"It is the fifty-second chapter," said the Duke of Long Acre. "You will remember, May," his grace continued, as he turned over the proof-slips in his hand, "you will remember, May, that in the chapter before this Antony Belmore had been out of employment for two months, and that he was at his wits' end to know how to get even bread."
"Yes, and he had a broken pane of glass to let in the cold wind; and that there was a wide gaping fireplace to let down more cold; and that he had got rid of his violoncello; and that his landlord was pressing him horribly----"
"For one pound, eighteen, and sixpence, rent."
"But, Charlie, what is the good of writing uncomfortable stories, that have no pious object? I can understand why Sunday-school tales are dismal."
"My dear May, the public won't have anything but groans and tears. If you can manage yells for them, all the better. Gladiators don't fight now in the arena. Gentle creatures like you, darling, have no chance of voting violent death to a man by holding down your thumbs in the Colosseum. The modern novel is the portable arena of to-day; and gentle darlings like you, May, must be permitted to view the death-agony of men and women, or you would not patronise the libraries."
"Charlie, if you dare to say any more such horrible untruths, I'll go down to the kitchen, put on an apron, and make the pastry for to-morrow."
"If you do that, I'll go down and eat up all the nasty indigestible dough; and then what will you say at the inquest?"
"Take your arm away, sir; I won't stay here another minute. You have, I think, made up your mind to be disagreeable."
"Well, run away now, if you like."
"But you are holding me, and I can't stir."
"And I mean to hold you if you will not sit still while I read the chapter."
"Oh dear, you are a horrible tease! There, let me go; I promise not to run away."
"Very well. Now don't stir."
The Duke of Long Acre and Marion Durrant, his sweetheart, were seated in one of the smallest conservatories in London. This conservatory was situated at the back of Miss Traynor's house in Knightsbridge. The house and all that it contained, with the exception of Marion's aunt, the owner, were small. Two people could not possibly walk abreast in the hall, nor up the stairs. It was a saying of the Duke's that one of those days he should get wedged in that hall, and would have to be extracted from it by violent means. There was a tiny front drawing-room and a tiny back drawing-room, and between them a pair of folding-doors which always stood open. At the rear of the back drawing-room was the little conservatory in which Marion and the Duke were seated. The conservatory was as wide as the room, and three feet deep. Owing to shelves at the ends and sides for flowerpots, the absolute dimensions of the place were much reduced, and it was impossible for two people to sit at the same side; so when the Duke held Marion he was standing beside her. He had risen from his chair opposite her a few minutes before. The conservatory was separated from the back drawing-room by a glass door opening into the room. At the back of the conservatory was a glass door yielding outwards on a little wooden landing, which, by means of a flight of wooden steps, communicated with the very small garden below.
Now, this being one of the fairest days of June, the door opening outwards on the landing and the door opening inwards on the back drawing-room were open. It was one of those days which make the old young, the young poetical, and love the sweetest pastime for those who have anyone to love. The day was in the fresh warm youth of the year; all the asperities of winter and spring had passed away, and the time had not yet been fatigued with summer heats; the air was moist and full of the scent of young leaves. In the dustiest street of all London there was some faint suggestion of the forest. According to the calendar it was summer; but really it was the summer end of spring, when the land is heaviest with leaves and the air is thickest with the songs of birds. There is a savour of resin in the breeze which made those who had been country-born, and were now penned in the city, raise in unguarded moments their heads, and listen for the murmur of the brittle pine-leaves.
"With your kind permission, or rather, having plainly shown you that I do not want your permission, kind or otherwise, I will now read to you the fifty-second chapter:
"'His tall thin form had shrunken almost to a skeleton. Privation and sorrow had at length broken down his health and spirits. Although he had scarcely reached his fiftieth year, he was already an old man. His eyes were dim; his cheeks had fallen in; his hands were emaciated and tremulous, his eyes were deep-sunken and unnaturally bright.
"'All the clothes he possessed were on him, with the exception of one shirt, a pair of socks, and three or four dilapidated collars. His elbows were through his coat; his trousers were frayed at the edges; the uppers and soles of his boots had, in more than one place, parted company.
