UNLESS one is wealthy there is no use
in being a charming fellow. Romance is the privilege of the rich, not the
profession of the unemployed. The poor should be practical and prosaic. It is
better to have a permanent income than to be fascinating. These are the great
truths of modern life which Hughie Erskine never realised. Poor Hughie!
Intellectually, we must admit, he was not of much importance. He never said a
brilliant or even an ill-natured thing in his life. But then he was wonderfully
good-looking, with his crisp brown hair, his clear-cut profile, and his grey
eyes. He was as popular with men as he was with women, and he had every
accomplishment except that of making money. His father had bequeathed him his
cavalry sword, and a History of
the Peninsular War in
fifteen volumes. Hughie hung the first over his looking-glass, put the second
on a shelf between Ruff's Guide and Bailey's Magazine,
and lived on two hundred a year that an old aunt allowed him. He had tried
everything. He had gone on the Stock Exchange for six months; but what was a
butterfly to do among bulls and bears? He had been a tea-merchant for a little
longer, but had soon tired of pekoe and souchong. Then he had tried selling dry
sherry. That did not answer; the sherry was a little too dry. Ultimately he
became nothing, a delightful, ineffectual young man with a perfect profile and
no profession.
To make matters worse, he was in love. The girl he loved was
Laura Merton, the daughter of a retired Colonel who had lost his temper and his
digestion in India, and had never found either of them again. Laura adored him,
and he was ready to kiss her shoe-strings. They were the handsomest couple in
London, and had not a penny-piece between them. The Colonel was very fond of Hughie,
but would not hear of any engagement.
`Come to me, my boy, when you have got ten thousand pounds
of your own, and we will see about it,' he used to say; and Hughie looked very
glum on those days, and had to go to Laura for consolation.
One morning, as he was on his way to Holland Park, where the
Mertons lived, he dropped in to see a great friend of his, Alan Trevor. Trevor
was a painter. Indeed, few people escape that nowadays. But he was also an
artist, and artists are rather rare. Personally he was a strange rough fellow,
with a freckled face and a red ragged beard. However, when he took up the brush
he was a real master, and his pictures were eagerly sought after. He had been
very much attracted by Hughie at first, it must be acknowledged, entirely on
account of his personal charm. `The only people a painter should know,' he used
to say, `are people who are bête and beautiful, people who are an
artistic pleasure to look at and an intellectual repose to talk to. Men who are
dandies and women who are darlings rule the world, at least they should do so.'
However, after he got to know Hughie better, he liked him quite as much for his
bright buoyant spirits and his generous reckless nature, and had given him the
permanent entrée to his studio.
When Hughie came in he found Trevor putting the finishing
touches to a wonderful life-size picture of a beggar-man. The beggar himself
was standing on a raised platform in a corner of the studio. He was a wizened
old man, with a face like wrinkled parchment, and a most piteous expression.
Over his shoulders was flung a coarse brown cloak, all tears and tatters; his
thick boots were patched and cobbled, and with one hand he leant on a rough
stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for alms.
`What an amazing model!' whispered Hughie, as he shook hands
with his friend.
`An amazing model?' shouted Trevor at the top of his voice;
`I should think so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with every day. A trouvaille, mort cher; a living
Velasquez! My stars! what an etching Rembrandt would have made of him!'
`Poor old chap! said Hughie, `how miserable he looks! But I
suppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?'
`Certainly,' replied Trevor, `you don't want a beggar to
look happy, do you?'
`How much does a model get for sitting?' asked Hughie, as he
found himself a comfortable seat on a divan.
`A shilling an hour.'
`And how much do you get for your picture, Alan?'
`Oh, for this I get two thousand!'
`Pounds?'
`Guineas. Painters, poets, and physicians always get
guineas.'
`Well, I think the model should have a percentage,' cried
Hughie, laughing; `they work quite as hard as you do.'
`Nonsense, nonsense! Why, look at the trouble of laying on
the paint alone, and standing all day long at one's easel! It's all very well,
Hughie, for you to talk, but I assure you that there are moments when Art
almost attains to the dignity of manual labour. But you mustn't chatter; I'm
very busy. Smoke a cigarette, and keep quiet.'
After some time the servant came in, and told Trevor that
the frame-maker wanted to speak to him.
`Don't run away, Hughie,' he said, as he went out, `I will
be back in a moment.'
The old beggar-man took advantage of Trevor's absence to
rest for a moment on a wooden bench that was behind him. He looked so forlorn
and wretched that Hughie could not help pitying him, and felt in his pockets to
see what money he had. All he could find was a sovereign and some coppers.
`Poor old fellow,' he thought to himself, `he wants it more than I do, but it
means no hansoms for a fortnight;' and he walked across the studio and slipped
the sovereign into the beggar's hand.
The old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his
withered lips. `Thank you, sir,' he said, `thank you.'
