“Gasluckyhas been caught in a wheat corner at Chicago,” Lucas explained, “and has been squeezed to death.”
“Dead!” cried Punner, “it’s a great loss. We’ll have to hold a meeting and pass res——”
“We’ll have to get out of this place in short order,” said Lucas, “the sheriff has levied an attachment on the hotel and all it contains.”
“What!”
“How’s that?”
“Do you mean that the house is to be shut up and we turned out?”
“Just that,” said Lucas. “The sheriff has invoiced every thing, even the provisions on hand. He says that we can’t eat another bite here.”
“And I’m starving even now!” exclaimed Punner. “I could eat most anything. Let’s walk round to Delmonico’s, Cattleton.”
“But really, what can we do?” demanded Ferris, dolefully enough.
“Go home, of course,” said Cattleton.
Ferris looked blank and stood with his hands thrust in his pockets.
“I can’t go home,” he presently remarked.
“Why?”
“I haven’t money enough to pay my way.”
“By George! neither have I!” exclaimed Cattleton with a start.
“That is precisely my fix,” said Lucas gravely.
“You echo my predicament,” said Peck.
“My salary is suspended during my absence,” said Punner, with his eyes bent on the floor.
Little Mrs. Philpot was speechless for a time as the force of the situation broke upon her.
“Squeezed in a wheat corner?” inquired Miss Stackpole, “what do you mean by that?”
“I mean that Gaslucky got sheared in the big deal the other day at Chicago,” Lucas explained.
“Got sheared?”
“Yes, the bulls sat down on him.”
“Oh, you mean a speculation—a—”
“Yes, Gaslucky was in for all he was worth, and they run it down on him and flattened him. A gas-man’s no business in wheat, especially in Chicago; they spread him out, just as the sheriffs proceedings have flattened all our hopes for the present.”
“It’s just outrageous!” cried little Mrs. Philpot, finding her voice. “He should have notified us, so that—”
“They didn’t notify him, I guess,” said Cattleton.
“No, he found it out afterwards,” remarked Lucas, glancing gloomily toward where Dunkirk and Miss Moyne stood, apparently in light and pleasant conversation.
Viewed in any light the predicament was a peculiar and distressing one to the guests of Hotel Helicon. The sheriff, a rather ignorant,but very stubborn and determined man, held executions and writs of attachment sued out by Gaslucky creditors, which he had proceeded to levy on the hotel and on all the personalty visible in it belonging to the proprietor.
“’Course,” said he, “hit’ll be poorty hard on you’ns, but I can’t help it, I’ve got ter do my juty, let it hurt whoever it will. Not er thing kin ye tech at’s in this yer tavern, ’ceptin’ what’s your’n, that air’s jest how it air. So now mind w’at yer a doin’.”
The servants were idle, the dining-room closed, the kitchen and pantries locked up. Never was there a more doleful set of people. Mrs. Nancy Jones Black thought of playing a piece of sacred music, but she found the grand piano locked, with its key deep in the sheriff’s pocket.
The situation was made doubly disagreeable when at last the officer informed the guests that they would have to vacate their rooms forthwith, as he should proceed at once to close up the building.
“Heavens, man, are you going to turn us out into the woods?” demanded Peck.
“Woods er no woods,” he replied, “ye’ll hev ter git out’n yer, right off.”
“But the ladies, Mr. Sheriff,” suggested Punner, “no Southern gentleman can turn a lady out of doors.”
The officer actually colored with the force of the insinuation. He stood silent for some time with his eyes fixed on the floor. Presently he looked up and said:
“The weeming kin stay till mornin’.”
“Well they must have something to eat,” said Punner. “They can’t starve.”
“Thet’s so,” the sheriff admitted, “they kin hev a bite er so.”
“And we——”
“You men folks cayn’t hev a dorg gone mouthful, so shet up!”
“Well,” observed Cattleton, dryly, “it appears the odds is the difference between falling into the hands of moonshiners and coming under the influence of a lawful sheriff.”
“I know a little law,” interposed Bartley Hubbard with a sullen emphasis, “and I know that this sheriff has no right to tumble us out of doors, and for my part——”
“Fur yer part,” said the sheriff coolly, “fur yer part, Mister, ef ye fool erlong o’ me I’ll crack yer gourd fur ye.”
“You’ll do what?”
“I’ll stave in yer piggin.”
“I don’t understand.”
“W’y, blame yer ignorant hide, wha’ wer’ ye borned and fotch up? I’ll jest knock the everlastin’ head off’n ye,thet’s’zac’ly w’at I says. Mebbe ye don’t understan’thet?”
“Yes,” said Hubbard, visibly shrinking into himself, “I begin to suspect your meaning.”
Miss Crabb was taking notes with enthusiastic rapidity.
Dunkirk called the sheriff to him and a long conference was held between them, the result of which was presently announced.
“I heve thort it over,” said the quiet officer of the law, “an’ es hit appear thet w’at grub air on han’ an’ done cooked might spile afore it c’u’d be sold, therefore I proclamate an’ say at you’ns kin stay yer tell termorrer an’ eat w’at’s cooked, but tech nothin’ else.”
Cattleton and Punner applauded loudly. To everybody the announcement was a reprieve of no small moment, and a sigh of relief rustled through the groups of troubled guests. Those who had been down the ravine were very tired and hungry; the thought of a cold luncheon to them was the vision of a feast.
Dunkirk had a basket of wine brought down from his room and he made the sheriff sit beside him at the table.
“We may as well make the most of our last evening together,” he said, glancing jovially around.
“We shall have to walk down the mountain in the morning, I suppose,” remarked Bartley Hubbard.
“That’s jest w’at’s the matter,” observed the sheriff.
“But the ladies, my dear sir, the ladies——” began Punner.
“The weeming, they’ll hev kinveyances, young man, so ye kin jest shet up ef ye please,” the officer interrupted, with a good-natured wink and a knowing wag of his head.
A disinterested observer would have noted readily enough that the feast was far from a banquet. There was Ferris, for instance,munching a biscuit and sipping his wine and pretending to enjoy Punner’s sallies and Cattleton’s drolleries, while down in his heart lay the leaden thought, the hideous knowledge of an empty pocket. Indeed the reflection was a common one, weighting down almost every breast at the board.
One little incident did make even Ferris forget himself for a moment or two, it was when deaf Miss Nebeker misinterpreted some remark made by Hubbard and arose with a view to recitingThe Jerseyman’s Jewsharp, with a new variation, “Oh, Jerseyman Joe had a Jewsharp of gold,” she began, in her most melodious drawl. She could not hear the protesting voices of her friends and she misinterpreted the stare of the sheriff.
