i wish i had the courage to begin this tale by turning to my professional visiting books, and, taking at random any month out of the last twenty years, give its record as a fair sample of my ordinary work. the dismal extract would tell you what a doctor’s—i suppose i may say a successful doctor’s—lot is, when his practice lies in a poor and densely-populated district of london. dreary as such a beginning might be, it would perhaps allay some of the incredulity which this tale may probably provoke, as it would plainly show how little room there is for things imaginative or romantic in work so hard as mine, or among such grim realities of poverty, pain, and grief as those by which i have been surrounded. it would certainly make it appear extremely unlikely that i should have found time to imagine, much less to write, a romance or melodrama.
the truth is that when a man has toiled from nine o’clock in the morning until nine o’clock at night, such leisure as he can enjoy is precious to him, especially when even that short respite is liable to be broken in upon at any moment.
still, in spite of the doleful picture i have drawn of what may be called “the daily grind,” i begin this tale with the account of a holiday.
in the autumn of 1864 i turned my back with right good-will upon london streets, hospitals, and patients, and took my seat in the north express. the first revolution of the wheels sent a thrill of delight through my jaded frame. a joyful sense of freedom came over me. i had really got away at last! moreover, i had left no address behind me, so for three blessed weeks might roam an undisputed lord of myself. three weeks were not very many to take out of the fifty-two, but they were all i could venture to give myself; for even at that time my practice, if not so lucrative as i could wish, was a large and increasing one. having done a twelvemonth’s hard work, i felt that no one in the kingdom could take his holiday with a conscience clearer than mine, so i lay back in a peculiarly contented frame of mind, and discounted the coming pleasures of my brief respite from labor.
there are many ways of passing a holiday—many places at which it may be spent; but after all, if you wish to enjoy it thoroughly there is but one royal rule to be followed. that is, simply to please yourself—go where you like, and mount the innocent holiday hobby which is dearest to your heart, let its name be botany, geology, entomology, conchology, venery, piscation, or what not. then you will be happy, and return well braced up for the battle of life. i knew a city clerk with literary tastes, who invariably spent his annual fortnight among the mustiest tomes of the british museum, and averred that his health was more benefited by so doing than if he had passed the time inhaling the freshest sea-breezes. i dare say he was right in his assertion.
sketching has always been my favorite holiday pursuit. poor as my drawings may be, nevertheless, as i turn them over in my portfolio, they bring to me at least vivid remembrances of many sweet and picturesque spots, happy days, and congenial companions. it was not for me to say anything of their actual merits, but they are dear to me for their associations.
this particular year i went to north wales, and made bettws-y-coed my headquarters. i stayed at the royal oak, that well-known little inn dear to many an artist’s heart, and teeming with reminiscences of famous men who have sojourned there times without number. it was here i made the acquaintance of the man with whose life the curious events here told are connected.
on the first day after my arrival at bettws my appreciation of my liberty was so thorough, my appetite for the enjoyment of the beauties of nature so keen and insatiable, that i went so far and saw so much, that when i returned to the royal oak night had fallen and the hour of dinner had long passed by. i was, when my own meal was placed on the table, the only occupant of the coffee-room. just then a young man entered, and ordered something to eat. the waiter knowing no doubt something of the frank camaraderie which exists, or should exist, between the followers of the painter’s craft, laid his cover at my table. the[201] new-comer seated himself, gave me a pleasant smile and a nod, and in five minutes we were in full swing of conversation.
the moment my eyes fell upon the young man i had noticed how singularly handsome he was. charles carriston—for this i found afterwards to be his name—was about twenty-two years of age. he was tall, but slightly built; his whole bearing and figure being remarkably elegant and graceful. he looked even more than gentlemanly,—he looked distinguished. his face was pale, its features well-cut, straight, and regular. his forehead spoke of high intellectual qualities, and there was somewhat of that development over the eye-brows which phrenologists, i believe, consider as evidence of the possession of imagination. the general expression of his face was one of sadness, and its refined beauty was heightened by a pair of soft, dark, dreamy-looking eyes.
it only remains to add that, from his attire, i judged him to be an artist—a professional artist—to the backbone. in the course of conversation i told him how i had classified him. he smiled.
“i am only an amateur,” he said; “an idle man, nothing more—and you?”
“alas! i am a doctor.”
“then we shall not have to answer to each other for our sins in painting.”
we talked on pleasantly until our bodily wants were satisfied. then came that pleasant craving for tobacco, which after a good meal, is natural to a well-regulated digestion.
“shall we go and smoke outside?” said carriston. “the night is delicious.”
we went out and sat on one of the wooden benches. as my new friend said, the night was delicious. there was scarcely a breath of air moving. the stars and the moon shone brightly, and the rush of the not far distant stream came to us with a soothing murmur. near us were three or four jovial young artists. they were in merry mood; one of them had that day sold a picture to a tourist. we listened to their banter until, most likely growing thirsty, they re-entered the inn.
carriston had said little since we had been out of doors. he smoked his cigar placidly and gazed up at the skies. with the white moonlight falling on his strikingly-beautiful face—the graceful pose into which he fell—he seemed to me the embodiment of poetry. he paid no heed to the merry talk or the artists, which so much amused me—indeed, i doubted if he heard their voices.
yet he must have done so, for as soon as they had left us he came out of his reverie.
“it must be very nice,” he said, “to have to make one’s living by art.”
“nice for those who can make livings by it,” i answered.
“all can do that who are worth it. the day of neglected genius is gone by. muller was the last sufferer, i think—and he died young.”
“if you are so sanguine, why not try your own luck at it?”
“i would; but unfortunately i am a rich man.”
i laughed at this misplaced regret. then carriston, in the most simple way, told me a good deal about himself. he was an orphan; an only child. he had already ample means; but fortune had still favors in store for him. at the death of his uncle, now an aged man, he must succeed to a large estate and a baronetcy. the natural, unaffected way in which he made these confidences, moreover made them not, i knew, from any wish to increase his importance in my eyes, greatly impressed me. by the time we parted for the night i had grown much interested in my new acquaintance—an interest not untinged by envy. young, handsome, rich, free to come or go, work or play, as he listed! happy carriston!
