The Boy Artist Part 5

"You must try to sleep again, darling Raymond."

A bewildered look pa.s.sed over the boy's face, then he said eagerly, "Madge, am I going to die?"

She put her face close down to his, and said gently, "We must not talk now, dear; try to sleep again."

He was silent for a few minutes, then the words came thick and fast.

"Madge, I've not been a good brother to you; I meant to have been, but I have thought and thought of nothing but myself. I ought to have gone to the shop. I ought not to have let you want. O Madge! if I might but live, if I might but live!" and then tears fell one by one down the thin, pale cheeks, and dropped on Madge's hand.

"Please, dear Raymond, lie quiet; the doctor said you must be very quiet."

"But, Madge, it doesn't signify; I'm dying, I know I am, and I must speak to you!" he said, raising his voice, and speaking with all the energy of those who know that they are soon to be silent for evermore; "what will you do? what will become of you?"

"Don't fear for me, dear brother," answered Madge, who was crying bitterly.

"No, you love and fear G.o.d, and he will take care of you; I know he will! O Madge, I wish I had loved him as you have; but I've been a bad boy, and now it is too late, too late;--if I might but live!" The words were spoken in a low, vehement whisper, and a smothered groan followed them.

"Raymond, our dear Saviour loves you. Think of him, do not think about yourself," and Madge's face became calm as she spoke.

A smile came over her brother's countenance, he closed his eyes and feebly pressed her hand. Then he lay very still and motionless. Once only his lips moved. Madge thought he said, "Mother!" Then all was silent as the grave, except the ticking of the clock in the next room.

Madge seemed counting every swing of the pendulum. They seemed like the last grains of sand in the hour-gla.s.s of her brother's life, and his breath was getting shorter. At length she could hardly find out whether he breathed or not. She thought of what the doctor said to Mr. Smith: "If he does not rally, there will probably be a short period of consciousness before he dies, and then he will go off quietly." She supposed that period was over now, and Raymond would never speak to her again,--Raymond, her pride, her glory. He was slipping away from her, and soon she should have no brother. Poor little Madge! Years afterwards she could recall that scene more vividly than any other in her life--the look of everything around her; the lazy flies creeping up the window-pane, and one or two which were buzzing about her head; the gla.s.s standing on the chair by Raymond's side, which she had held to his lips but a few minutes before, and which she knew he would never drink from again; the way in which she had smoothed the bed-clothes and moved his pillow; and that still, white face, so inexpressibly dear to her, that rested upon it. There was a step beside her, and looking round she saw Mrs. Smiley. The good woman started as she saw Raymond. Then drawing Madge away, she said tenderly, "Poor lamb, come in here now;" and she tried to induce her to leave the room.

"No, no! I must stay," Madge said vehemently, and she sprang to Raymond's side. "Mrs. Smiley, he isn't dead."

"Then he looks like it. Come away, Miss Madge."

"But he isn't. He breathes still."

Yes, there was just a feeble pulsation, so feeble that it was hardly discernible, but it brought new hope to Madge's heart. She moistened his lips with a stimulant, then knelt beside him, with her eyes fixed upon him in intense anxiety. The moments seemed like hours. But at last there came a little short sigh, and then the breathing became more soft and regular. The lines of the face were relaxed, and Raymond was sleeping peacefully.

"If he sleep, he will do well," were words spoken long ago. And so it was.

When the doctor came again, he p.r.o.nounced his patient better, and told Madge that he might recover.

That night, about twelve o'clock, as she was sitting beside the bed, keeping watch, Madge heard a low, weak voice saying her name. She bent down her head, and Raymond whispered, "Madge, I have had such a happy, beautiful dream, about my painting. Ask G.o.d that I may live."

"Perhaps your dream will come true, darling, for the picture is sold,"

she answered gladly. Then she feared that she had said what was unwise, and that she had excited him. But she was satisfied when she saw the quiet smile of satisfaction that stole over his features.