“For the good heaven’s sake, Hubbard,” cried Lucas, “do use your influence; quick, please, or I shall collapse.”
Bartley Hubbard took hold of her dress and gently pulled her down into her chair.
“The sheriff objects!” he yelled in her ear.
“After dinner?” she resignedly inquired, “well, then after dinner, in the parlor.”
When the feast had come to the crumbs, Dunkirk arose and said:
“We all have had a good time at the Hotel Helicon, but our sojourn upon the heights of Mt. Boab has been cut short by a certain chain of mishaps over which we have had no control, and to-morrow we go away, doubtless forever.I feel like saying that I harbor no unpleasant recollections of the days we have spent together.”
Cattleton sprung to his feet to move a vote of thanks “to the public-spirited and benevolent man who built this magnificent hotel and threw open its doors to us.”
It was carried.
“Now then,” said Lucas, adjusting his glasses and speaking in his gravest chest-tones, “I move that it be taken as the sense of this assembly, that it is our duty to draw upon our publisher for money enough to take us home.”
The response was overwhelming.
Dunkirk felt the true state of affairs. He arose, his broad face wreathed with genial smiles, and said:
“To the certain knowledge of your unhappy publisher your accounts are already overdrawn, but in view of the rich material you have been gathering of late, your publisher will honor you draughts to the limit of your expenses home.”
Never did happier people go to bed. The last sleep in Hotel Helicon proved to be the sweetest.
Far in the night, it is true, some one sang loudly but plaintively under Miss Moyne’s window until the sheriff awoke and sallied forth to end the serenade with some remarks about “cracking that eejit’s gourd;” but there was no disturbance, the sounds blending sweetly with the dreams of the slumberers. They all knew that it was Crane, poor fellow, who had finallytorn himself away from his father’s fascinating uncle.
Theretreat from Hotel Helicon was picturesque in the extreme. There had been much difficulty in finding vehicles to take the retiring guests down the mountain to the railway station, but Tolliver had come to the rescue with a mule, a horse, a cart, and an ox. These, when added to the rather incongruous collection of wagons and carts from every other available source, barely sufficed. Tolliver led the mule with Ferris on its back, while Miss Crabb and Miss Stackpole occupied the ox-cart, the former acting as driver.
“Good-bye and good luck to ye!” the sheriff called after them. “Mighty sorry ter discommode ye, but juty air juty, an’ a officer air no respecter of persons.”
Mrs. Nancy Jones Black sat beside Crane in a rickety wagon, and between jolts gave him many a word of wisdom on the subject of strong drink, which the handsome Bourbon poet stowed away for future consideration.
Dunkirk and Miss Moyne rode upon the “hounds” of a naked wood-wain, as happy as two blue-birds in April, while Bartley Hubbard, with little Mrs. Philpot and her child and some other ladies, was in an old weather-beaten barouche, a sad relic of theante-bellumtimes. For the rest there were vehicles of every sort save the comfortable sort, and all went slowlywinding and zig-zagging down Mt. Boab toward the valley and the river. Why pursue them? Once they all looked up from far down the slope and saw Hotel Helicon shining like a castle of gold in the flood of summer sunlight. Its verandas were empty, its windows closed, but the flag on its wooden tower still floated bravely in the breeze, its folds appearing to touch the soft gray-blue sky.
*******
A year later Crane and Peck met at Saratoga and talked over old times. At length coming down to the present, Crane said:
“Of all of us who were guests on Mt. Boab, Miss Moyne is the only one who has found success. Her story,On The Heights, is in its seventieth edition.”
“Oh, well,” said Peck, “that goes without the saying. Anybody could succeed with her chance.”
“Herchance, why do you say that?”
“Haven’t you heard? Ah, I see that the news has not yet penetrated the wilds of Kentucky. The open secret of Miss Moyne’s success lies in the fact that she has married her publisher.”
A silence of some minutes followed, during which Crane burned his cigar very rapidly.
“What fools we were,” Peck presently ventured, “to be fighting a duel about her!”
“No, sir,” said Crane, with a far-away lookin his eyes, “no, sir, I would die for her right now.”
So the subject was dropped between them forever.
Some of Gaslucky’s creditors bought Hotel Helicon at the sheriff’s sale, but it proved a barren investment.
The house stands there now, weather-beaten and lonely on the peak of Mt. Boab, all tenantless and forlorn.
As to Tolliver’s still-house I cannot say, but at stated intervals Crane receives a small cask marked: “J’yful juice, hannel with keer,” which comes from his “Pap’s uncle Pete.”
THE END.
THE TALE OF A SCULPTOR.
Afteryou pass the “Blue Anchor”—the sign of which swings from the branch of an elm tree older even than the house itself—a few steps along the road bring you in sight of the pinnacled, square tower of Coombe-Acton Church. You cannot see the church itself, as, with schools and rectory close by it, it lies at the back of the village, about two hundred yards up a lane. Like the village to whose spiritual needs it ministers, the church, to an ordinary observer, is nothing out of the common, although certain small peculiarities of architecture, not noticed by an uncultured eye, make it an object of some interest to archæologists. Visit it or not, according to your inclination, but afterwards keep on straight through the long, straggling village, until the houses begin to grow even more straggling, the gardens larger and less cared for as ornaments, displaying more cabbages and scarlet runners than roses—keep on until the houses cease altogether and hawthorn hedges take the place of palings and crumbling walls, and at last you will come to Watercress Farm, a long, low white house, one side of which abuts on the highway, whilst the other looks over the three hundred acres of land attached to it.
Not a very large acreage, it is true, but then it is all good land, for the most part such as auctioneers describe as rich, warm, deep, old pasture land; such land that, at the time this tale opens, any farmer, by thrift, knowledge of his business, and hard work, could make even more than a bare living out of, and could meet his landlord on rent day with a cheerful face, knowing that after rent and other outgoings were provided for something would yet be left for himself.
Who occupies the Watercress Farm now, and whether in these days of depression his rent is forthcoming or not, matters little. At the time I write of it, it was rented by farmer Leigh, even as his forefathers, according to village tradition, had rented it for some two hundred years. In quiet, conservative places like Coombe-Acton, a farm of this kind often goes from father to son with more regularity than an entailed estate, landlord and tenant well knowing that their interests are identical.
It was a fine afternoon towards the end of June. Abraham Leigh was standing by the gate of the field known as the home meadow looking at the long, ripe grass rippling as the summer breeze swept across it. He was a thoroughly good specimen of the Somersetshire farmer. A big, sturdy man, whose movements were slow and deliberate. His face, if heavy and stolid, not by any means the face of a fool. No doubt, a man of circumscribed views—the world, for him, extending eastwards to Bristol market and westwards to the Bristol Channel. Nevertheless, respected in his little world as a wonderful judge of a beast, a great authority on tillages, and, above all, a man who alwayshad a balance in his favor at the Somersetshire Bank; a type of that extinct race, the prosperous farmer, who looked on all townsmen with contempt, thinking, as all farmers should think, that the owners of broad acres, and those engaged in agriculture were alone worthy of respect.
