The garden of the inn commanded one of the loveliest views among the finest river scenery in our country, an exquisite combination of glassy water, little green islets, hills of every variety of form, and mountains, rising one behind another till their outlines grew almost imperceptible in the distance. This, in the light of a magnificent sunset caught the eye of the young painter from a little summer-house in which he had been reading, and he hastened to his room for his portfolio. On his return he commenced sketching with such intentness that he did not perceive that Miss Thompson had taken possession of his former post, until she addressed him with the remark, “You have a most admirable subject for your pencil before you, sir.”
“Beautiful, beautiful!” returned he, warmly; “I never have beheld anything in this order of scenery to surpass it, though, indeed, this glorious river presents, in its whole course, a panorama of views so varied and each so perfect, that it is difficult to decide upon any one as claiming the strongest admiration. I have been tracing it for several months, my store of sketches accumulating every day, and the larger number of them such as would require the hand of a master to do them justice. I sometimes almost despair, and feel inclined to abandon my art from the difficulties I find in attempting not to disgrace my subjects,—such as these for instance,—they may be familiar to you.”
He laid before her several sketches, and, observing, with evident pleasure, her expression of admiration he continued,—“This and this I have finished in oil, if it will afford you any amusement, I shall bring them down.”
She assented with thanks and the pictures were produced. She scanned them over and over again, as if not new to connoisseurship, and when she turned her eyes to the painter from his work, they sparkled with delight that brought a flush to his face. “There is a view which you cannot yet have found;” said she, “one but a few minutes walk from here. I would rather see it on canvass, if executed in the spirit of these, than any Claude I have ever heard of!—when you have seen it I am confident you will undertake it. Will you let me point it out to you?”
The painter cast upon her one of those quick, searching looks that belong to the profession, and was so struck with the intellectual beauty of her glowing and earnest face, that he forgot to reply.
“In this gorgeous sunset it must be magnificent beyond imagination,” she continued, catching up a bonnet beside her; “if we hurry we shall yet have time to see it. Will you go now?” He merely bowed, without any common-places about “the pleasure” or the “happiness,” and laying down his portfolio, he closed the door of the edifice to secure his property, and set off beside her.
“Well, what did you think of Miss Thompson?” asked Wallis of Mr. Sutton the next morning.
“She has splendid black eyes, and how well she knows it too! but she is quite too shy,—I couldn’t draw her out.”
“She was talking fast enough to Mr. Oakley, last evening,—I saw them walking together.”
“Did you!” exclaimed Sutton, in surprise.