Eddie is almost consoled for his parents' prolonged absence by the gorgeous butterfly. His father's pursuits are near and dear to his heart, and the boy is already quite a little naturalist. He sits down after dinner to communicate to his father in large printed letters his investigations concerning a bit of his potato and one of Amaranth's hairs under his little microscope, while Susan places herself and her belongings in a tiny attic in the roof, and explains to Mrs. Banks that henceforth she is cook, waitress, and general factotum to the Glyns.
She refuses to discuss with Amaranth the subject of wages, referring her young mistress to a certain brother who keeps a general shop somewhere near Dartford, and appears, according to Susan, to come forward with any needed supplies should she at any time run short.
Money-matters are no longer a care for Amaranth Glyn. She hears no more of Ardyn. Her mother's letters hint no more at coming home, for her father cannot endure to live in England under a cloud. Amaranth learns as the months go on, how much even a little money can buy if used carefully. She could afford to move into better lodgings, but she contents herself with engaging one of the studios Mr. Banks has built. It matters little to her now where she lives. Even her improved means bring her no nearer to the man she loves, for he must not be allowed to have anything to do with the child of a thief.
The improvement in her circumstances began on a certain never-to-be forgotten day, marked with much embellishment in Eddie's diary, when Amaranth understood that her picture "Forest Moor" was accepted for the Royal Academy. One of May Burr's had been declined, and sympathy for her hardworking, conscientious friend helped to tone down Amaranth's excitement, but that of Eddie and Susan knew no bounds. Susan took Eddie at her own expense in a cab to Burlington House, and the two took up their position by Amaranth's picture, and drank in every word of notice uttered by the public in its vicinity, convinced that not a picture on the walls could vie with the great genius and splendid success of "Miss Amaranth's."
Amaranth sold her picture, too, which just then was very much to the purpose for her.
"Uncle's bought your picture, dear," announced one of her young private pupils one morning. "Uncle's got some land down that way, he says, though he likes better to live in town. Uncle thinks you're very clever. He thinks you're sure to get on, and Uncle Acworthy's quite a connysore."
"A connoisseur, you mean, Reggie," says Amaranth, with a smile. The name of Acworthy seems familiar to her, and she recalls that this is probably the lord of the manor of Bryantwood, who has let the Manor House, and prefers to live in town. The people of Bryantwood know little of him, as the property has only lately fallen to his share.
Amaranth finds that most of the artists know Mr. Acworthy. He is a great art patron, and studied painting once for a year, which prompts him to go from studio to studio, offering criticisms and suggestions. He is a generous purchaser, too, which somewhat sweetens to the palate of genius the critical pill.
Amaranth meets him one evening at a small gathering at the house of Reggie's parents. From then on, he is often present when she is giving a drawing lesson, and helps her with many words of encouragement as to her future as an artist. One day, with blushes that remind her somewhat of Matthew Gummer's, he ventures to bring flowers and grapes to Alexandrina Terrace for her acceptance. Mrs. Banks knows him well, and highly approves of him. She is pleased to ask him up, and he makes acquaintance with Eddie, to whom he proffers many a delightful drive as time goes on. Eddie is enchanted with him, and Amaranth has very grateful feelings towards the benevolent-looking elderly gentleman, with such a substantial air of possible bank notes and such evident interest and pride in her career.
But she is as amused as astonished one day to overhear Susan and Mrs. Banks arranging her Kensington establishment as the future Mrs. Acworthy. Susan is divided between coachman, cook, two housemaids, and a page, while Mrs. Banks inclines to a footman.
"His intentions is evident," says Susan. "Anyone can see how he looks at Miss Amaranth. Not that I considers him suitable in all respects, but what is a bald head, Mrs. Banks, compared with honourable feelings? And what do it matter that the gentleman limps a little, when the heart's in the right place, ma'am? "
"Ah, that's the point," says Mrs. Banks. "And I do assure you, Susan, she couldn't do better. He's quite the gentleman. And it will be a good thing for Miss Glyn to have an affectionate husband like Mr. Acworthy at her side as the years go on; for there's ups and there's downs in an artist's life. Dear me, I ought to know, for half the studios here are ours. Not but what I think Miss Glyn's bound to succeed, soon or late; she's got the right stuff in her. My William, he's slow but he's sure. He don't often give an opinion on artistic matters, but he's familiar with the cream of the profession; we keep their keys. And says he, when he takes a look at Miss Glyn's picture, 'Elizabeth, that's not so dusty after all.' And when my William gives that praise to the work of an artist, Susan, you may make up your mind that artist is going to rise."
