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It would be more just to say that the Greeks were a nation of art-critics. ERNEST. Really? GILBERT. Yes, a nation of art-critics. But I don't wish to destroy the delightfully unreal picture that you have drawn of the relation of the Hellenic artist to the intellectual spirit of his age.
Gilbert was glad that she was there. So they knelt an hour, and another hour, and no sound broke the stillness, nor did they feel any weariness at all, for their hearts were lifted up, and for a time the world fell away from them. Then a soft sound of footsteps was in the church, ceasing at some distance from the Tomb, which was not then shut off within walls of its own.
It was Gilbert Stuart, the young portrait painter, but recently returned from England, where he was famed both as artist and wit. The scene in Mr. Jefferson's drawing-room was becoming more and more animated. The guests had nearly all assembled and were thronging the parlor and great hall beneath the brilliant light of many candles.
"I would not hurt you for the world," she said very gravely. "I mean to be your friend, your best friend do you understand?" Gilbert looked down and saw her upturned face. It should have moved him even then, he thought, and perhaps he did not himself know that between her and him there was the freezing shadow of a faint likeness to his mother. "You are kind, Madam," he said, somewhat formally.
"I don't think he is worse. He is simply in the stage of his attacks when he can't talk. I'm sure he'll be all right in a day or two; but Uncle Gilbert don't understand." "And you, Lucy you must not worry." "How can I help it? Something is the matter with you. Why do you act so strangely?" They found the bench on which they were wont to rest, and seated themselves.
Gilbert gave a sign of assent, and started to leave, but the serf, holding him by the arm, said: "Fortunately the barine has gone out; but take care; two days since he had one of his turns, he has one every year, and while they last, his mind wanders at night, and his anger is terrible during the day. I tell you there is a storm in the air, do not draw the thunderbolt upon your head."
"Who is her husband?" he asked under his breath. Before the abbot answered, his grasp tightened upon Gilbert's hands with a friendly grip that was meant to inspire courage. "Your mother has married Sir Arnold de Curboil." Gilbert sprang to his feet, as though he had been struck in the face by an enemy.
Looking back past the bridge, Gilbert caught a glimpse of the valley, with its fairy windings, where he had met his first patient and the princess in the milkmaid costume. The pond lay like a colored mirror in its frame of feathery willows. As he advanced the trees disappeared, and his footfall was muffled in the soft sawdust.
Captain Fenton's arrival was of great assistance to Gilbert in winning his fellow-townsmen to a sense of their danger. The chief magistrate immediately sent round and summoned all the adult population of the place to meet him without delay.
"We have had a narrow escape, Harry, and we must not stay long in London," said Gilbert, as they left the village, and saw the soldiers ride out towards Essex; and then he told his companion of his former acquaintance with Captain Stanhope. Harry could not help laughing, in spite of his sorrow, and quite agreed that their stay in London should be as short as possible.
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