another, and without sitting down, even for a moment, he walked back to the dining-room, and I heard him ask the servant whether tea was ready. Henry rose in a moment, and took my hand to say good-bye—oh, uncle, I cannot tell you how hurt I was! His voice was as low and gentle as ever, but his face betrayed him! I know he noticed cousin Charles' manner. I was determined that he should not go away so; so I didn't get up, but drew him to a seat by me on the sofa, and said that he must not go yet, unless he had an engagement, for that I had not half done telling him what I wished, and rattled on, hardly knowing what I did say, for I was so grieved and mortified. He said he would come again, as it was my tea-time, but I insisted that my tea was of no consequence, and that I much preferred talking to a friend—all the while hoping that either cousin Maria or cousin Charles would come and invite him to take tea. Presently I heard cousin Maria come down, and then the glass doors were closed between the rooms, and I knew they were at tea. Why, uncle Hal, papa would no more have done such a thing in his house, than he would have robbed some one! What! wound the feelings of any one for fear of not being 'genteel!' that's the word, I suppose—I hear cousin Maria use it very often! We were always taught by dear mamma, while she lived, to be particularly polite and attentive to those who might not be as happy or prosperous as ourselves. She used to say that fashionable and distinguished people were the least likely to observe those things, but that the sensitive and self-distrustful were apt to be almost morbidly alive to every indication of neglect. 'Never brush rudely by the human sensitive plant, my dears,' she used to say, 'lest you should bruise the tender leaves; and never forget that it most needs the sunshine of smiles!' Dear mamma! she used to be so polite to Henry—not patronizing, but so friendly, so considerate—always she put him at ease when there was other company at our house (though he never came in when he knew there were other visitors), and she used to do so many kind things to assist his first efforts in his art! I only hope he understood that I have no rights here. I am sure I feel that I have not! But I would rather be treated a hundred times over again as I was last night, myself, than to have Henry's feelings wounded; still, I must say that I should not think, because she happened to be detained past the exact tea-hour, of sending away the tea-things and keeping cold slops in a pitcher for any guest in my house, if I had one"——