"'He lived in a back attic off Cursitor Street, near Chancery Lane. There he had contracted to pay four shillings a week for an unfurnished room. One part of the contract had been fulfilled, for it might almost be said with literal truth that the room was unfurnished. It contained one chair, which had been cane-seated once, but which was now a skeleton. Across the framework of this seat had been placed a board. On this board were now set a cup and saucer and small black crockeryware teapot, a knife and fork, and a common delf plate. These, with the exception of a tin candlestick and a battered old quart tin kettle, were all the articles connected with the kitchen or table which could be seen in the place. In a corner farthest from the skylight lay a wretched stretcher, and by the side of the stretcher a common soap-box, which served as a seat, while the board across the chair answered as a table. Under the broken pane in the skylight stood a basin, and on the chimney-piece were a piece of soap, a worn-out comb and brush, a towel, and two small jugs.
"'Beyond the things mentioned above there was absolutely nothing in the room, except the most wretched of all things--Antony Belmore himself. He was sitting on the box at the head of his miserable stretcher, when a knock came to the door.
"'"Come in," said Belmore. Only two people ever called on him now--his landlord and his friend Valentine de Montmorency.
"'Mr. Jeremiah Watkins entered. He was a stout prosperous-looking man of about the same age as Belmore. "Well," said Mr. Jeremiah Watkins, the landlord, coming into the room, "got any money for me, Mr. Belmore?"
"'The musician raised his head and shook it sadly. "Nothing yet, nothing yet."
"'"It is Saturday, you know, and I'm blowed if I don't think I've had plenty of patience. One eighteen six is no joke, you know."
"'Again Belmore shook his head. "I have earned nothing for months. Nothing."
"'"I know that. It's bad for you; but it's bad for me also. What am I to do about my money?"
"'"I can only ask you to wait--to wait until I get something to do; then I'll pay you. How am I to pay you when I am idle, and have been idle for months?"
"'"I own it's hard on you; but then, you see, this is harder on me. You are out of situation, and therefore you get no money, which is natural and proper, as I say; but here is my room in situation, as I may say, and it gets no wages. Now that's not fair or reasonable, I say."
"'"I cannot answer you, Mr. Watkins. I am as sorry as you can be that I am not able to pay. What can I do? tell me, what can I do?"
"'Mr. Watkins owned three houses in this alley. Each one was let in tenements, and in all he had sixteen tenants. But in Antony Belmore he knew he had a tenant far superior in mind and manners to any of his other lodgers. And yet, although he was not by nature a hard man, and although he knew he was dealing with a gentleman, and although he would not do anything harsh to poor old Belmore for a much larger sum, yet he could not be importunate with graciousness. He had one of those hard, blunt, direct natures which can never step out of the routine manner, no matter how much their minds may out of the routine course. Said he:
"'"But what I look at is this, how are you ever going to pay? You are out of situation; you see no chance of getting a situation. You've sold or pawned all you could sell or pawn. Even your old fiddle is gone----"
"'"It is," said Belmore, with laconic sadness.
"'"Then how, in the name of all that's black and blue, are you ever going to get any money if that old fiddle is up the spout? That's what's the puzzle to me."
"'Belmore rose, and clasping his long, knotty, emaciated hands in front of him, said:
"'"I cannot say more than that I am very sorry I cannot pay you Mr. Watkins. If you wish it, I am willing to go. If I go I have my choice of two things--the workhouse or the river----"
"'"And you would choose the river?"
"'"And I would choose the river."
"'"That is the way always with you----" Mr. Watkins paused. Belmore waited for him. "With all you fools," said Mr. Watkins, using the most tender word his nature would allow, instead of the most offensive, as he had intended when he had set out with the sentence.
"'"I will go if you wish it," said Belmore meekly, making a motion first to an old battered hat that lay on the floor, and then towards the door.
"'"Who asked you to go?" said Watkins doggedly.
"'"No one has asked me," answered Belmore; "but of course you have a perfect right to ask me to go if you wish."
"'"I didn't ask you to go, and I don't ask you to go, and it's manners to wait to be asked," said Watkins ungraciously. "You may stay another week. At the end of a week I hope you will have got some employment."