May Burr is quite of the worthy landlady's opinion as to Amaranth's developing power. She comes with fond pride to show the reviews and notices she has collected concerning "Forest Moor," which has certainly received more attention than is usually the case with the work of a beginner. "I no longer say, you will be great," she cries enthusiastically to her friend. "Amaranth, you are great. The world's voice owns it. How happy you must be! "
Eddie sends one of his laboriously written communications abroad to announce to his parents that Mr. Acworthy has given him some goldfish in a bowl, and that "Amaranth is grate." All around her joyous prophecies and congratulations are outpoured; but neither fame nor money is sufficient to still the restless discontent within, or satisfy the cravings of Amaranth's heart. She is conscious of lacking something still, of yearning for a peace which neither gold nor greatness has power to bestow.
Amid the daily round of pastoral work, Ardyn, who scarcely knew at first how to face the life before him, is learning that to him who walks with God, life cannot fail of comfort and of blessing; and Amaranth, crowned with laurel, satisfied as to basket and store, shall see and understand earth holds no heart-rest, save in Him who "is not far from any one of us."
Chapter 10
Amaranth's Picture
The critics think so well of "Forest Moor," and Amaranth's name is mentioned so cordially in the papers, that she finds herself an object of interest now to some former acquaintances who dropped her when the cloud fell over her father, and have since seemed oblivious of her existence. Many of these remember that they always considered her a remarkable child, and prophesied she would live to be famous. Some of her old friends send her invitations, which she declines resolutely, for she has surrounded herself with hard work, the only satisfaction that seems left.
One day she receives, sent by Ardyn, a box of wild flowers from the wood. He does not like to weary her with protestations; but those little blossoms from the paths she sees no more soften her heart and refresh her life more than many a sermon could do just now. Even Miss Grimwood, who has always objected to Amaranth as dowered with the deceitful gift of beauty -- a gift not enjoyed by her own niece Rebecca -- condescends to write to Alexandrina Terrace now, asking if Amaranth, as an exhibitor, can send her down a parcel of free admission tickets to the Academy, as she and some of her friends may probably come up to town by excursion this season. She encloses a tract, "All is Vanity," and adds a postscript, asking Amaranth to match some bonnet-ribbons for her and choose a feather, and to post her some patterns of new dress-materials, "as worn in London."
Such letters as these make very little impression on the young artist, and exercise no influence on her work. However, there are others which cause her to tremble as she reads, which bring the flush to her brow, and the dews to her wondering eyes. She knows nothing of the writers. They are perfect strangers to her; but they write from full hearts to thank her for the help and blessing her picture has been.
"My life is a hot struggle in the commercial world,
" says one. "I have lived but for money-making. I have thought of nothing but getting. But the other day, as I stood before your pictured grey, cool woods, and looked upon the restful shadows that seemed to flutter across the leafy branches, my heart grew thirsty for my country home, and a heavenly voice seemed to bid me come out awhile from the mart, and take time, amid all my getting, for rest and quiet and communion with nature's God. And today I put down the toil for a season, and turn to the cooling woods. May God grant that there I hear His voice among the trees."
And another speaks of fretful, anxious chafing and cares rebuked by the solemn peace of the pictured pines, so still, so calm, so lonely, their branches touched with the sunset light a little as with a holy crown.
And yet another, viewing the little child in the thicket as lost, remarks on his cloudless look of trust, his happy, fearless eyes, and is reminded that even as a little child, in a spirit of unshadowed faith, the soul finds the kingdom of heaven.
