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Slow and Sure: The Story of Paul Hoffman the Young Street-Merchant, a novel by Horatio Alger |
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Chapter 24. The Poor Artist |
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_ CHAPTER XXIV. THE POOR ARTIST A week later Julius started for the West with a company of boys who went out under the auspices of the Children's Aid Society. His adventures out West will make the subject of another volume. On the day succeeding his departure Paul was at his stand, when his attention was drawn to a man of respectable appearance, but poorly clad, and thin and emaciated, who, after a little hesitation, accosted a gentleman who was passing, in these words: "Sir, I hope you will excuse my liberty in addressing you, but I have been sick, and am without money. Can you spare me a trifle?" "I never give to street beggars," said the gentleman, coldly. The applicant shrank back abashed, and a look of pain and mortification overspread his features. Paul noticed it, and his heart was filled with compassion. He saw that the man was not a common street beggar; that, except under the pressure of necessity, he would not have asked help. Stepping up to him as he was slowly moving away, Paul said, gently: "Can I assist you in any way, sir?" The other turned at the words. "I am in great need of help," he said. "I am without money, and I have a little daughter at home who wants bread." As he said this he came near breaking down. "Let me help you," said Paul; and he drew a dollar from his pocket and passed it to the applicant. "A thousand thanks for your generous kindness!" said the stranger, gratefully; "but"--and here he glanced at Paul's humble place of business--"can you spare this money?" "Easily," said Paul. "I am doing very well, and saving up money every week." "Then I will accept it. There are some kind hearts in the world. I felt very much depressed by the refusal I just received. It was a great sacrifice of pride for me to ask help of any one, but the thought of my little daughter removed all my scruples. I could bear privation and hunger myself, but I could not bear to see her suffer." "Where do you live?" asked Paul. "In Centre street. It is a miserable place, but all I can afford." "May I ask your business?" "I am an artist. I came from England, my native country, some months since, hoping to better my fortune here. But I fell sick in a short time, and continued so until a week since." "You are not looking well." "I have overcome my disease, but I need nourishing food, and I have not been able to buy it." "How did you pay your expenses while you were sick?" "I brought over with me a small sum of money, and by great economy I made it last till a week since. I am unknown, and, though I have two pictures finished, I cannot sell them. I was told that America was a good country for the poor; but I do not find it so for me." "It may be, after you are known." "But what shall I do in the meantime?" Here an idea came to Paul. He had long intended to obtain a teacher of drawing for Jimmy. It would be a charity to employ this poor artist if he were competent. "Did you ever give lessons in drawing?" he asked. "Yes; I gave lessons in England. I would gladly find scholars here, but I am not known." "I have a little brother who has a great taste for drawing," said Paul. "You may begin with him." "Thank you," said the stranger, warmly. "You give me new hope. I will teach him gladly, and leave the price of the lessons to you." "If you will tell me where you live I will call there at noon. You will want to buy some food for your little girl." "Yes, poor little Mary, I must not leave her waiting any longer. I shall be very glad to see you at my poor room. It is No. -- Centre street, back room, third floor. Ask for Mr. Henderson." "I will be sure to call." The artist made his way to a baker's where he bought a loaf of bread. Also at a shop near by he obtained a pint of milk, and, provided with these, he hastened home to his hungry child. At noon, after taking lunch, Paul found his way to the address given him by the artist. The room was dark and scantily furnished. Mr. Henderson sat before an easel, trying to work. He got up hastily as Paul entered. "I am glad to see you, my good young friend," he said. "Take a seat." "Is this your little daughter?" asked Paul. "Come here, Mary, and speak to the gentleman," said her father. Mary Henderson was a delicate looking little girl of eight years, with dark hair and eyes. She would have been pretty if she had been stronger and more healthy. A few weeks of good food and country air would bring back the roses to her cheeks, and fill out her emaciated form. "Have you any pictures finished?" asked Paul. "I have two small ones. Would you like to see them?" "Very much." The artist went to a closet, and produced two small pictures unframed. One was an English country landscape, pretty in design, and executed, as Paul thought, with taste. "I like that," he said. "The other is better," said Mr. Henderson. He exhibited the other canvas. It was a simple sketch of a brother and sister on their way to school. The faces were bright and pretty, the attitudes natural and graceful, and all the details were well carried out. "You are right," said Paul. "This is the best picture. The girl's face looks familiar. It is your own little girl, is it not?" "Then you see the resemblance?" "Yes, it is very like, but----" "But it represents a blooming, healthful child, while my poor Mary is thin and pale. Yet when the picture was painted, before I left England, it was an exact likeness. You see what privation and the bad air of the city have done for her." "She will look like it again. A few weeks will bring her back." "I hope so." "You ought to get a good price for these pictures, Mr. Henderson." "If I had a name, I could." "If you are willing to trust me with them, I will see what I can do for you." "Thank you a thousand times." "I may not be able to sell them, but I will try. Have you set a price on them?" "No; I will sell them for anything they will fetch--for five dollars even, if no more can be obtained." "I hope to get more." "Mary, wrap up the pictures for the gentleman," said her father. The little girl did so. "If you can call on me this evening at half-past seven, Mr. Henderson," said Paul, "I will make arrangements about your giving lessons to my little brother." "I will certainly do so." "You will not be afraid to leave your little girl alone?" "She can stay with a neighbor." "Then I will expect you." Paul wrote down his address, and took his leave, with the pictures under his arm. He had thought of a customer. He knew that Mr. Preston was not only rich, but kindhearted and charitable. Even if he did not want the pictures, he thought he would be willing to give a small sum for them; and even a little would be of great service to the poverty-stricken artist. He therefore made his way to Mr. Preston's counting-room, and was admitted to his presence. "Are you busy, Mr. Preston?" asked our hero. "Not particularly. I can spare you a few minutes." He looked inquiringly at the parcel Paul carried under his arm. "I have come to sell you some pictures, Mr. Preston." "You haven't turned artist?" said the merchant, surprised. "No; but I am acting as agent for a poor artist, who is in great need of money." "A poor artist in both senses of the word, eh, Paul?" "No, I think not. I am not a judge of pictures, but these seem to me very good." "Let me see them." Paul unrolled the bundle and displayed them. Mr. Preston took them in his hands, and examined them with interest. "They are good pictures," he said, after a pause. "Who is the artist?" "An Englishman named Henderson. I will tell you all I know of his story. He has been very unfortunate, and is now in pressing need of assistance." Mr. Preston listened to the story with which the reader is already familiar. When it was concluded he said, "We must help him." "I am going to take him as teacher for my little brother Jimmy." "I will purchase the picture of the children for fifty dollars." "It will be a fortune to the poor man," said Paul, joyfully. "When shall you see him?" "To-night." "Then I will give you the money to hand to him. Besides, I will give him a note to Goupil, who will allow him to exhibit the other picture in his store. That may secure its sale." "Thank you, Mr. Preston. You will do him a great kindness." Paul left the picture of which he had disposed, and, taking the other under his arm, went back to the necktie stand. He felt an honest pleasure in the thought of the happiness he was about to confer upon the poor artist. "It will set him on his feet," he thought. _ |
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