"Now rest, dear Raymond," she added, as she kissed him, "you will yet live to be my glory."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

[Ill.u.s.tration]

CHAPTER V.

THE INVITATION.

What a pleasant sight it was to see Madge's face, when Raymond was able to sit up. It was still quiet and calm, but there was a deep gladness in it that was beautiful; and the thoughtful care for her brother, the way in which every wish or desire of his was forestalled, showed plainly that her love had rather been increased than diminished by that long nursing. She made allowance for all the fretfulness of convalescence, which is so prevalent after severe illness--especially in men or boys, who feel the depression of extreme weakness peculiarly trying--and was always patient and bright. One day Raymond, after watching her for some minutes gliding about the room and making things comfortable for him, said to her, "Madge, which is the best life, yours or mine?"

"Mine at present; and yours is going to be," she answered, with her own quiet smile.

"I've begun to doubt that. Do you know, I've nearly come to the conclusion that I would change with you, and that your unselfish life is more n.o.ble than all the fame and glory I could heap together."

Madge stopped in her work, and looking earnestly at her brother, replied,--

"If that fame and glory is the _only_ object of your life, Raymond, it is not what I thought and hoped it was going to be."

"What do you mean?" he asked, half laughing at her gravity.

"I can't put it as plainly as I want to do; but, Raymond, I mean that your painting will not be only for your own glory, if you use it rightly."

Raymond was silent, and his face became very thoughtful. "Madge," he said presently, "I don't want that arrowroot. Come over here."

"Wait one moment, dear. I know my duty as nurse better than that. If I leave this too long it will get quite thin, and then you will call it 'horrid stuff,' and not taste it."

Raymond laughed. "You are getting quite tyrannical, Madge. You take an unfair advantage of my weakness."

"I must make the most of my brief authority," she answered merrily; and in another minute she had brought the little tray to his side. "Now what is it, Raymond?"

"Well, Madge, I've been thinking a great deal, and I've come to the conclusion that it's right for me to go to the shop. I can't rise to fame in painting without some teaching, and I can't get that, and I must earn money for you."

"But, Raymond, that picture is sold. You know Mr. Smith brought the money the other day. Why should not others be sold also?"

"And what are you to do meantime, little woman?"

Madge was amused at the grave elder-brother tone, and answered, "As I have done before. But let us consult Mr. Smith."

"Very well; but he can't know both sides of the question. n.o.body but an artist could understand what it is to me to give up painting--not even you, Madge."

Now Mr. Smith had charged Madge to keep it a strict secret from Raymond that he was an artist. He wished to watch him quietly, for there was a little scheme of benevolence in the good man's head, which he wanted to carry out if possible. Many a time had Madge found herself on the point of telling Raymond about the sitting, and Mr. Smith's studio, and the lovely pictures about it; but she kept her counsel bravely, and had her reward. Raymond often questioned her as to how she had made acquaintance with Mr. Smith, but she always told him it was through Mr. Jeffery, and turned the conversation; and by degrees his curiosity abated, he became content to receive him as an old friend, and learned to look forward to his visits as one of his greatest treats.

But with this secret in her possession, it was hardly to be wondered at that Madge smiled when Raymond deplored Mr. Smith's probable want of sympathy in his favourite pursuit; but she only said, "He must have some taste for painting, or he would not have bought your picture."

"You little flatterer! he probably did that because he had a fancy for you."

At this moment Mrs. Smiley entered the room. She was the bearer of a letter which had just been left by the postman.

It bore a foreign post-mark, and the children knew that it was their father's hand-writing. It contained but a few lines, evidently written in haste.

"MY DEAR CHILDREN,--I have got an appointment abroad, which will detain me for a long time,--for how long I cannot say. I wish I could have you with me--but this is impossible. I send you 5. It is all I can do at present. Raymond must give up his dabbling, and set to work like a man. I hope you will get on well. I shall see you some day.

--Your affectionate father, RAYMOND LEICESTER."