"'"Mr. Watkins, I should be deceiving you if I led you to suppose I shall have got anything to do in a week. This is the dull season," said the poor gentleman, dropping both his hands and looking hopelessly at his landlord.
"'"Now, Mr. Belmore," said Watkins; "don't you think it a little rough on me to take me so cool? I tell you, who owe me rent, you may stay another week, and I say I hope you may get something to do in the meantime; and you then round on me, and tell me there is no use in my hoping you'll be able to get anything to do. I say it's downright rough on me. It's like telling me I'm a fool for trusting you any further."
"'"Indeed I did not mean to imply anything of the kind," said the poor gentleman, in a tone of deep concern. "But if I told you I hoped to be able to get anything to do in a week, it would be a lie."
"'"But I am a business man, and I like to be dealt with in a business way; and a business man would never say there was no chance of his getting employment in a week."
"'"Unfortunately, I not am a business man. I never have been one."
"'"More's the pity. You see, if you were only a business man, you would have a much better chance of getting something to do, and you would not make such unreasonable answers. But there, there; don't say any more about it. I am only wasting my time talking to you."
"'"I am very sorry it should be so," said the poor gentleman; "very sorry. If I had any property----" He paused, and looked at the dilapidated chair, the soap-box, and the stretcher.
"'"Bah!" cried the landlord; "I'm not going to touch them. I'm a business man and no fool, but I'm not a wild beast. Do your best now this week, and try and get something to do."
"'"I am sure I am very grateful to you, Mr. Watkins."
"'"Grateful! grateful! What's the good of being grateful? Be businesslike; that's the main thing. Next week you'll owe me more than two pounds, so stir yourself and get something to do."
"'Without another word Mr. Jeremiah Watkins left the room, closing the door softly after him.
"'When the landlord had gone, Belmore took a few feeble steps across the room, and then staggered back again to his old place by the head of the bed. No fire burned in the huge yawning grate, on the bottom bars of which the cold grey light of a winter afternoon fell through the chimney-pot above. Through the skylight nothing could be seen but the leaden November sky. It was raw and damp and dismal.
"'Belmore dropped his head on his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. Thus he sat in thought for a long while without moving. At last he raised his head and shook it gravely, smiled sadly, and whispered:
"'"It is more than likely I shall have proved myself, according to his idea, a fool; for a gentleman"--at this word he drew himself together, paused for a moment, and then finished--"for a gentleman cannot afford to die of starvation in a garret."
"'Then his head fell once more. Once more he dropped his face into the hollow of his hands, and resting his elbows on his knees, sat motionless.
"'So deeply absorbed was he in his thought he did not hear a brisk step on the stairs or a faint knock at the door. The knock was repeated. Belmore heard it now. He raised his head slowly, compressed his lips for a moment, and then whispered: "If he says another word about the rent I will not look at to-morrow." He arose, and having steadied himself by holding the chimney-piece for a second, crossed the room with an air of dignity and breeding in pathetic contrast with his mean attire and squalid surroundings.
"'He opened the door and exclaimed, holding out his hand: "Ah, De Montmorency, is it you? I am delighted to see you. Come in."
"'All at once the firmness died out of his manner, and he uttered a sob. Of this the visitor took no notice, but, walking to the middle of the room where stood the chair with the board across it, he began humming a lively air as he put down on the board a few parcels. When he had given Belmore a minute to recover himself, he faced round briskly and said gaily:
"'"Any good news about yourself, Belmore?"
"'"No."
"'"I'm sorry. But, if your luck is bad mine has been good. I have come into money. What do you think of that, Belmore?"
"'"I am sincerely glad to hear it. You did not expect it, did you?"
"'"I had no more expectation of coming into money than you have. Blessed are those who expect nothing. I have run through three fortunes; and no man I ever met had a chance of running through more than three fortunes. Who ever heard of any other fellow having had four fortunes?"
"'"Is it much?"
"'"Half-a-crown."
"'"What!"
"'"Half-a-crown."
"'"It's a poor joke, de Montmorency; a poor joke."
"'"I think it's a capital joke. Now, if, as I came along the street, I lost the half-a-crown, I'd consider it a poor joke. I was looking over an old waistcoat, when, hey presto! out drops half-a-crown. I'd like to know what you'd call that, if not a good joke."
