The Desperate Artist

Bubbles

"This bowl is but porcelain."

"With all do respect, sir, but this bowl is made of clay! It is worth no more than two pounds!"

"Granted by your manners, but this is porcelain."

My blood began to boil. Was this man really taking me for a fool? I had wished to storm off angrily, but then I caught sight of the little boy again as he was fiddling with his fingers. His innocence had sent daggers through my beating heart. I picked up the clay bowl, and sighed.

"Oh, by golly, you are right! This is porcelain! How foolish of me! Here you go, sir!" I lied. The man had nodded and accepted my payment. I had grabbed the products and raced towards the boy. The boy's gloomy expression had faded as his smile mended all of my stresses. To see him happy was all I needed. I picked up one of the pipes, and he did the same. He had dipped the pipe into the soap, held it to his lips, and he let out a bubble as large as his face! The bubble had journeyed around the street and eventually, it popped. Not only did we share the solution for the bubbles, but we had shared a few laughs when his bubble popped on my nose, and we shared our gratitude for one another with the acknowledgement that we care for one another.

"You never did tell me your name, young lad," I began, "but to make it easier for you to tell me yours, I shall tell you mine. I am John Everett Millais, but you may refer to me as Mr. Millais."

"Tis nice to meet you, Mr. Millais. My name is William."

"What a lovely name."

There was a brief silence as more bubbles set sail across the azure sea sky.

"I suppose you wish to know about my parents," William had sighed. My head had pivoted to his seeing, and he began, "My mother is named Effie and my father is named Rochester. At the age of six, they had both left me, sir."

"I see," I made out, "I am so sorry, William."

"It was three years ago, Mr. Millais. I have been told to forget their names and move on. I live on the streets now, as a beggar. There is not much mercy around in England, is there, Mr. Millais?"

I pat his shoulder and I stood up. I reached out my hand to grab his and he had accepted. We began strolling down the street with the rhythmic clicking of my cane.

* * * * * *

"I feel as if chamomile tea calms the nerves, especially when I get fluttery and bird-like," I explained as I carried two cups of tea to the table I sat him in.

"What a beautiful house you own, Mr Millais," the little boy said with a sore throat.

"Are you cold? Should I offer you a blanket?"

"A blanket would be splendid," William coughed.

After finding my favorite cream, wool throw, I covered William with the warmth the blanket possessed. His nose was a brilliant crimson and his hair was the color of the sun.

"Do you have any family?" I asked.

"Aye. I have but an aunt that wishes me dead."

"That is most unfortunate."

"I am better off living on the filthy streets of England."

"What about living with me, young William?"

"You would do that for me, sir?"

As I was preparing to reply, I heard the Church Bells ring. I bit my tongue when I caught myself about to swear. I began pacing, and eventually I sat on my stool.

"What is wrong, Mr. Millais?"

I sat down and tapped the pencil on my forehead. "Think!" I thought to myself.