Death and Mr. Pickwick by Stephen Jarvis Page B

lilies. Mrs Vaughan took a similar chair, only with cherries, and she went through the sketchbook from start to finish. When she closed the cover she said: ‘Where did you learn to draw?’
    â€˜I taught myself.’
    It was as though the woman were softening before his eyes. A suggestion of a smile crossed her lips.
    â€˜And yet your mother wishes you to draw silly flowers for calico! You may look at my dress. Stare at it, if you will. You would not be happy to design it. Speak honestly.’
    â€˜I would not.’
    â€˜It would be a waste,’ she said. In a most soothing voice, she added: ‘I shall call for tea.’
    She studied the sketchbook again, until the tea was brought. The servant gave Robert Seymour an uncomprehending glance as she entered, though Mrs Vaughan did not notice, for she was too absorbed in the drawings. When the door was closed, Mrs Vaughan said: ‘You have pulled on my reins, Robert Seymour.’ She held up her hands to stop his question. ‘No, no, no ! I do not want to send you away. I think there is Providence in your coming here.’ There passed several moments when she simply looked at the boy with great concentration, but finally she said: ‘You should know, to begin with, that I had a son who was an artist.’
    Young though he was, a look came to Robert Seymour’s face which verged upon craftiness, as though he had taken on, momentarily, the spirit of the horse traders at Smithfield; fortunately it manifested itself only in the moment Mrs Vaughan looked away, recalling some memory of her son. When she next looked at Robert Seymour, he had tilted his head, and his eyes had much in common with the soft, sorrowful expression of the Smithfield cow.
    â€˜My son was only twenty-seven when he died, ten years ago. I would never make him draw calico patterns. It would be against all logic. Against all feeling. I would not be a mother if I did it. I can see you wish to ask me something.’
    â€˜Did Mr Vaughan want his son to design patterns?’
    â€˜Bless you, Mr Vaughan was not his father. Mr Vaughan is my second husband. My previous married name was Girtin. My son was Thomas. Damp air killed him, they say. Another waste. You want to say something else.’
    â€˜My mother said bad air killed my father.’
    â€˜Damp air?’
    â€˜It could be so.’
    â€˜It is superficial to blame the air. It was painting that killed my son. He was out in all weathers watching storms and clouds, so as to turn them into pictures. Always he got soaked to the bone. He should have stayed in a tavern, snug before the fire, like any other Englishman! But I knew I could not stop him, and so did not try.’ She looked away for a few moments, and then she said: ‘How much encouragement has your family given you?’
    â€˜My aunt has given me a few sketchbooks. And a paintbox when I was small. She said I was a born artist.’
    â€˜ Giffle gaffle ! No boy should ever be told that! My son made himself an artist. Years of practice and devoted study went into his works. He copied and he studied the masters. He was most certainly not born an artist. And neither were you.’ She stood as she warmed to her own theme. ‘Art was not in my son’s blood – his father made ropes and brushes and my family made glass. I shall tell you this – and you make sure you remember it. When Thomas was a child, other boys did drawings every bit as good as his. But they did not stick with it. The pencil was never out of his hand. It was part of his hand. What do you wish to say?’
    â€˜My mother says that the pencil is my eleventh finger.’
    â€˜Does she, indeed?’
    She proceeded to reminisce about her son, memory following memory, and Robert Seymour would respond with a smile or a sadness, as suited the recollection; and if she paused, he said: ‘Please tell me more about your son.’
    â€˜I would ask Thomas to fetch