"'The speaker was a short little man, with dark eyes and hair, and a swarthy southern complexion.
"'"Ah, De Montmorency, if I had only such spirits as yours!"
"'"It isn't the best, at all, Belmore. It's only a quartern of London gin. Please observe this is no joke. No; look here, Belmore, you mustn't be offended if I have taken a liberty. I have long been wishing you would dine with me; but I've been so cruelly hard up I couldn't do the thing decently at an outside place. But, as we are both Bohemians, I've ventured to order the rag-and-bone merchant in the Lane to send over a peck of coals and a bundle of wood. I waited to see the boy start with the coal and wood before I left the place; and then I ran off and got a few little things. So I'm going--if you will not think it a liberty--to light up a fire here and cook a bit of luncheon, and ask you to have a bit with me, Belmore. You are not offended?"
"'"If, De Montmorency, it were any one but you----"
"'"Ah, that is right, my dear Belmore; that is right! That young scamp must have stopped to play with other boys. Ah, here he is! You young scamp! Put it there on the hearthstone, and, look you, here's a penny for yourself. Now vanish! Well, my dear Belmore, I don't think much of our coal merchant. When I am Comptroller of the Household I shall not give him the contract. I shall be very corrupt in those days. I shall take bribes--when I can. Now there is a piece of undesirable slate. If either of us had young children that slate might be useful in forming their young minds and making them familiar with figures."
"'"Thank Heaven we have no children."
"'"Ay, ay, ay! Have it as you will, have it as you will. No doubt you are right. Now you don't happen to have a frying-pan?"
"'"No, I have nothing of the kind."
"'"Never mind; we'll toast the rashers and fortunately a toasting-fork is within reach."
"'"There is not one in this place."
"'"I'll make a capital one out of three pieces of this wood, with the aid of string. I think this fire will light now. It is beautifully designed and excellently built. I am a connoisseur in fires. I have been accused of resorting to bludgeon tactics. But I don't care what they may call my tactics, they always succeed. First you get a few pieces of paper--if they are greasy, all so much the better--and you roll them up loosely, as I did the piece that came round the rashers. Then you put on as much wood as you judge sufficient, taking care to cross-hatch the pieces, as an artist would say. Then put on more wood loosely until you think there is too much. After that put on more wood until you are perfectly sure there is too much. When you have done this, lay on eight pieces of coal neither larger nor smaller than a bantam's egg, and upon these eight lay three pieces as big as a turkey's egg. After that set fire to your paper, as I do. I will now, while the fire is kindling and clearing, make our toasting-fork."
"'He rose from his knees before the grate, and proceeded to splice two thin pieces of firewood, one on either side of a thick piece, having first cut a slanting bit out of the ends of the thinner ones where he applied them to the thick one. These prongs he had only to sharpen.
"'While De Montmorency was engaged in making his toasting-fork, Belmore, attracted by the unfamiliar blaze and glow in that chill room, drew the soap-box to the fire, and sat down to enjoy the heat.
"'Nothing ages a man more quickly than cold and hunger, and as Belmore sat before the mounting flames he looked seventy.
"'"There is no fender," said De Montmorency; "but I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll put the tea-pot down on the ground, take the lid off, and put a saucer on the top of the teapot. That will make a capital gravy-dish to catch the rich nectar from the rashers.'
"'All this time Belmore never moved or spoke. With his thin hands hanging down over big knees, he simply gave himself to the animal enjoyment of warmth, a pleasure he had not known for a long time.
"'At last the toasting began; and now, for the first time, the attention of Belmore was withdrawn from the fire to be concentrated on the food. He had tasted food since he had felt the heat of a fire, but that food had been the simplest and most scanty. Convicts would have mutinied if they had been kept on such a scale as the poor gentleman had been obliged to adopt for a month; that is, if convicts, after a month of such diet, would have had strength enough to lift up their hands in menace.
"'At length the first piece of bacon was toasted. With a large pocket-knife De Montmorency cut off a slice of bread from a loaf, which had formed one of the parcels he had brought in; and having placed this on the chair-table, he removed everything else. Then he took up the saucer from the fire and put that on the table, and dropped the hissing crisp bacon into the rich straw-coloured gravy. He poured some gin out of the bottle into a cup, and added water from a jug.
