“My good sir,” began Clarence.
“Oh, no thanks, sir,—none at all,—too
happy to serve a relation of Mrs. Minden,—always
proud to keep up family connections. You will
be at home to-morrow, sir, at eleven; I will look
in; your most humble servant, Mr. Linden.”
And almost upsetting Talbot, who had just entered,
Mr. Brown bowed himself out.
He talked with open heart
and tongue,
Affectionate and
true;
A pair of friends, though
I was young
And Matthew seventy-two.—Wordsworth.
Meanwhile the young artist proceeded rapidly with
his picture. Devoured by his enthusiasm, and
utterly engrossed by the sanguine anticipation of
a fame which appeared to him already won, he allowed
himself no momentary interval of relaxation; his food
was eaten by starts, and without stirring from his
easel; his sleep was brief and broken by feverish
dreams; he no longer roved with Clarence, when the
evening threw her shade over his labours; all air and
exercise he utterly relinquished; shut up in his narrow
chamber, he passed the hours in a fervid and passionate
self-commune, which, even in suspense from his work,
riveted his thoughts the closer to its object.
All companionship, all intrusion, he bore with irritability
and impatience. Even Clarence found himself
excluded from the presence of his friend; even his
nearest relation, who doted on the very ground which
he hallowed with his footstep, was banished from the
haunted sanctuary of the painter; from the most placid
of human beings, Warner seemed to have grown the most
morose.
Want of rest, abstinence from food, the impatience
of the strained spirit and jaded nerves, all contributed
to waste the health while they excited the genius
of the artist. A crimson spot, never before seen
there, burned in the centre of his pale cheek; his
eye glowed with a brilliant but unnatural fire; his
features grew sharp and attenuated; his bones worked
from his whitening and transparent skin; and the soul
and frame, turned from their proper and kindly union,
seemed contesting, with fierce struggles, which should
obtain the mastery and the triumph.
But neither his new prospects nor the coldness of
his friend diverted the warm heart of Clarence from
meditating how he could most effectually serve the
artist before he departed from the country, It was
a peculiar object of desire to Warner that the most
celebrated painter of the day, who was on terms of
intimacy with Talbot, and who with the benevolence
of real superiority was known to take a keen interest
in the success of more youthful and inexperienced genius,—it
was a peculiar object of desire to Warner, that Sir
Joshua Reynolds should see his picture before it was
completed; and Clarence, aware of this wish, easily
obtained from Talbot a promise that it should be effected.
That was the least service of his zeal touched by