Yet, to-day, in spite of his advantages and acquirements, Farmer Leigh looked on the fifteen-acre meadow with a puzzled and discontented expression on his honest face; and, moreover, murmurs of dissatisfaction were proceeding from his lips. Farmers—Somersetshire farmers especially—are proverbial grumblers, but it is seldom they grumble without an audience. It is outsiders who get the benefit of their complaints. Besides, one would think that the tenant of Watercress Farm had little at present to complain of. The drop of rain so badly wanted had been long in coming, but it had come just in the nick of time to save the grass, and if the crop outwardly looked a little thin, Mr. Leigh’s experienced eye told him that the undergrowth was thick, and that the quality of the hay would be first-class. Moreover, what corn and roots he had looked promising, so it seems strange that the farmer should be grumbling when he had no one to listen to him, and should lean so disconsolately upon the gate of the field when no one observed him.
“I can’t make him out,” he said. “Good boy he be, too; yet, instead o’ helping me with the land, always going about dreaming or messing with mud. Can’t think where he got his notions from. Suppose it must ’a been from the mother, poor thing! Always fond o’ gimcracks and such like, she were. Gave the lad such an outlandish name I’m ashamed to hear it.Father’s and grandfather’s name ought to be good enough for a Leigh—good boy though he be, too!”
A soft look settled on Abraham Leigh’s face as he repeated the last words; then he went deeper into his slough of despond, where, no doubt, he battled as manfully as a Christian until he reached the other shore and fancied he had found the solution of his difficulties.
His face brightened. “Tell ’ee what,” he said, addressing the waving grass in front of him, “I’ll ask Mr. Herbert. Squire’s a man who have seen the world. I’ll take his advice about the boy. Seems hard like on me, too. Ne’er a Leigh till this one but what were a farmer to the backbone!”
His mind made up, the farmer strode off to make arrangement with mowers. Had he been troubled with twenty unnatural and incompetent sons, the hay must be made while the sun shines.
Although he had settled what to do, it was some time before the weighty resolve was carried into execution. Folks about Coombe-Acton do not move with the celerity of cotton brokers or other men of business. Sure they are, but slow. So it was not until the September rent day that the farmer consulted his landlord about his domestic difficulty—the possession of a son, an only child, of about fifteen, who, instead of making himself useful on the land, did little else save wander about in a dreamy way, looking at all objects in nature, animate or inanimate, or employed himself in the mysterious pursuit which his father described as “messing with mud.” Such conduct was a departure from the respectable bucolic traditions of the Leigh family, so great, that at times the father thought it an inflictionlaid upon him for some cause or other by an inscrutable Providence.
There are certain Spanish noblemen who, on account of the antiquity of their families and services rendered, are permitted to enter the royal presence with covered heads. It was, perhaps, for somewhat similar reasons, a custom handed down from father to son and established by time, that the tenant of Watercress Farm paid his rent to the landlord in person, not through the medium of an agent. Mr. Herbert being an important man in the West country, the Leigh family valued this privilege as highly as ever hidalgo valued the one above mentioned. Mr. Herbert, a refined, intellectual-looking man of about fifty, received the farmer kindly, and after the rent, without a word as to abatement or reduction, had been paid in notes of the county bank—dark and greasy, but valued in this particular district far above Bank of England promises—landlord and tenant settled down to a few minutes’ conversation on crops and kindred subjects. Then the farmer unburdened his mind.
“I’ve come to ask a favor of your advice, sir, about my boy, Jerry.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Herbert, “I know him—a nice, good-looking boy. I see him at church with you, and about your place when I pass. What of him?”
“Well, you zee, zur,” said the farmer, speaking with more Somerset dialect than usual, “he’ve a been at Bristol Grammar School till just now. Masters all send good accounts of him. I don’t hold wi’ too much learning, so thought ’twere time he come home and helped me like. But not a bit o’ good he be on the varm; not a bit, zur! Spends near all his time messing about wi’ dirt.”
“Doing what?” asked Mr. Herbert, astonished.
“A-muddling and a-messing with bits o’ clay. Making little figgers, like, and tries to bake ’em in the oven.”
“Oh, I see what you mean. What sort of figures?”
“All sorts, sir. Little clay figgers of horses, dogs, pigs—why, you’d scarce believe it, sir—last week I found him making the figger of a naked ’ooman! A naked ’ooman! Why, the lad could never a’ seen such a thing.”
Abraham Leigh waited with open eyes to hear Mr. Herbert’s opinion of such an extraordinary, if not positively unusual, proceeding.
Mr. Herbert smiled. “Perhaps your son is a youthful genius.”
“Genius or not, I want to know, sir, what to do wi’ him. How’s the boy to make a living? A farmer he’ll never be.”
“You follow me and I will show you something.”
Mr. Herbert led his guest to his drawing-room—a room furnished with the taste of a travelled man. As the farmer gaped at its splendor, he directed his attention to four beautiful statues standing in the corners of the room.
“I gave the man who made those seven hundred pounds for them, and could sell them to-morrow for a thousand if I chose. That’s almost as good as farming, isn’t it?”
His tenant’s eyes were wide with amazement. “A thousand pounds, sir!” he gasped. “Why, you might have bought that fourteen-acre field with that.”
“These give me more pleasure than land,” replied Mr. Herbert. “But about your boy; when I am ridingby I will look in and see what he can do, then give you my advice.”
The farmer thanked him and returned home. As he jogged along the road to Watercress Farm, he muttered at intervals: “A thousand pounds in those white figures! Well, well, well, I never did!”
Mr. Herbert was a man who kept a promise, whether made to high or low. Five days after his interview with Abraham Leigh he rode up to the door of the farm. He was not alone. By his side rode a gay, laughing, light-haired child of thirteen, who ruled an indulgent father with a rod of iron. Mr. Herbert had been a widower for some years; the girl, and a boy who was just leaving Harrow for the university, being his only surviving children. The boy was, perhaps, all that Mr. Herbert might have wished, but he could see no fault in the precocious, imperious, spoilt little maid, who was the sunshine of his life.
She tripped lightly after her father into the farm-house, laughing at the way in which he was obliged to bend his head to avoid damage from the low doorway; she seated herself with becoming dignity on the chair which the widowed sister, who kept house for Abraham Leigh, tendered her with many courtesies. A pretty child, indeed, and one who gave rare promise of growing into a lovely woman.