"'"You go on and eat now," the visitor said; "I'll cook and serve, and will naturally wait. I'll make a gravy-dish of a slice of bread this time. You don't object to a slice of bread soaked in red-hot dripping of toasted bacon? Of course you don't. I should like to see the man with a wholesome appetite who did. Pretend the bacon is fish, and that we have lent our fish-forks to the bishop who lives on the landing below this, and that you have to eat your fish with a fork and a piece of bread, and then all you've got to do is to fancy my knife is an old-fashioned fork, and there is nothing more to be desired."
"'As Belmore had cut off the first piece of bacon and was raising it to his lips, someone knocked at the door. Belmore put down the bit untasted, and said, in a tremulous voice: "De Montmorency, will you ask him to leave me in peace, or tell me I must go? Ask him to spare me or send me away."
"'De Montmorency opened the door softly and looked out.
"'"Is Mr. Belmore in?" asked a very low voice.
"'"Yes," answered De Montmorency. "May I ask what is the nature of your business?"--he kept the door partly closed so that the man outside could not see in--"because Mr. Belmore is engaged at present."
"'"I want to see him on very particular business indeed."
"'"Of what nature?"
"'"Well, I am a lawyer."
"'"If it is anything about the rent," said Belmore, "I am willing to go, but I cannot pay; nor do I think I shall be able to pay next week."
"'"As Mr. Belmore has spoken of paying rent, I may as well tell you at once that I am in a position to say he can pay it now."
"'"No, no, no!" cried the poor gentleman; "I really haven't any money."
"'"But I will pay it for him, with the greatest pleasure. I have very good news for Mr. Belmore, if I may see him."
"'"Good news?" repeated De Montmorency. "Did I understand you to say you have good news for Mr. Belmore?"
"'"Unquestionably. Very good news indeed."
"'"As Mr. Belmore is very particularly engaged at present, would it not be better if he called upon you at your office in half an hour?"
"'"Yes, that will suit admirably. You are a friend of Mr. Belmore?"
"'"Oh yes; I think I may say I am."
"'"Then will you allow me the privilege of a few moments' conversation with you, sir?"
"'"Certainly." And De Montmorency went out on the landing and closed the door.
"'He found there a tall stoutish man of middle age and very dark complexion. The stranger moved a few paces from the door, and then spoke in a very low, confidential, and friendly voice. "My name is Jackson. I am senior partner of the firm of Jackson and Connington, Lothbury. You are a friend of Mr. Belmore?"
"'"Yes; I think his only friend."
"'"I am glad to have this opportunity of having a little chat with you, for the news I have for him is not only good, but so astoundingly good that we must break it to him gently. I will not now trouble you further than to ask you if you can tell me who Mr. Antony Belmore's father was, and where and when was Mr. Belmore born? We know all about it. I ask the question merely to put all doubt of his identity out of the way finally."
"'"Mr. Belmore--whom I have known since we were boys, and whose father I also knew--is the only son of George Belmore, of Berley, in Lincolnshire. I think Mr. Belmore is about fifty years of age."
"'"All right, all right! You may break to him as gently as you can that he has fallen into an exceedingly good thing. Our firm has just found out he is heir to a fine estate. You will, I trust, excuse me for having taken the liberty of bringing this with me: but we thought it possible Mr. Belmore might want a little money before he opens his own banking account to-morrow or the day after. You will, I think, find fifty in notes and fifty in gold here."
"'"Thank you very much, I'm sure. It was very thoughtful of you to bring this. Would it put you to any inconvenience if we did not call upon you for a couple of hours instead of half an hour? Some of this"--he held up the money--"might in the meantime be usefully employed."
"'He touched his coat with his other hand.
"'"Oh, I understand," said the lawyer with a sympathetic look towards the door, behind which the poor gentleman concealed his poverty. "Let it be two hours. That will be--let me see--five o'clock. Good-day."
"'"Good-day," said De Montmorency, dropping the money into his trousers pocket. "The shock of knowing he had fallen into even a hundred pounds would be too great now."