"I have gazed again and again," says another, "at the little one going home -- for such, I think, is your idea -- along the lone, bewildering, tangled ways to the gleam of sunset quivering through the clouds. Yours is indeed a picture of human life, and in the little face turned skyward you have given the key to our deathless hope in every darksome labyrinth."
And another tells of having been comforted by the blossoms shining amid the gloom, the forget-me-nots clustering within the dimpled hands. "Sometimes," she says, "I am troubled by my dullness and forgetfulness. I am the stupid one of a clever family, and the knowledge of this fact is a hindrance and a worry to me; but your sweet flowers, true to nature, have been eloquent to remind me of the legend you doubtless had in mind in painting their innocent beauty. I came across the poem long ago, and it floated back to me with your picture. It tells how, when our heavenly Father gave all the flowers a name, a little timid, blue-eyed one came back, and ashamed of its bad memory, its dullness, it said tremblingly,
"'Dear God, the name Thou gavest me, Alas, I have forgot!' Kindly the Father looked Him down, And said, 'Forget Me not!'"
As she reads such letters as these. Amaranth is bewildered, humbled, bowed down. Can it be, she wonders, she is anointed for His service whom in her heart she denies? Can it be that the dread Power in which, if she believes at all, it is as an Enemy, stretches out sovereign hands to claim her powers, and will not let her go?
"I thought nothing of all this," she cries in perplexity. "I meant nothing that these people see in my picture. I cannot see it there myself. To me it is only a memory of the woods of the past, with Eddie making my one gleam of brightness in the gloom. All the rest is but their fancy, their mistake."
Amaranth decides these letters are all a mistake, but even to herself that which she strives to accomplish now takes a higher, nobler, more sympathetic form.
And success beyond her hopes is granted to her. The young, fair, lonely artist excites much interest, and she and her work become popular alike. May Burr, as time goes on, seeks work among the magazines, and is glad for the sake of those at home to design an advertisement when she gets the chance. She never paints "pot-boilers.," Her work is always the best she can give, but somehow she does not seem to hit the popular taste, and Amaranth thinks it is all the more unselfish of her friend to rejoice so proudly in her triumphs.
One day Mr. Acworthy begs the favour of an interview, and appears in Amaranth's presence with a fragrant gardenia in his buttonhole. Mr. Acworthy has come to the conclusion that it is not good for man to be alone, and has been redecorating his house in Kensington with a view to a lady's society. One room, indeed, has been set apart as a most professionally equipped studio, wherein he hopes one day to sit and paint by the side of his artistic spouse. He is a modest man, and is conscious that Amaranth has given him no encouragement. He has paved the way to this moment by his weekly offerings of flowers, and generously-lavished books and magazines.
He feels that now the time for speaking has arrived, for the last coat of paint has been put on the last door, and all the nest lacks is the bird to give it grace. For some moments he sits gazing into his hat, somewhat relieved that Amaranth goes on painting, yet wishing she would help him out a little.
"I dare say, Miss Glyn," he says, somewhat hesitatingly, "you have heard I have had my house done up. There is really some artistic work in the back drawing room, and you would like the frescoes in the music room."
Amaranth suspects an order. She is very full just now, and eagerly tries to secure it for May.
"Oh, Mr. Acworthy, I know just the very person who would take such pains with any design for you. I am expecting her this evening."
"Oh, if you are likely to be interrupted," he continues, hastily, "I will tell you at once why I have called, Miss Glyn. Your talents have made an impression upon me, upon my heart. Miss Glyn, if you will give me your attention for a moment -- and, by the way, your perspective is a little bit faulty there, is it not? Well, perhaps not, but there is nothing like accuracy in these details. I have had some art training myself, you know. Miss Glyn... dear Amaranth... shall we paint in future side by side? Will you change your name to Acworthy?"
Amaranth has risen, half frightened, devoutly wishing little Eddie would come in, or that Susan would think it time to light the lamp. Susan, however, is talking below with Mrs. Banks, and giving it as her opinion that "there's nothing like a white muslin with dots or sprigs, and a nice lace veil for a bride; and surely if anything will cheer up the master and bring him home, it will be Miss Amaranth's wedding day, bless her!"