The farmer was away somewhere on the farm, but could be fetched in a minute if Mr. Herbert would wait. Mr. Herbert waited, and very soon his tenant made his appearance and thanked his visitor for the trouble he was taking on his behalf.
“Now let me see the boy,” said Mr. Herbert, after disclaiming all sense of trouble.
Leigh went to the door of the room and shouted out, “Jerry, Jerry, come down. You’re wanted, my man.”
In a moment the door opened, and the cause of Mr. Leigh’s discontent came upon the scene in the form of a dark-eyed, dark-haired, pale-faced boy, tall but slightly built; not, so far as physique went, much credit to the country-side. Yet in some respects a striking-looking if not handsome lad. The dark, eloquent eyes and strongly-marked brow would arrest attention; but the face was too thin, too thoughtful for the age, and could scarcely be associated with what commonly constitutes a good-looking lad. Yet regularity of feature was there, and no one would dare to be sure that beauty would not come with manhood.
He was not seen at that moment under advantageous circumstances. Knowing nothing about the distinguished visitors, he had obeyed his father’s summons in hot haste; consequently he entered the room in his shirt sleeves, which were certainly not very clean, and with hands covered with red clay. Mr. Herbert looked amused, while the little princess turned up her nose in great disdain.
Poor Abraham Leigh was much mortified at the unpresentable state in which his son showed himself. To make matters worse, the boy was not soiled by honest, legitimate toil.
“Tut! tut!” he said, crossly. “All of a muck, as usual.”
The boy, who felt that his father had a right to complain, hung his head and showed signs of retreating. Mr. Herbert came to the rescue.
“Never mind,” he said, patting young Leigh on theshoulder, “he has been working in his own fashion. I have come on purpose to see those modellings of yours, my boy.”
The boy started as one surprised. His cheek flushed, and he looked at the speaker with incredulity yet hope in his eyes.
“Yes,” said his father, sharply. “Go and put your hands under the pump, Jerry; then bring some of ’em down. Maybe, anyway, they’ll amuse the little lady.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Herbert. “I’ll come with you and see them for myself. Lead the way.”
Young Leigh did not speak, but his eyes thanked Mr. Herbert. That gentleman followed him from the room, leaving the farmer to amuse the little maid. He did this so far as he was able by producing a well-thumbed copy of the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” the leaves of which Miss Herbert condescended to turn daintily over until she was quite terrified by the picture of the combat with Apollyon.
Meanwhile “Jerry,” with a beating heart, led Mr. Herbert up-stairs to a room destitute of furniture save an old table and chair. A bucket half-full of common red clay stood in one corner, and on the table were several of the little clay figures which had excited the farmer’s ire and consternation.
Crude, defective, full of faults as they were, there was enough power in them to make Mr. Herbert look at the lad in wonderment, almost envy. He was a man who worshipped art; who had dabbled as an amateur in painting and sculpturing for years; who considered a gifted artist the most fortunate of mankind. So the word envy is not ill-chosen. What hewould have given half his wealth to possess came to this boy unsought for—to the son of a clod of a farmer the precious gift was vouchsafed!
As he would have expected, the most ambitious efforts were the worst—the “naked ’ooman” was particularly atrocious—but, still wet, and not ruined by an abortive attempt at baking, was a group modelled from life; a vulgar subject, representing, as it did, Abraham Leigh’s prize sow, surrounded by her ten greedy offspring. There was such power and talent in this production that, had he seen nothing else, Mr. Herbert would have been certain that the lad as a modeller and copyist must take the first rank. If, in addition to his manual dexterity, he had poetry, feeling, and imagination, it might well be that one of the greatest sculptors of the nineteenth century stood in embryo before him.
As Mr. Herbert glanced from the rough clay sketches to the pale boy who stood breathless, as one expecting a verdict of life or death, he wondered what could have been the cause of such a divergence from the traits habitual to the Leighs. Then he remembered that some twenty years ago Abraham Leigh had chosen for a wife, not one of his own kind, but a dweller in cities—a governess, who exchanged, no doubt, a life of penury and servitude for the rough but comfortable home the Somersetshire farmer was willing to give her. Mr. Herbert remembered her; remembered how utterly out of place the delicate, refined woman seemed to be as Leigh’s wife; remembered how, a few years after the birth of the boy, she sickened and died. It was from the mother’s side the artistic taste came.
Mr. Herbert, although a kind man, was cautious.He had no intention of raising hopes which might be futile. Yet he felt a word of encouragement was due to the lad.
“Some of these figures show decided talent,” he said. “After seeing them, I need scarcely ask you if you wish to be a sculptor?”
Young Leigh clasped his hands together. “Oh, sir!” he gasped. “If it could only be!”
“You do not care to be a farmer, like your father?”
“I could never be a farmer, sir. I am not fit for it.”
“Yet, if you follow in your father’s track, you will lead a comfortable, useful life. If you follow art, you may go through years of poverty and suffering before success is attained.”
The boy raised his head and looked full at the speaker; there was almost passionate entreaty in his eyes.
“Oh, sir,” he said, “if you would only persuade my father to let me try—even for a few years. If I did not succeed I would come back to him and work as a laborer for the rest of my life without a murmur.”
Mr. Herbert was impressed by the boy’s earnestness. “I will speak to your father,” he said. Then the two went back to the sitting-room, where they found Abraham Leigh much exercised by some difficult questions propounded by Miss Herbert respecting the nature of Apollyon.
“Take my little girl for a walk round the garden,” said Mr. Herbert to young Leigh. “I want to speak to your father.”
In spite of the great gulf between her and the clay-bespattered boy in his shirt sleeves, the little princesswas too glad of a change of scene to wish to disobey her father. She followed her conductor to the back of the house, and the boy and girl stepped out into the autumnal sunshine.
The little maid looked so trim and dainty in her neat riding-habit, coquettish hat and tiny gloves that his own draggled appearance struck the boy forcibly.
“If you will excuse me a minute,” he said, “I will run and wash my hands.”
“Yes; I think it will be better,” said Miss Herbert, with dignity.
In a minute or two young Leigh returned. He had found time not only to wash the rich red clay from his long, well-shaped fingers, but to slip on his coat and generally beautify himself. His improved appearance had a great effect upon the child, who, like most of her age, was influenced by exteriors.