"'He re-entered the room. "It was really good news, after all--I don't know how good yet; but, anyway, 'tis good enough for him to give me some money for you on account."
"'"Did he give you enough to pay Watkins?"
"'"How much is that?"
"'"One pound eighteen and sixpence."
"'"Oh, yes. He gave me five pounds. Here you are. Come now, and put on your hat. You see this lawyer believes in your luck, or he wouldn't put down his money without even being asked."
"'"And do you, too, believe there is some good luck in store for me?"
"'"Most emphatically."
"'"Then I'll go and pay Watkins, and never come back again."
"'"You must send for those things."
"'"Those wretched things! Why should I send for them? They would only bring up many of my cruellest memories."
"'"Ay, but you mustn't leave them here; you must take them away, if you only burn them. Suppose you are to turn out very lucky? Suppose you are the real King of Burmah; then, of course, these things will be bought up, and exhibited as curiosities. But come, put on your hat. We won't waste time with Watkins. Come out, and we will have something better in the form of luncheon than we were just about to eat. I have arranged with the lawyer that we need not call upon him for a couple of hours.
"'"Belmore had eaten the slice of bread and rasher. He had drunk a little of the gin, too, and had already begun to revive. Casting a look down at his wretched clothes, he said:
"'"De Montmorency, it was very good of you to prevent the lawyer seeing how things are here. But I am not much better off now. I am scarcely in a plight to call upon this gentleman."
"'"That will be all right. Suppose he gave me ten instead of five pounds for you? You can get all you want. Finish your gin, and I'll have some, and then we will go."
"'In a few minutes they were in Holborn. De Montmorency took Belmore into a ready-made clothing shop, and got him a suit of clothes, an ulster, and a hat. They came out, and then got boots and gloves. After this, De Montmorency surveyed his friend from top to toe, and muttered with a sigh:
"'"You'll do. Now let us go and have a good solid meal somewhere. But stay. Ask me to dine or lunch with you, Belmore; for you are the financier. I am only your agent."
"'"Where shall we go, De Montmorency?"
"'"To The Holborn."
"'"But I am afraid you have already spent more than the lawyer gave you."
"'"Let us go to The Holborn, by all means. As to money, that lawyer gave me a hundred pounds, not ten; and now here is the balance in gold, notes, silver, and copper."
"'"A hundred pounds! It must be good luck, indeed, when he gave you a hundred pounds! Why, this morning I should have thought ten pounds miraculous luck, and here now am I getting a hundred on account! De Montmorency, it must be wonderful luck!"
"'They went to The Holborn, and had a substantial luncheon, and a bottle of burgundy between them. Belmore paid the, bill, and gave the waiter half-a-crown. He said "Thank you, sir. Very much obliged, indeed;" and flew for Belmore's ulster as though Satan were at his heels.
"'When they got into the street, Belmore called a hansom, and told the man to drive to Jackson and Connington, Lothbury. As soon as the cab drew up, De Montmorency said:
"'"I'll wait for you in the cab. I'll ask the driver to let down the glass, and I shall be all right and comfortable."
"'"But won't you come up with me?"
"'"No, I think it better not, I am almost sure the lawyers do not want me, and I should not like to feel that, if I went up. I shall be quite comfortable. Run away now, Belmore, and hurry back and tell me you are the real King of Burmah."
"'Belmore did not care to force him against his wish; so he stepped out of the cab and walked into the house and upstairs.
"'He had been gone about half an hour, when a man dashed out of that door and rushed at the hansom, crying:
"'"Engaged?"
"'"Yes, sir."
"'"By whom?"
"'"Tall gentleman in ulster coat--gone upstairs half an hour ago."
"'"All right! You'll do! He's taken suddenly ill, and I want you to drive me for a doctor. The job is a sovereign, remember!"
"'"But there's a gentleman inside."
"'"De Montmorency knocked at the glass, and the driver drew it up. De Montmorency said to the man on the pathway:
"'"Mr. Belmore ill, did you say?"
"'"Yes, sir; taken suddenly ill."
"'De Montmorency leaped out, crying:
"'"Jump in, jump in! I'll run up and see him."
"'When he reached the room where Mr. Jackson and his partner stood, he found Belmore lying on a couch deadly white.
