“But you _are_ French, aren’t you?” said Matt, thrilling with the pathos of those far-away struggles.
“Yes, my parents were French, but I have spoken English almost from girlhood.”
“There is French blood in our family, too,” murmured Matt, with a sad recollection of his mother. He wondered what she was doing at the moment.
“Indeed! Perhaps that was what drew me to Matthew--that and his artistic genius. Poor Matthew!”
“But you are well off now?” said Matt, dubiously. He did not trouble to correct her mistake, to explain that the French blood was on the spindle side.
“Oh, we are rich. We have all we want. When my dress-maker’s business grew prosperous--in fact, quite a fashionable resort--Matthew, who could not bear to be out of touch with art, though he had sworn never to paint again, saw his way to dealing in pictures. Of course, he makes far more than any of his artist friends who succeeded, but that does not console me for the pictures the world has lost.”
“But why doesn’t he paint now that he has money?” inquired Matt.
“He says he’s too old,” said Madame, sighing. “And besides, he thinks he’d only be eclipsed by Herbert. Of course, Herbert _is_ exceptionally gifted; he took the medal at the Royal Academy Schools, you know, for the best copy of an Old Master, and he has had advantages which were denied to his poor father. But still it often makes me cry to think of how he sinks himself in the dear boy, not caring a jot about his own reputation. Oh, there are few such fathers, I can tell you. I don’t know what I have done to deserve such a husband, I who have no cleverness or talent of any kind.”
And here, as at his cue, Matthew Strang entered, in a soft hat and a black cloak vastly more impressive than the staid shabbiness of Tarmigan, than whom his Vandyke beard alone gave him the greater artistic distinction. He leaned slightly upon a gnarled walking-stick.
Madame sprang up to meet him in the doorway. “Oh, Matthew!” she cried, ecstatically, “the young man who wanted to see you is your own nephew. And he is come to study art. And won’t it be delightful for Herbert to have a companion? I made him wait for you--I knew you wouldn’t be long.” And radiant beneath her cap, Madame stepped aside, as if to leave the stage free for the rapturous embrace between the uncle and his long-lost nephew. But Matthew Strang stood rigid with astonishment, only his eyes moving in startled examination of the young man, who had risen respectfully.