So Miss Herbert, this little great lady, unbent and allowed “Jerry” to lead her round the old-fashioned garden, to the out-houses and pigsties, where the obese pigs lay oblivious of what fate had in store for them; to the stables; to the dairy, where she condescended to drink a glass of new milk, and by the time they had returned to the garden the two were as good friends as their different stations in life would permit. Young Leigh, who saw in this dainty little maid the incarnation of fairies, nymphs, goddesses, and other ideals which, in a dim way, were forming themselves in his brain, endeavored, after his first shyness had passed away, to show her what beautiful shapes and forms could be found in flower, leaf, and tree, and other things in nature. His talk, indeed, soared far above her pretty little head, and when they returned to thegarden he was trying to make her see that those masses of white clouds low down in the distance were two bodies of warriors just about to meet in deadly fray.
“You are a very, very funny boy,” said Miss Herbert, with such an air of conviction that he was startled into silence.
“Your name is Jerry, isn’t it?” she continued. “Jerry’s an ugly name.”
“My name is Gerald—Gerald Leigh.”
“Oh; Gerald!” Even this child could see the impropriety of a tenant farmer having a son named Gerald. No wonder Abraham Leigh addressed his boy as Jerry!
“Do you like being a farmer?” she asked.
“I am not going to be a farmer; I don’t like it.”
“What a pity! Farmers are such a worthy, respectable class of men,” said the girl, using a stock phrase she had caught up somewhere.
The boy laughed merrily. Mr. Herbert’s approbation sat newly upon him, and he was only talking to a child; so he said:
“I hope to be worthy and respectable, but a much greater man than a farmer.”
“Oh! How great? as great as papa?”
“Yes; I hope so.”
“That’s absurd, you know,” said Miss Herbert, with all the outraged family pride that thirteen years can feel; and, turning away, she switched at the flowers with her riding-whip.
However, a few words from Gerald made them friends once more, and she expressed her pleasure that he should pick her one of the few roses which remained in the garden.
“Roses are common,” said the boy. “Every one gives roses. I will give you something prettier.”
He went to the sunny side of the house, and soon returned with half a dozen pale lavender stars in his hands. They were blossoms of a new sort of late clematis, which some one’s gardener had given Abraham Leigh. Gerald’s deft fingers arranged them into a most artistic bouquet, the appearance of which was entirely spoilt by Miss Herbert’s insistence that two or three roses should be added. The bouquet was just finished and presented when Mr. Herbert, followed by the farmer, appeared.
Although he said nothing more to young Leigh on the subject which was uppermost in the boy’s mind, the kindly encouraging look he gave him raised the widest hopes in his heart. Mr. Herbert bade the father and son a pleasant good-day, and rode off with his little daughter.
Miss Herbert carried the bunch of clematis for about two miles when, finding it rather encumbered her, tossed it over a hedge.
Gerald Leigh went back to his attic and commenced about half a dozen clay sketches of the prettiest object which as yet had crossed his path. For several days he was on thorns to hear what fate had in store for him; but fate, personified by his father, made no sign, but went about his work stolid and sphinx-like. Mr. Herbert, Gerald learned, had gone to London for a few days.
However, before a fortnight had gone by, Abraham Leigh received a letter from his landlord, and the same evening, whilst smoking his pipe in the farm kitchen, informed his son and his sister that to-morrow he wasgoing into Gloucestershire to see if his brother Joseph could spare him one of his many boys to take Jerry’s place. Jerry was to go to London the next day and meet Mr. Herbert. Most likely he’d stay there. ’Twas clear as noontide the boy would never make a farmer, and if there were fools enough in the world to buy white figures at hundreds of pounds apiece, Jerry might as well try to make his living that way as any other.
The truth is, Mr. Herbert told Abraham Leigh that if he would not consent to pay for his son’s art education, he, Mr. Herbert, would bear the expense himself. But the monetary part of it troubled the substantial farmer little. He could pay for his child’s keep if he could bring his mind to consent to his going. And now the consent was given.
Gerald heard his father’s communication with glowing eyes. For shame’s sake he hid his joy, for he knew that, with all his stolid demeanor, his father almost broke down as he contemplated the diverging paths his son and he must henceforward thread. The boy thanked him from his heart, and the rough farmer, laying his hand on his child’s head, blessed him and bade him go and prosper.
In this way Gerald Leigh left Coombe-Acton. At long intervals he reappeared for a few days. The worthy villagers eyed him askance; the only conception they could form of his profession being connected with dark-skinned itinerants who bore double-tiered platforms on their heads, and earned a precarious livehood by traversing the country selling conventional representations of angels and busts of eminent men.
Someseven years after the ambitious boy left Coombe-Acton, honest farmer Abraham, just when the old-fashioned hawthorn hedges were in whitest bloom, sickened, turned his stolid face to the wall and died. Gerald had been summoned, but arrived too late to see his father alive. Perhaps it was as well it should be so, the farmer’s last moments were troubled ones and full of regret that Watercress Farm would no longer know a Leigh. The nephew who had taken Gerald’s place had turned out an utter failure, so much so that Abraham Leigh had roundly declared that he would be bothered with no more boys, and for the last few years had managed his business single-handed. However, although Gerald’s upheaval of family traditions made the farmer’s deathbed unhappy, he showed that his son had not forfeited his love. All he possessed, some three thousand pounds, was left to him. Mr. Herbert took the lease of the farm off the young man’s hands, by and by the live and the dead stock were sold off, and Watercress Farm was waiting for another tenant.
The winding-up of the father’s affairs kept Gerald in the neighborhood of some weeks, and when it became known that Mr. Herbert had insisted upon his taking up his quarters at the hall the simple Coombe-Acton folks were stricken with a great wonder. Knowing nothing of what is called the “aristocracy of art,” their minds were much exercised by such an unheard of proceeding. What had “Jerry” Leigh being doing in the last seven years to merit such a distinction?
Nothing his agricultural friends could have understood. After picking up the rudiments of his art in a well-known sculptor’s studio, young Leigh had been sent to study in the schools at Paris. Mr. Herbert told him that, so far as his art was concerned, Paris was the workshop of the world,—Rome its bazaar and showroom. So to Paris the boy went. He studied hard and lived frugally. He won certain prizes and medals, and was now looking forward to the time when he must strike boldly for fame. Even now he was not quite unknown. A couple of modest but very beautiful studies in low relief had appeared in last year’s exhibition, and, if overlooked by the majority, had attracted the notice of a few whose praise was well worth winning. He was quite satisfied with the results of his first attempt. In all things that concerned his art he was wise and patient. No sooner had he placed his foot on the lowest step of the ladder than he realized the amount of work to be done—the technical skill to be acquired before he could call himself a sculptor. Even now, after seven years’ study and labor, he had selfdenial enough to resolve upon being a pupil for three years longer before he made his great effort to place himself by the side of contemporary sculptors. Passionate and impulsive as was his true nature, he could follow and woo art with that calm persistency and method which seem to be the surest way of winning her smiles.