"I am very, very sorry," says Amaranth, tremblingly. "Please, do not think of me like that, Mr. Acworthy."
"But why not, Amaranth? I know I am plain and homely, and much older than yourself, but I will take such care of you and Eddie."
The thought of her little brother stays the decisive words on Amaranth's lips. For Eddie's sake, is it right of her to refuse for him such a protector?
"Oh, Mr. Acworthy," she falters, "I shall never marry. I have resolved always to keep single. There are family circumstances that make it better for no other name to be connected with mine."
"I know what you mean," says Mr. Acworthy, gently. "I was down at Bryantwood last year, and heard about your trouble from Mr. Bigham. Let that be no obstacle, I beg. Your father may have forgotten his integrity, but perhaps he was suddenly tempted, and that has nothing to do with you in my estimation. Come, Amaranth, forget your troubles, and let me claim you as Mrs. Acworthy."
The feeling that he is thinking of enforcing his claim with a kiss startles Amaranth into a burst of tears. Her companion has never before seen her cry, and is sincerely distressed.
"Come, come, Amaranth," he says, rather nervous as to the possibility of hysteria, "I didn't mean to upset you like this. I will say no more on this subject, if you really object. Perhaps I have been forestalled, Amaranth -- there may be somebody else -- but I beg your pardon, for I have no right to ask."
"I am not engaged, indeed," says Amaranth, drying her eyes. "I intend to lead a single life. I am wedded to my art."
But she blushes so painfully that he is convinced in his heart she is thinking just then of that "somebody else;" and he wishes, rather ruefully, that he had left his household preparations till sure of the lady's consent.
"Well, Miss Glyn," he says, quietly, after a pause, "I cannot help saying that I shall always feel a deep interest in your career, and I hope my presumption may be no barrier to our friendship. No doubt an old bachelor like myself has no right to think of changing his state. I am perhaps too old for that kind of thing now. By the way," he adds, "if I can serve you at any time, it will be a real pleasure to me. I have often heard your little brother say how he longs for his old home again. I expect The Bower will shortly be to let, as the school that has been carried on there is to be moved to a more modern house. Now, Miss Glyn, if you felt justified in becoming its tenant, I should be glad to make the terms easy. I am sure you must have many precious associations with
your old home."
To buy The Bower has been Amaranth's dream from childhood. She looks at her friend, thinking she may one day find courage, as her prospects brighten to ask him to accept the purchase money by instalments. But she could not live there. She could not breathe in the place that has known the family disgrace.
"Mr. Acworthy," she says, "I am hoping Eddie will forget the old home in time. Dear as it is to us, it would be too painful to return. But I feel your kindness from my heart, and thankfully look on you as one of my truest, kindest friends."
"Well, Miss Glyn, let me do something for you. Upon my word, I never meant to upset you like this. I know you need no more work just now, but who is the protégée for whom you seek orders?"
"She is no protégée" says Amaranth, smiling through her tears. "She is very clever, and, oh, so thorough in her work! My friend is Miss Burr, of 5, Alexandrina Crescent. You have met her here once or twice. You would be so pleased with any work you gave her to do."
"I will bear her in mind for the designs for my studio ceiling," says Mr. Acworthy. "I will certainly bear her in mind. Come, come, Miss Glyn, forget how I have upset you, and let us be good friends still. Try a little water. Dear me, I must hurry off now. Yes, I will see this Miss Burr of the Crescent; I will certainly bear her in mind."
Chapter 11
Beside the $ea
Eddie's longing for his old home, far from being forgotten, seems to gain in strength as the days go on. Amaranth is so full of work just now that it seems natural to her to see her little brother lying back pale and quiet in his chair, and to hear him say, with a smile, he is "only tired." But sometimes the feeling rushes upon her that despite the nourishment and medicine and galvanic treatment she is able to afford him now, little Eddie is really weaker. One day, while sitting with her in her studio and watching her at her work, the boy quietly faints away.
"I want to go home," is all he says, wearily, when he is a little better, and Susan and Amaranth are trying to bring back the smiles to his white face.
Amaranth's Garden Page 7