“It would kill me—it would kill me, sir!—or worse!—worse! a thousand times worse!” cried Mr. Hartley, putting his hand to his forehead. “What,” continued he impatiently, “what was the meaning of the look you gave, when you first saw that picture? Speak, if you have any humanity! Did you ever see any one that resembles that picture?”
“I have seen, I think, a picture,” said Clarence Hervey, “that has some resemblance to it.”
“When? where?—”
“My good sir,” said Dr. X——, “let me recommend it to you to consider that there is scarcely any possibility of judging, from the features of children, of what their faces may be when they grow up. Nothing can be more fallacious than these accidental resemblances between the pictures of children and of grown-up people.”
Mr. Hartley’s countenance fell.
“But,” added Clarence Hervey, “you will perhaps, sir, think it worth your while to see the picture of which I speak: you can see it at Mr. F——‘s, the painter, in Newman-street; and I will accompany you thither whenever you please.”
“This moment, if you would have the goodness: my carriage is at the door; and Mrs. Delacour will be so kind to excuse ——”
“Oh, make no apologies to me at such a time as this,” said Mrs. Delacour. “Away with you, gentlemen, as soon as you please; upon condition, that if you have any good news to tell, some of you will remember, in the midst of your joy, that such an old woman as Mrs. Margaret Delacour exists, who loves to hear good news of those who deserve it.”
“It was so late in the day when they got to Newman-street, that they were obliged to light candles. Trembling with eagerness, Mr. Hartley drew near, while Clarence held the light to the picture.
“It is so like,” said he, looking at his miniature, “that I dare not believe my senses. Dr. X——, pray do you look. My head is so dizzy, and my eyes so——What do you think, sir? What do you say, doctor?”