He is now a man—a singularly handsome man. If not so tall as his youth promised, he is well built and graceful. Artist is stamped all over him. Brow, eyes, even the slender, well-shaped hands, proclaim it. The general expression of his face is one of calm andrepose; yet an acute observer might assert that, when the moment came, that face might depict passions stronger than those which sway most men.
His dark hair and eyes, and something in the style of his dress, gave him a look not quite that of an Englishman—a look that terribly vexed poor Abraham Leigh on those rare occasions when his erratic boy paid him a visit; but, nevertheless, it is a look not out of place on a young artist.
This is the kind of man Gerald Leigh has grown into; and, whilst his transformation has been in progress, Miss Eugenia Herbert has become a woman.
Although remembering every feature of the child, who seemed in some way associated with the day of his liberation, Gerald had not again seen her until his father’s death called him back to England. Each time he had visited Coombe-Acton he had, of course, reported progress to Mr. Herbert; but, shortly after the change in his life, Mr. Herbert by a great effort of self-denial, had sent his darling away to school, and at school she had always been when Gerald called at the Hall; but now, when he accepted Mr. Herbert’s hospitality, he found the fairy-like child grown, it seemed to him, into his ideal woman, and found, moreover, that there was a passion so intense that even the love of art must pale before it.
He made no attempt to resist it. He let it master him; overwhelm him; sweep him along. Ere a week had gone by, not only by looks, but also in burning words, he had told Eugenia he loved her. And how did he fare?
His very audacity and disregard of everything, save that he loved the girl, succeeded to a marvel. Eugeniahad already met with many admirers, but not one like this. Such passionate pleading, such fiery love, such vivid eloquence were strange and new to her. There was an originality, a freshness, a thoroughness in the love he offered her. His very unreasonableness affected her reason. All the wealth of his imagination, all the crystallizations of his poetical dreams, he threw into his passion. His ecstasy whirled the girl from her mental feet; his warmth created an answering warmth; his reckless pleading conquered. She forgot obstacles as his eloquence overleaped them; she forgot social distinction as his great dark eyes looked into hers, and at last she confessed she loved him.
Then Gerald Leigh came down from the clouds and realized what he had done, and as soon as he touched the earth and became reasonable Eugenia fancied she did not care for him quite so much.
His conscience smote him. Not only must Mr. Herbert be reckoned with, but a terrible interval must elapse before he had fame and fortune to lay before Eugenia. He could scarcely expect her to leave her luxurious home in order to liveau quatriemeorau cinquiemein Paris whilst he completed his studies. He grew sad and downcast as he thought of these things, and Eugenia, who liked pleasant, bright, well-to-do people, felt less kindly disposed toward him and showed she did so.
This made him reckless again. He threw the future to the winds, recommenced his passionate wooing, recovered his lost ground and gained, perhaps, a little more.
But Abraham Leigh’s affairs were settled up, and Gerald knew he must tear himself from Acton Halland go back to work. He had lingered a few days to finish a bust of Mr. Herbert. This done he had no excuse for staying longer.
The summer twilight deepened into night. The sculptor and Miss Herbert stood upon the broad and gravelled terrace-walk that runs along the stately front of Acton Hall. They leaned upon the gray stone balustrade; the girl with musing eye was looking down on shadowy lawn and flower-bed underneath; the young man looked at her, and her alone. Silence reigned long between them, but at last she spoke.
“You really go to-morrow?”
“Tell me to stay, and I will stay,” he said, passionately, “but next week—next month—next year, the moment, when it does come, will be just as bitter.”
She did not urge him. She was silent. He drew very near to her.
“Eugenia,” he whispered, “you love me?”
“I think so.” Her eyes were still looking over the darkening garden. She spoke dreamily, and as one who is not quite certain.
“You think so! Listen! Before we part let me tell you what your love means to me. If, when first I asked for it you had scorned me, I could have left you unhappy, but still a man. Now it means life or death to me. There is no middle course—no question of joy or misery—simply life or death! Eugenia, look at me and say you love me!”
His dark eyes charmed and compelled her. “I love you! I love you?” she murmured. Her words satisfied him; moreover, she let the hand he grasped remain in his, perhaps even returning the pressure of his own. So they stood for more than an hour, whilst Geraldtalked of the future and the fame he meant to win—talked as one who has the fullest confidence in his own powers and directing genius.
Presently they saw Mr. Herbert walking through the twilight towards them. Gerald’s hand tightened on the girl’s so as to cause her positive pain.
“Remember,” he whispered; “life or death! Think of it while we are apart. Your love means a man’s life or death!”
Many a lover has said an equally extravagant thing, but Eugenia Herbert knew that his words were not those of poetical imagery, and as she re-entered the house she trembled at the passion she had aroused. What if time and opposition should work a change in her feelings? She tried to reassure herself by thinking that if she did not love him in the same blind, reckless way, at any rate she would never meet another man whom she could love as she loved Gerald Leigh.
The sculptor went back to Paris—to his art and his dreams of love and fame. Two years slipped by without any event of serious import happening to the persons about whom we are concerned. Then came a great change.
Mr. Herbert died so suddenly that neither doctor nor lawyer could be summoned in time, either to aid him to live or to carry out his last wishes. His will gave Eugenia two thousand pounds and an estate he owned in Gloucestershire—everything else to his son. Unfortunately, some six months before, he had sold the Gloucestershire property, and, with culpable negligence, had not made a fresh will. Therefore, the small money bequest was all that his daughter could claim. However, this seemed of little moment, as herbrother at once announced his intention of settling upon her the amount to which she was equitably entitled. He had given his solicitors instructions to prepare the deed.
James Herbert, Eugenia’s brother, was unmarried, and at present had no intention of settling down to the life of a country gentleman. Six weeks after Mr. Herbert’s death the greater number of the servants were paid off, and Acton Hall was practically shut up. Eugenia, after spending some weeks with friends in the north of England, came to London to live for an indefinite time with her mother’s sister, a Mrs. Cathcart.
Since her father’s death Gerald Leigh had written to her several times—letters full of passionate love and penned as if the writer felt sure of her constancy and wish to keep her promise. He, too, was coming to London. Had she wished it, he would at once have come to her side; but as it was he would take up his quarters in town about the same time Eugenia arrived there.
The hour was at hand—the hour to which Miss Herbert had for two years looked forward with strangely mingled feelings—when her friends must be told that she intended to marry the young, and as yet unknown sculptor, Gerald Leigh, the son of her father’s late tenant farmer, Abraham.
She loved him still. She felt sure of that much. If time and absence had somewhat weakened the spell he had thrown over her proud nature, she knew that unless the man was greatly changed the magic of his words and looks would sway her as irresistibly as before. She loved him, yet rebelled against her fate.
