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Updated: June 2, 2025
So I let myself go, and talked several boys' books in those afternoons. I was satisfied, damnably satisfied your pardon, Uniacke with my work, and I was heedless of all else. That is the cursed, selfish instinct of the artist; that is the inadvertence of which we spoke formerly. You remember?" Uniacke nodded.
Haven't I told you that Miss Bennett gave the whole story, with full particulars, exactly as she had learned it lately from the servant at the farm where Mr. Oakley and his daughter once lodged and where Mr. Uniacke used to come regularly? Not one day did he miss during a whole month.
Presently Uniacke saw his dark figure pass, like a shadow, across the square of the window. The night grew more quiet by slow degrees. The hush after the storm increased. And to the young clergyman's unquiet nerves it seemed like a crescendo in music instead of like a diminuendo, as sometimes seems the falling to sleep of a man to a man who cannot sleep.
Must I paint him like that with that grinning, ghastly mouth little Jack? Ah! ah! He poses he poses always. He would have me paint him now, here in the moonlight here here standing on this grave!" "Sir Graham, come with me!" exclaimed Uniacke. And this time he forcibly drew his companion with him from the grave. The painter seemed inclined to resist for a moment.
"In my little room at the back of the house. I have some letters to write." "I'll come there. Don't disturb me, till then. I think the picture will be strange and I hope beautiful." And again he smiled. Reassured, Uniacke made his way into the Rectory. He sat down at his writing-table, took up his pen and wrote a few words of a letter. But his mind wandered.
Both Uniacke and Sir Graham paused simultaneously, the vision of the light and the cessation of the chimes holding them still for an instant almost without their knowledge. There was a silence that was nearly complete, for the tower walls were thick, and kept the sea voices and the blowing winds at bay.
"A light boat, and a tight boat, and a boat that rides well, Though the waves leap around it and the winds blow snell: A full boat, and a merry boat, we'll meet any weather, With a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether." Sir Edwin Uniacke did not appear again at the Ledge, or not farther than the hall, where Christian, in passing, saw several of his cards lying in the card-basket.
"You swear you saw nothing?" "I do. There was nothing. You have thought of that boy until you actually see him before you." "As he is?" "As he is not, as he will never be." The painter got up from his chair, came over to Uniacke, and looked piercingly into his eyes.
"I shall have models," said Sir Graham, "for all the figures except for little Jack. I can draw him from memory. I can reproduce his face. It never leaves me." "What!" said Uniacke. "You will paint an exactly truthful portrait of him then?" "I shall; only idealised by death, dignified, weird, washed by the sad sea." "The Skipper watched you while you were painting. He saw all you were doing."
Nevertheless Uniacke recoiled from this little grave at his feet, for it seemed to him as if the power that had been sleeping there stirred, forsook its recumbent position, rose up warily, intent on coming forth to confront him. "You see it?" whispered Sir Graham, still keeping hold of his arm. "No, no I see nothing; there is nothing. It's your fancy, your imagination that plays tricks on you."
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