The Model Millionaire

Hughie Erskine was one of the most charming young men in London, and one of the poorest. He was wonderful to look at, with his crisp brown hair and his clear-cut profile; he was liked by men and women alike; and he had every accomplishment except the one that mattered — the ability to make money. He had tried everything. He had gone into business, but soon lost what little he had. He had sold tea, then dry sherry, then neither. In the end he was simply, delightfully, penniless.

To make matters worse, Hughie was in love. He loved Laura Merton, the daughter of a retired Colonel, and Laura loved him back. But the Colonel was fond of Hughie and firm at the same time. "Come to me, my boy," he said, "when you have ten thousand pounds of your own, and we will see about it." On the days when that seemed most impossible, Hughie looked, everyone agreed, the saddest young man in London.

One morning, on his way to visit Laura, Hughie dropped in to see his good friend Alan Trevor, a painter. Trevor was a brilliant artist, though a rather rough one to look at — freckled, red-bearded, careless. But when he took up the brush he was a real master, and his pictures were much sought after. He had grown very fond of Hughie, drawn at first by his charm and good looks. "The only people a painter should know," Trevor used to say, "are people who are beautiful and people who are amusing." Hughie, he decided, was both.

When Hughie came in, he found Trevor putting the finishing touches to a wonderful full-length portrait of a beggar-man. The beggar himself stood on a raised platform in the corner of the studio. He was a wizened old man, his face like wrinkled parchment, wearing a most piteous expression. Over his shoulder hung a coarse brown cloak, all torn and tattered; his thick boots were patched and cobbled, and with one hand he leaned on a rough stick, while with the other he held out his battered hat for money. It was a wonderful piece of realism — and a most wretched-looking creature.

"What an amazing model!" whispered Hughie, as he shook hands with his friend. "An amazing model?" cried Trevor. "I should think so! Such beggars as he are not to be met with every day. He's the greatest find of the age; a beggar-man in real life, but a Titian in paint. What a picture Rembrandt would have made of him!" "Poor old chap," said Hughie, "how miserable he looks! But I suppose, to you painters, his face is his fortune?"

When Trevor stepped out of the room for a moment to speak to the framemaker, the old beggar took the chance to rest on a wooden bench. He looked so forlorn, so utterly wretched, that Hughie could not help pitying him. He felt in his pockets to see what money he had. All he could find was a single gold sovereign and some coppers. "Poor old fellow," he thought, "he needs it more than I do — but it means no cabs for a fortnight." And he walked across the studio and slipped the sovereign into the beggar's hand. The old man started, and a faint smile flitted across his withered lips. "Thank you, sir," he said, "thank you."

That evening Hughie strolled into the club and found Trevor there. "Well, Alan, did you finish the picture?" he asked. "Finished and framed, my boy!" answered Trevor. "And by the way, the old model you saw is quite devoted to you. I had to tell him all about you — who you are, how much you have, your prospects with Laura." "My dear Alan," cried Hughie, "I shall probably find him waiting for me when I go home! But of course you are only joking. Poor old wretch! I wish I could do something for him. I have heaps of old clothes — do you think he would care for any of them? Why, his rags were falling to bits."

"But he looks splendid in them," said Trevor. "I wouldn't paint him in a frock-coat for anything. What you call rags I call romance. However, I'll tell him of your offer." "Alan," said Hughie seriously, "you painters are a heartless lot." "An artist's heart is his head," replied Trevor; "and besides, our business is to realise the world as we see it, not to reform it. And now tell me how Laura is. The old model was quite interested in her." "You don't mean to say you talked to him about her?" said Hughie. "Certainly I did. He knows all about the relentless Colonel, the lovely Laura, and the ten thousand pounds." "You told that old beggar all my private affairs?" cried Hughie, looking very red and angry.

"My dear boy," said Trevor, smiling, "that old beggar, as you call him, is one of the richest men in Europe. He is Baron Hausberg. He could buy all London tomorrow without overdrawing his account. He has a house in every capital, dines off gold plate, and can prevent Russia going to war when he chooses." Hughie was thunderstruck. "Good heavens! And I gave him a sovereign!" he said, sinking into a chair. The next morning a servant brought Hughie a small parcel. On the outside was written: "A wedding present to Hugh Erskine and his bride, from an old beggar." Inside was a cheque for ten thousand pounds. When they were married, Alan Trevor was best man, and the Baron made a speech at the wedding breakfast. "Millionaire models," remarked Alan, "are rare enough; but, by Jove, model millionaires are rarer still!"