The Ammabys were in London. Amabel preferred the country; but she bore the town as she bore with many other things that were not quite to her taste, including painfully short petticoats, and Mademoiselle, the French governess. She was in the garden of the square one morning, when D’Arcy ran in.
“O Amabel!” he cried, “I’m so glad you’re alone! Whom do you think I’ve seen? The boy you called Bogy. It must be he; I’ve looked in the glass, and oh, he is like me!”
“Where did you see him?” asked Amabel.
“Well, you know I’ve told you I get up very early just now?”
“I wish you wouldn’t tell me,” interrupted Amabel, “when you know Mademoiselle won’t let me get up till half-past eight. Oh, I wish we were going home this week!”
“I’m very sorry, Amabel, but do listen. I was down by the river, and there he was sketching1; and oh, so beautifully! I shall burn all my copies; I can never draw like him. Amabel, he is awfully2 like me, and he must be very near my age. He’s like what people’s twin-brothers are, you know. I wish he were my twin-brother!”
“He couldn’t be your twin-brother,” said Amabel, gravely; “he’s not a gentleman.”
“Well, he’s not exactly not a gentleman,” said D’Arcy. “However, I asked him if he sent his pictures to the Academy, and he said no, but his master does, the artist he lives with. And he told me his master’s name, and the number of his pictures; and I’ve brought you a catalogue, and the numbers are 401, 402, and 403. And we are going to the Academy this afternoon, and I’ve asked mamma to ask Lady Louisa to let you come with us. But don’t say any thing about me and the boy, for I don’t want it to be known I have been out early.”
At this moment Mademoiselle, who had been looking into the garden from an upper window, hastened to fetch Amabel indoors.
It was between three and four o’clock in the afternoon, and the Academy was crowded. The crush was so oppressive that Lady Adelaide wanted to go away, but D’Arcy had expressed a wish to see No. 401, and D’Arcy’s wishes were law to his father, so he struggled in search of the picture, and the others followed him. And when a small crowd that was round it had dispersed3, they saw it quite clearly.
It was the painter’s picture. As the other spectators passed, they spoke4 of the coloring and the draughtsmanship; of the mellow5 glow of sunshine, which, faithful to the richness of southern summers, carried also a poetical6 hint of the air of glory in which genius lives alone. To some the graceful7 figure of Cimabue was familiar, but the new group round the picture saw only the shepherd lad. And if, as the spectators said, his eyes haunted them about the room, what ghosts must they not have summoned to haunt Mr. Ford’s client as he gazed?
“Mais c’est Monsieur D’Arcy!” screamed the French governess. And Amabel said, “It’s Bogy; but he’s got no leaves.” Lady Adelaide was quite composed. The likeness8 was very striking, but her maternal9 eyes saw a thousand points of difference between the Giotto of the painting and her son. “How very odd!” she said. “I wonder who sat for the Giotto? If he really were the boy Amabel thinks she saw in the wood, I think her Bogy and the model must both be the same as a wonderful child Mr. Ammaby was telling me about, who painted the sign of the inn in his village; but his father was a windmiller called Lake, and”—
“Mamma! mamma!” cried D’Arcy, “papa is ill.”
The sound of his son’s voice recalled Mr. Ford’s client to consciousness; but it was a very partial and confused consciousness. He heard voices speaking of the heat, the crush, etc., as in a dream. He was not sure whether he was being carried or led along. The painting was no longer before him, but it mattered little. The shepherd boy’s eyes were as dark as his own; but that look in their upward gaze, which stirred every heart, pierced his as it had moved it years ago from eyes the color of a summer sky. To others their pathos10 spoke of yearning11 genius at war with fortune; but for Mr. Ford’s client they brought back, out of the past, words which rang more clearly in his ears than the condolences of the crowd,—
“You’ll remember your promise, D’Arcy? You will be quite sure to take me home to bury me? And you will call my child after my father,—JAN?”
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1
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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2
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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3
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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4
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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5
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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6
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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7
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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8
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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9
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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10
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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11
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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