Her father had died ignorant of what had passed between his daughter and the young artist. Many a time Eugenia had tried to bring herself to confess the truth to him. She now regretted she had not done so. Mr. Herbert’s approval or disapproval would have been at least a staff by which to guide her steps. He had suspected nothing. The few letters which passed between the lovers had been unnoticed. Their love was as yet a secret known only to themselves.
She loved him, but why had he dared to make her love him? Or, why was he not well-born and wealthy? Could she find strength to face, for his sake, the scorn of her friends?
She must decide at once. She is sitting and thinking all these things in her own room at Mrs. Cathcart’s, and in front of her lies a letter in which Gerald announces his intention of calling upon her to-morrow. She knows that if she receives him she will be bound to proclaim herself his affianced wife.
He called. She saw him. Mrs. Cathcart was out, So Eugenia was alone when the servant announced Mr. Leigh. She started and turned pale. She trembled in every limb as he crossed the room to where she stood. He took her hand and looked into her face. He spoke, and his rich musical voice thrilled her.
“Eugenia, is it life or death?”
She could not answer. She could not turn her eyes from his. She saw the intensity of their expression deepen; saw a fierce yearning look come into them, a look which startled her.
“Is it life or death?” he repeated.
His love conquered. “Gerald, it is life,” she said.
Drunk with joy, he threw his arms around her andkissed her until the blushes dyed her cheeks. He stayed with her as long as she would allow, but his delight was too delicious to permit him to say much about his plans for the future. When at last she made him leave her, he gave her the number of a studio at Chelsea, which he had taken, and she promised to write and let him know when he might call again.
They parted. Eugenia walked to the window, and for a long time looked out on the gay thoroughfare, now full of carriages going to and returning from the park. Of course, she loved Gerald dearly; that was now beyond a doubt. But what would she have to go through when the engagement was announced? what had she to look forward to as his wife? Must love and worldly misery be synonymous?
The current of her thoughts was interrupted by the arrival of another visitor—her brother. James Herbert was a tall young man, faultlessly dressed, and bearing a general look of what is termed high breeding. He bore a likeness to his father, but the likeness was but an outward one. By this time he was a cold cynical man of the world. He had not lived the best of lives, but, being no fool, had gained experience and caution. He was clever enough to study human nature with a view of turning his knowledge to account. Eugenia had some pride of birth; her brother had, or affected, a great deal more. He was by no means unpopular; few men could make themselves more agreeable and fascinating than James Herbert when it was worth his while to be so. In his way he was fond of his sister; certainly proud of her beauty; and she, who knew nothing of his true nature, thought him as perfect as a brother can be.
He kissed her, complimented her on her good looks, then sat down and made himself pleasant. She answered his remarks somewhat mechanically, wondering all the time what effect her news would have upon him. She hated things hanging over her head, and had made up her mind to tell him of her intentions, if not to-day the next time she met him.
“The lawyers have almost settled your little matter,” he said. “It’s lucky for you I made up my mind at once; things haven’t turned out so well as we expected.”
She thanked him—not effusively, as if he was doing no more than she had a right to expect. Yet the thought flashed across her that before she took his bounty she was by honor compelled to make him acquainted with what she proposed doing.
“By-the-bye, Eugenia,” said Herbert, “you know Ralph Norgate?”
“Yes. He called a day or two ago. I did not see him.”
“Well, I expect he’ll soon call again. He has been forcing his friendship on me lately. In fact—I’d better tell you—his mind is made up—you are to be the future Lady Norgate. Now you know what to look forward to.”
Her face flushed. Her troubles were beginning.
“But, James,” she stammered, “I was just going to tell you—I am already engaged.”
He raised his eyebrows. To express great surprise was against his creed, and the idea that Eugenia was capable of disgracing herself did not enter his head.
“So much the worse for Norgate,” he said. “Who is the happy man?”
“You will be angry, very angry, I fear.” She spoke timidly. His manner told her she had good grounds for fear. His mouth hardened, but he still spoke politely and pleasantly.
“My dear girl, don’t discount my displeasure; tell me who it is?”
“His name is Gerald Leigh.”
“A pretty name, and one which sounds familiar to me. Now, who is Gerald Leigh?”
“He is a sculptor.”
“Ah! now I know. Son of that excellent old tenant of my father’s. The genius he discovered on a dungheap. Eugenia, are you quite mad?”
“He will be a famous man some day.”
Herbert shrugged his shoulders in a peculiarly irritating way.
“Let him be as famous as he likes. What does it matter?”
“The proudest family may be proud of allying themselves to a great artist.”
Herbert looked at his sister with a pitying but amused smile. “My poor girl, don’t be led astray by the temporary glorification of things artistic. When these fellows grow talked about we ask them to our houses and make much of them. It’s the fashion. But we don’t marry them. Indeed, as they all begin in the lower ranks of life, like your friend, they are generally provided with wives of their own station, who stay at home and trouble no one.”
She winced under the sting of his scorn. He saw it, and knew he was pursuing the right treatment for her disease.
“Now, this young Leigh,” he continued. “Whatwill he be for years and years? A sort of superior stone-cutter. He will make what living he can by going about and doing busts of mayors and mayoresses, and other people of that class, who want their common features perpetuated. Perhaps he might get a job on a tombstone for a change. Bah! Of course you have been jesting with me, Eugenia. I shall tell Norgate to call as soon as possible.”
“I shall marry Gerald Leigh,” said Eugenia, sullenly. All the same the busts and tombstones weighed heavily upon her.
“That,” said her brother, rising, and still speaking with a smile, “I am not the least afraid of, although you are of age and mistress of two thousand pounds. You are not cut out to ornament an attic. I need not say I must countermand that settlement. It must wait until you marry Norgate or some other suitable man.”
He kissed her and walked carelessly away. To all appearance the matter did not cause him a moment’s anxiety. He was a clever man, and flattered himself he knew how to treat Eugenia; human nature should be assailed at its weakest points.
His carelessness was, of course, assumed; for, meeting Mrs. Cathcart as she drove home, Eugenia’s news was sufficiently disturbing to make him stop the carriage, seat himself beside his aunt, and beg her to take another turn in the park, during which he told her what had transpired.
They were fitting coadjutors. Mrs. Cathcart was delighted to hear of Sir Ralph’s overtures, and was shocked to find that Eugenia was entangled in some low attachment. She quite agreed that the girl mustbe led, not driven; must be laughed, not talked, out of her folly. “Girls nearly always make fools of themselves once in their lives,” said Mr. Cathcart, cynically.
“They do,” said James Herbert, who knew something about the sex. “All the same, Eugenia shall not. Find out all about the fellow, where he lives, and all the rest of it. She doesn’t know I’ve told you about this. Keep a sharp lookout for any letters.”