"'"Mr. de Montmorency, this is my partner, Mr. Connington. Mr. Connington, this is Mr. de Montmorency, a friend of his Grace."
"'"His Grace be----!" said De Montmorency. "I am a friend of Mr. Belmore. What's the matter with him?"
"'"His Grace the Duke of Fenwick has fainted upon hearing the honours and wealth that have suddenly come upon him.'*
"'"And who, in the name of Heaven, is His Grace the Duke of Fenwick?"
"'"The person you knew as Mr. Antony Belmore is Duke of Fenwick, with a rent-roll of ninety thousand a year!"'"
Here Cheyne finished reading, and throwing down the proofs, said:
"Well, May, what do you think of it?"
"Oh, I think it very clever indeed, only--only----"
"Yes, my ungrateful and critical sweetheart?"
"Only--only--doesn't everyone know who the heir to a dukedom is, like the heir to a kingdom?"
"No; everyone knows nothing."
"But doesn't the Duke himself know who his heir is? Or doesn't the House of Commons, or someone?"
"Dukes know absolutely nothing at all, and the House of Commons knows less."
While Charles Cheyne was reading chapter fifty-two in the little conservatory to his darling sprightly May, the Duke of Shropshire, having voted against the detested Radicals, was returning by express train to Silverview Castle, and Edward Graham was seated in front of the Beagle Inn, Anerly, painting the peaceful valley with Anerly Church in the near middle distance.
Although the view from the portico in front of the Beagle Inn at Anerly was very lovely, it would by no means make a good picture. It was too broad and monotonous and scattered. There was no composition in it. The pleasure derived from looking down that peaceful slope and valley was gained by glancing at it unconsciously from several points of view rather than from any particular one. If you fixed your eyes on the central or road line, no doubt you commanded Anerly Church and some fine trees and the wide plain below; but then there was no right-hand or left-hand frame to the picture, and the effect was insipid, if not distracting. If you looked through the trees you had the broad valley and the silver streak of stream; but you missed the church and the pine-clad slope which lent the romantic air to the whole scene.
Edward Graham was not a great artist. He was one of those indolent men who study art no more than the study yields pleasure. He liked painting and artists, but preferred the society of artists to that of a lonely easel, a laborious sketch-book. He was a Bohemian born, not made. He loved art for what it brought him from without more than for any divine joy it aroused within. By fortune he was poor, and by nature idle. He did not like doing anything; but of all occupations that could bring him money he disliked painting least. Therefore he painted for his bread. If he had been rich--so much did he enjoy the atmosphere of art, and the companionship of those who follow art--he would have painted all the same, that he might be entitled to smoke pipes and discuss pictures with better painters than he. He was one of those men who, although earning their bread by a profession, are amateurs to the last, one of those to whom talk of art is dearer than the use of artist's tools. He always wore a brown velveteen coat, a soft hat with a broad brim, and a Cambridge-blue tie. He was about twenty-eight years of age, of medium height, lightly built, and of dark complexion; the most remarkable thing in his face being a pair of large, round, brown eyes. In manner he was cordial, enthusiastic, almost boisterous.
The morning after Edward Graham had heard the story of Stephen Goolby's temptation was bright with dew and sunshine, and sweet with spices from the pine-trees and brisk balm of the meadows. Young Graham was on a walking tour. In his knapsack he carried two clean flannel shirts, a few collars, toilette brushes, and a comb; a couple of pair of thick knitted stockings, and a razor and strop; for Edward Graham shaved his chin and cheeks, wearing no hair on his face but a pair of moustaches. At the back of his knapsack was strapped a small rectangular japanned case, containing a large sketching-pad, three small canvases, a mahlstick, moist water-colours, oil-colours, brushes, and so on. A stout walking-stick he carried was a folded-up easel, and his knapsack served as a seat when he was painting or sketching in the open air.
On this beautiful morning in June Graham rose early, and, having filled and lighted a briar-root pipe, strolled out in front of the Beagle Inn. He took a leisurely survey of the place, drew his hat knowingly on the side of his head, as though to show the crows--the only living things in view--that Nature might be very clever in her way, but that she could not impose on him, and that he was about to probe her to the core.