Then Trevor arrived, and Hughie took his leave, blushing a
little at what he had done. He spent the day with Laura, got a charming
scolding for his extravagance, and had to walk home.
That night he strolled into the Palette Club about eleven
o'clock, and found Trevor sitting by himself in the smoking-room drinking hock
and seltzer.
`Well, Alan, did you get the picture finished all right?' he
said, as he lit his cigarette.
`Finished and framed, my boy!' answered Trevor; `and,
by-the-bye, you have made a conquest. That old model you saw is quite devoted
to you. I had to tell him all about you - who you are, where you live, what
your income is, what prospects you have--'
`My dear Alan,' cried Hughie, `I shall probably find him
waiting for me when I go home. But of course you are only joking. Poor old
wretch! I wish I could do something for him. I think it is dreadful that any
one should be so miserable. I have got heaps of old clothes at home - do you
think he would care for any of them? Why, his rags were falling to bits.'
`But he looks splendid in them,' said Trevor. `I wouldn't
paint him in a frock-coat for anything. What you call rags I call romance. What
seems poverty to you is picturesqueness to me. However, I'll tell him of your
offer.'
`Alan,' said Hughie seriously, `you painters are a heartless
lot.'
`An artist's heart is his head,'
replied Trevor; `and besides, our business is to realise the world as we see
it, not to reform it as we know it. À chacun son
métier. And now tell me how Laura is. The old model was quite
interested in her.'
`You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?' said
Hughie.
`Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless colonel,
the lovely Laura, and the #10,000.'
`You told that old beggar all my private affairs?' cried
Hughie, looking very red and angry.
`My dear boy,' said Trevor, smiling, `that old beggar, as
you call him, is one of the richest men in Europe. He could buy all London
to-morrow without overdrawing his account. He has a house in every capital,
dines off gold plate, and can prevent Russia going to war when he chooses.'
`What on earth do you mean?' exclaimed Hughie.
`What I say,' said Trevor. `The old man you saw to-day in
the studio was Baron Hausberg. He is a great friend of mine, buys all my
pictures and that sort of thing, and gave me a commission a month ago to paint
him as a beggar. Que
voulez-vous? La fantaisie d'un millionnaire! And I must say he made a magnificent
figure in his rags, or perhaps I should say in my rags; they are an old suit I
got in Spain.'
`Baron Hausberg!' cried Hughie. `Good heavens! I gave him a
sovereign!' and he sank into an armchair the picture of dismay.
`Gave him a sovereign!' shouted Trevor, and he burst into a
roar of laughter. `My dear boy, you'll never see it again. Son affaire c'est l'argent des autres.'
`I think you might have told me, Alan,' said Hughie sulkily,
`and not have let me make such a fool of myself.'
`Well, to begin with, Hughie,' said Trevor, `it never
entered my mind that you went about distributing alms in that reckless way. I
can understand your kissing a pretty model, but your giving a sovereign to an
ugly one - by Jove, no! Besides, the fact is that I really was not at home
to-day to any one; and when you came in I didn't know whether Hausberg would
like his name mentioned. You know he wasn't in full dress.'
`What a duffer he must think me!' said Hughie.
`Not at all. He was in the highest spirits after you left;
kept chuckling to himself and rubbing his old wrinkled hands together. I
couldn't make out why he was so interested to know all about you; but I see it
all now. He'll invest your sovereign for you, Hughie, pay you the interest
every six months, and have a capital story to tell after dinner.'
`I am an unlucky devil,' growled Hughie. `The best thing I
can do is to go to bed; and, my dear Alan, you mustn't tell any one. I
shouldn't dare show my face in the Row.'
`Nonsense! It reflects the highest credit on your
philanthropic spirit, Hughie. And don't run away. Have another cigarette, and
you can talk about Laura as much as you like.'
However, Hughie wouldn't stop, but walked home, feeling very
unhappy, and leaving Alan Trevor in fits of laughter.
The next morning, as he was at breakfast, the servant
brought him up a card on which was written, `Monsieur Gustave Naudin, de la part de M. le Baron Hausberg.'
`I suppose he has come for an apology,' said Hughie to himself;
and he told the servant to show the visitor up.
An old gentleman with gold spectacles
and grey hair came into the room, and said, in a slight French accent, `Have I
the honour of addressing Monsieur Erskine?'
Hughie bowed.
`I have come from Baron Hausberg,' he continued. `The
Baron--'
`I beg, sir, that you will offer him my sincerest
apologies,' stammered Hughie.
`The Baron,' said the old gentleman, with a smile, `has
commissioned me to bring you this letter;' and he extended a sealed envelope.
On the outside was written, `A wedding present to Hugh
Erskine and Laura Merton, from an old beggar,' and inside was a cheque for
#10,000.
When they were married Alan Trevor was the best-man, and the
Baron made a speech at the wedding- breakfast.
`Millionaire models,' remarked Alan, `are rare enough; but,
by Jove, model millionaires are rarer still!'
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