I opened my writing-desk in a great flutter.
The doctor selected the largest sheet of paper and
the broadest-nibbed pen he could find, and wrote in
majestic round-text letters, with alternate thin and
thick strokes beautiful to see, the two cabalistic
words
After dark.
We all three laid our heads together over the paper,
and in breathless silence studied the effect of the
round-text: William raising his green shade in
the excitement of the moment, and actually disobeying
the doctor’s orders about not using his eyes,
in the doctor’s own presence! After a good
long stare, we looked round solemnly in each other’s
faces and nodded. There was no doubt whatever
on the subject after seeing the round-text. In
one happy moment the doctor had hit on the right name.
“I have written the title-page,” said
our good friend, taking up his hat to go. “And
now I leave it to you two to write the book.”
Since then I have mended four pens and bought a quire
of letter-paper at the village shop. William
is to ponder well over his stories in the daytime,
so as to be quite ready for me “after dark.”
We are to commence our new occupation this evening.
My heart beats fast and my eyes moisten when I think
of it. How many of our dearest interests depend
upon the one little beginning that we are to make
to-night!
Before I begin, by the aid of my wife’s patient
attention and ready pen, to relate any of the stories
which I have heard at various times from persons whose
likenesses I have been employed to take, it will not
be amiss if I try to secure the reader’s interest
in the following pages, by briefly explaining how I
became possessed of the narrative matter which they
contain.
Of myself I have nothing to say, but that I have followed
the profession of a traveling portrait-painter for
the last fifteen years. The pursuit of my calling
has not only led me all through England, but has taken
me twice to Scotland, and once to Ireland. In
moving from district to district, I am never guided
beforehand by any settled plan. Sometimes the
letters of recommendation which I get from persons
who are satisfied with the work I have done for them
determine the direction in which I travel. Sometimes
I hear of a new neighborhood in which there is no
resident artist of ability, and remove thither on speculation.
Sometimes my friends among the picture-dealers say
a good word on my behalf to their rich customers,
and so pave the way for me in the large towns.
Sometimes my prosperous and famous brother-artists,
hearing of small commissions which it is not worth
their while to accept, mention my name, and procure
me introductions to pleasant country houses.
Thus I get on, now in one way and now in another,
not winning a reputation or making a fortune, but
happier, perhaps, on the whole, than many men who
have got both the one and the other. So, at least,
I try to think now, though I started in my youth with
as high an ambition as the best of them. Thank
God, it is not my business here to speak of past times
and their disappointments. A twinge of the old
hopeless heartache comes over me sometimes still, when
I think of my student days.
