Part 11 (1/2)

”I am sure. Mr. Groove, sir, if you can not sell a lie for ten s.h.i.+llings you are not fit to live in this world; where is the lie that will not sell for ten s.h.i.+llings?”

”I shall think the better o' lees all my days; sir, your words are inspeeriting.” And away went Groove with the sketch.

Gatty reflected and stopped him.

”On second thoughts, Groove, you must not ask ten s.h.i.+llings; you must ask twenty pounds for that rubbish.”

”Twenty pund! What for will I seek twenty pund?”

”Simply because people that would not give you ten s.h.i.+llings for it will offer you eleven pounds for it if you ask twenty pounds.”

”The fules,” roared Groove. ”Twenty pund! hem!” He looked closer into it. ”For a',” said he, ”I begin to obsairve it is a work of great merit.

I'll seek twenty pund, an' I'll no tak less than fifteen sch.e.l.l'n, at present.”

The visit of this routine painter did not cheer our artist.

The small child got a coal and pounded the floor with it like a machine incapable of fatigue. So the wished-for pose seemed more remote than ever.

The day waxed darker instead of lighter; Mr. Gatty's reflections took also a still more somber hue.

”Even Nature spites us,” thought he, ”because we love her.”

”Then cant, tradition, numbers, slang and money are against us; the least of these is singly a match for truth; we shall die of despair or paint cobwebs in Bedlam; and I am faint, weary of a hopeless struggle; and one man's brush is truer than mine, another's is bolder--my hand and eye are not in tune. Ah! no! I shall never, never, never be a painter.”

These last words broke audibly from him as his head went down almost to his knees.

A hand was placed on his shoulder as a flake of snow falls on the water.

It was Christie Johnstone, radiant, who had glided in un.o.bserved.

”What's wrang wi' ye, my lad?”

”The sun is gone to the Devil, for one thing.”

”Hech! hech! ye'll no be long ahint him; div ye no think shame.”

”And I want that little brute just to do so, and he'd die first.”

”Oh, ye villain, to ca' a bairn a brute; there's but ae brute here, an'

it's no you, Jamie, nor me--is it, my lamb?”

She then stepped to the window.

”It's clear to windward; in ten minutes ye'll hae plenty sun. Tak your tools noo.” And at the word she knelt on the floor, whipped out a paper of sugar-plums and said to him she had christened ”Jamie.” ”Heb! Here's sweeties till ye.” Out went Jamie's arms, as if he had been a machine and she had pulled the right string.

”Ah, that will do,” said Gatty, and sketched away.

Unfortunately, Jamie was quickly arrested on the way to immortality by his mother, who came in, saying:

”I maun hae my bairn--he canna be aye wasting his time here.”