So the next day, when Eugenia and her aunt were together, the latter, a skilled domestic diplomatist, commenced operations by regretting that Mr. Herbert, although so fond of statuary, had never employed a sculptor to make his own bust. Mrs. Cathcart spoke so naturally that Eugenia fell into the trap, and informed her that Mr. Herbert’s likeness had been taken in clay two years ago by a young sculptor then staying at Acton Hall. It had been done for pleasure, not profit, but her father had always intended to order a copy in marble. Mrs. Cathcart was delighted. Did Eugenia know where the young man could be found?
Eugenia did know. She told her with a tinge of color on her cheeks, and took advantage of the opportunity, and perhaps soothed her spirit somewhat by expatiating on what a great man her lover was to become. Mrs. Cathcart, in return, spoke of geniuses as struggling, poverty stricken persons, to befriend whom was the one great wish of her life. It was indeed pleasant for Miss Herbert to hear her aunt speak of her lover as she might of a hard-working seamstress or deserving laundress. She had not yet written to Gerald. She must find strength to throwoff her brother’s scorn and the busts and tombstones before she again met her lover.
Sir Ralph Norgate called that morning. He was a man of about forty. Not ill-looking, but with the unmistakable appearance of one who had led a hard life. He was rich, and of fine old family. It was clear to Mrs. Cathcart that he meant business. Eugenia had met him several times last year, and it was no news to her that he was her ardent admirer. She was very cold towards him to-day, but Mrs. Cathcart did not chide her. She, clever woman, knew that men like Norgate value a prize at what it costs them to win it. So the baronet came, stayed his appointed time, then went away, presumably in fair train to a declaration by and by.
Thenext day, whilst driving with her niece, Mrs. Cathcart was seized by a sudden thought. “My dear,” she said, “let us go and see about that bust. Where did you say the sculptor man was to be found? Nelson Studios, King’s Road. What number?”
“No. 10,” said Eugenia, wondering if her aunt’s sudden resolve would be productive of good or evil.
The carriage went to Nelson Studios; the ladies dismounted, and Mrs. Cathcart tapped at the door of No. 10, a studio which, being a sculptor’s, was of course on the ground-floor.
The door was opened by a handsome young man whose outside garb was a ragged old blouse, and whose hands were white with half-dried clay—one of those hands, moreover, held a short pipe. Indeed, Gerald Leigh was in as unpresentable trim as when years ago he first met Miss Herbert.
He did not at once see the girl. She was behind Mrs. Cathcart, and that lady’s majestic presence absorbed all his attention. Mrs. Cathcart put up her eye-glass.
“Is your master in?” she asked.
Gerald laughed. “I am my own master,” he said.
“This is Mr. Leigh, aunt,” said Eugenia, coming forward.
“Oh!” said Mrs. Cathcart, and the palpable meaning of that exclamatory monosyllable sent the blood to Eugenia’s cheek.
Gerald started as he heard the girl’s voice and recognizedher in the shadow. He stretched out his clay-covered hand, then withdrew it and laughed. Mrs. Cathcart, who saw the action, put on a look of supreme astonishment; then she recovered herself.
“Oh, I forgot,” she said to Eugenia. “Of course, you have seen Mr. Leigh before. May we come in, Mr. Leigh?”
He moved aside and the ladies entered the studio. He placed his two chairs at their disposal. He wondered the while what had brought Eugenia to him. He gave her a questioning glance, but her eyes avoided his. Then Mrs. Cathcart began. She spoke in that manner which certain persons assume towards those whom they are pleased to think their inferiors.
“I believe, some time ago, you made a bust of my late brother-in-law, Mr. Herbert, of Coombe-Acton.”
Gerald bowed.
“I wish to have a copy of it. Can you make one?”
“Certainly. In marble?”
“In marble, of course. How much will it cost?”
It was a painful experience to Eugenia, to hear her future husband talked to by Mrs. Cathcart much as that lady talked to the obliging young men and women at the various emporiums which enjoyed her patronage.
“Mr. Herbert was my best friend,” said Gerald. “My services are at your disposal.”
“You do not understand me,” said Mrs. Cathcart, coldly. “I asked you what it would cost.”
Gerald colored and glanced at Eugenia. He was utterly puzzled. It could only have been through the agency of the girl he loved that this new patroness sought him.
“Mr. Leigh was my father’s friend, aunt,” said Eugenia.
“My dear! Mr. Leigh is notmyfriend. I want to know his terms for a marble bust.”
“Eighty pounds, madam,” said Gerald, rather shortly.
“Oh, much too much! Eugenia, do you not think such a price extortionate?”
Eugenia was silent, but her cheeks burned. Gerald’s lip quivered with anger. Only Mrs. Cathcart was calm. “I will pay you forty pounds,” she said, “but then it must be approved by a competent judge.”
“You have heard my terms, madam,” said Leigh curtly.
“Absurd! I will even say fifty pounds. If you like to take that you may call upon me. Good-morning. Come, Eugenia!”
She swept out of the studio. Eugenia followed her. She looked back and saw Gerald’s face wearing an expression of actual pain. For a moment her impulse was to run back, throw her arms round his neck, and defy every one. However, she did not yield to it, but followed her aunt to the carriage.
“I call that young man a most common, ill-bred person,” said Mrs. Cathcart.
Eugenia flushed. “He is not,” she said hotly. “Your manner towards him must have been most mortifying.”
“My dear child!” exclaimed Mrs. Cathcart, in innocent surprise, “and I was trying to befriend the young man? He presumes on his acquaintance with your father. I always told your poor father it was a mistake becoming intimate with persons of that class.”
Eugenia said no more. If she had thought of so doing it was not the moment to open her heart to Mrs. Cathcart. She went to her room intending to write to Gerald; but no letter was written that day. How could she ask him to call at her aunt’s after what had occurred?
“I love him,” she said to herself, “but I am not brave enough to give up all for him. Oh, why did we ever meet?”
The next morning she received a letter from Gerald. It contained no reproach—only an entreaty that she would name a time when he might see her. Mrs. Cathcart was true to her duty. Before James Herbert was out of bed she had sent him word that a letter had come for Eugenia. He went at once to his sister. His greeting was quite friendly.
“Eugenia,” he said presently, “of course by now you have put all that nonsense about that sculptor-fellow out of your pretty head?”
“It is no nonsense.”
“Well, if you mean to be obstinate I must interfere. Have you seen him since?”
“Aunt went to his studio. I was with her.”
“She ought to have known better. If she encourages you we shall quarrel. Do you correspond? Tell me the truth.”
She offered him Gerald’s letter. He waved it aside as a thing beneath his notice.
“Have you answered it?” he asked.