Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life by Jr. Horatio Alger (english novels to improve english txt) 📖
- Author: Jr. Horatio Alger
Book online «Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life by Jr. Horatio Alger (english novels to improve english txt) 📖». Author Jr. Horatio Alger
Mechanically his sister did look, and her horrified eyes rested upon a face which streaked with inky spots and lines seaming it in every direction.
In her first confusion, Rachel did not understand the nature of her mishaps, but hastily jumped to the conclusion that she had been suddenly stricken by some terrible disease like the plague, whose ravages in London she had read of with the interest which one of her melancholy temperament might be expected to find in it.
Accordingly she began to wring her hands in an excess of terror, and exclaimed in tones of piercing anguish,—
“It is the fatal plague spot! I feel it; I know it! I am marked for the tomb. The sands of my life are fast running out!”
Jack broke into a fresh burst of merriment, so that an observer might, not without reason, have imagined him to be in imminent danger of suffocation.
“You'll kill me, Aunt Rachel; I know you will,” he gasped out.
“You may order my coffin, Timothy,” said Rachel, in a sepulchral tone. “I sha'n't live twenty-four hours. I've felt it coming on for a week past. I forgive you for all your ill-treatment. I should like to have some one go for the doctor, though I know I'm past help. I will go up to my chamber.”
“I think,” said the cooper, trying to look sober, “that you will find the cold-water treatment efficacious in removing the plague-spots, as you call them.”
Rachel turned towards him with a puzzled look. Then, as her eyes rested, for the first time, upon the handkerchief which she had used, its appearance at once suggested a clew by which she was enabled to account for her own.
Somewhat ashamed of the emotion which she had betrayed, as well as the ridiculous figure which she had cut, she left the room abruptly, and did not make her appearance again till the next morning.
After this little episode, the conversation turned upon Jack's approaching journey.
“I don't know,” said his mother, “but Rachel is right. Perhaps Jack isn't old enough, and hasn't had sufficient experience to undertake such a mission.”
“Now, mother,” expostulated Jack, “you ain't going to side against me, are you?”
“There is no better plan,” said Mr. Crump, quietly, “and I have sufficient confidence in Jack's shrewdness and intelligence to believe he may be trusted in this business.”
Jack looked gratified by this tribute to his powers and capacity, and determined to show that he was deserving of his father's favorable opinion.
The preliminaries were settled, and it was agreed that he should set out early the next morning. He went to bed with the brightest anticipations, and with the resolute determination to find Ida if she was anywhere in Philadelphia.
CHAPTER XVI. THE FLOWER-GIRL.
HENRY BOWEN was a young artist of moderate talent, who had abandoned the farm, on which he had labored as a boy, for the sake of pursuing his favorite profession. He was not competent to achieve the highest success. The foremost rank in his profession was not for him. But he had good taste, a correct eye, and a skilful hand, and his productions were pleasing and popular. A few months before his introduction to the reader's notice, he had formed a connection with a publisher of prints and engravings, who had thrown considerable work in his way.
“Have you any new commission this morning?” inquired the young artist, on the day before Ida's discovery that she had been employed to pass off spurious coins.
“Yes,” said the publisher, “I have thought of something which I think may prove attractive. Just at present, the public seem fond of pictures of children in different characters. I should like to have you supply me with a sketch of a flower-girl, with, say, a basket of flowers in her hand. The attitude and incidentals I will leave to your taste. The face must, of course, be as beautiful and expressive as you can make it, where regularity of features is not sufficient. Do you comprehend my idea?”
“I believe I do,” said the young man, “and hope to be able to satisfy you.”
The young artist went home, and at once set to work upon the task he had undertaken. He had conceived that it would be an easy one, but found himself mistaken. Whether because his fancy was not sufficiently lively, or his mind was not in tune, he was unable to produce the effect he desired. The faces which he successively outlined were all stiff, and though perhaps sufficiently regular in feature, lacked the great charm of being expressive and life-like.
“What is the matter with me?” he exclaimed, impatiently, throwing down his pencil. “Is it impossible for me to succeed? Well, I will be patient, and make one trial more.”
He made another trial, that proved as unsatisfactory as those preceding.
“It is clear,” he decided, “that I am not in the vein. I will go out and take a walk, and perhaps while I am in the street something will strike me.”
He accordingly donned his coat and hat, and, descending, emerged into the great thoroughfare, where he was soon lost in the throng. It was only natural that, as he walked, with his task still in his thoughts, he should scrutinize carefully the faces of such young girls as he met.
“Perhaps,” it occurred to him, “I may get a hint from some face I may see. That will be better than to depend upon my fancy. Nothing, after all, is equal to the masterpieces of Nature.”
But the young artist was fastidious. “It is strange,” he thought, “how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be called models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes but a badly-cut mouth, Here is one that would be pretty, if the face was rounded out; and here is a child, Heaven help it! that was designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances have pinched and cramped it.”
It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.
Henry Bowen looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up with pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he has despaired of it.
“The very face I have been looking for!” he exclaimed to himself. “My flower-girl is found at last!”
He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at a shop-window to examine some articles which were exhibited there. This afforded a fresh opportunity to examine Ida's face.
“It is precisely what I want,” he murmured. “Now the question comes up, whether this woman, who, I suppose, is the girl's attendant, will permit me to copy her face.”
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