He lounged indolently down the winding road that led by Anerly Church to the valley and broad stream beyond. He had his hands in the pockets of his velveteen shooting-jacket, as, with hat on one side and head on the other, and legs moving loosely and without any premeditation, he strolled down the hill.
As soon as he got near Anerly Church he paused, and, turning half round, looked up the pine-clad slope. After a careful scrutiny of a few minutes, he shook his head gloomily at it, as though he had expected and deserved much better treatment at its hands. Then, drawing his jacket tightly round his hips in a leisurely and dejected way, he continued his descent.
When he got as far as Anerly Church he paused again and looked round him. There was a slight relaxation of his critical stare, and a glance of approval in his large brown eyes. The approval was not so much of the landscape as of the fact that he, Edward Graham, approved of himself for having found out a suitable standpoint from which to make a picture of the place. For, give Nature all her due, what was the good of setting forth fair landscapes if no one with an artistic eye and artistic skill came her way to paint them?
The aspect which the young artist selected was gentle and charming as the soul who loves peaceful England could desire. Beneath the road ran a small stream.
From the right-hand side of the road, as one went down from the village, the ground sloped rapidly towards the valley below. The little stream running under the road had worn a deep narrow ravine, which expanded lower down, and over this rose a gaunt stone bridge supporting the road. The sides of this glen were lined with mountain ash, silver beeches, splay alders, gigantic ferns, and tangles of broad-bladed grasses, and masses of mingled bush and bramble and shrub, down to the golden mosses that slept upon the dark cold rocks above the sparkling curves of falling water. And below each tiny cascade lay a level miniature swamp, with a few huge flags standing up in each green, rush-fringed, open space.
On the slope of this glen, and on the slope of the great valley, stood Anerly Church, a couple of hundred yards from the bridge. Past the church the glen opened, and the dwarf vegetation near the bridge gave way to lofty pines, whose tops made a long sombre arch over the stream. Beyond this dark arch lay a blaze of green light, and a scarf of flaming white satin, where the valley and the stream caught the full sunlight.
"This will be jolly!" said Edward Graham, as he scaled the low parapet to the approach of the bridge, and threw himself down on the slope of the glen. "That archway is partly dry; I'll walk up in it until I get the picture focussed, and then I'll paint it. The bridge is so high there is sure to be plenty of light."
But when he got under the arch, and had picked his way to the rear of it, he altered his mind slightly. "By Jove!" he cried, for a moment looking at the startling effect of light and shade. "I don't know whether Salvator Rosa or Rembrandt would have admired this the more, but I am going to paint it; and instead of using the arch merely as a means of focussing the scene, I will paint the whole blessed lot, archway and stalactites, water under the archway and all."
The picture was striking.
By the sober light of the vault it was possible to make out with dim distinctness the outline of every object in it. This dimness did not arise from want of light, but from the fact that the floor and the sides of the vault were damp, and the outlines of damp objects in such a light are always uncertain to the eye. The archway looked north and south, and now a small portion of the western inner wall had caught a beam of the early sun, and the water in a pool at the eastern side, struck by the rays refracted by the wall, threw a blue and brown patch of trembling light on the middle of the roof. This light in return fell into another pool at the eastern side, where it made a trembling veil of orange-brown and golden-green; while all round, on the grey walls, the white roof, and the ashen stalactites, were scattered wandering hints of prismatic fire, which seemed rather to come through the stone than to be reflected from the water below.
Thus the huge barrel formed by the bridge, with its wavering, dull, dappled, transparent lights, was connected by one patch of brightness on the western pier and vault with the foreground of blue-and-white water, and rich green and yellow stripes of the rushes and grasses and underwood in the flat light of the glen. Beyond the flat light was the gloomy tunnel formed by the pines, where the yellows turned to browns, and the greens to sad blues; and the water flowed furtively from dull olive pool to dull olive pool, until at last it sprang out, a white blaze, into the full sunlight beyond, and fell headlong in foam to join the silver scarf of stream lying across the golden meadows below.
For a long while Edward Graham paused in reverence. He was not in his essence an artist, and the impulse which would have come first to an artist, came second to him.
His first distinct thought was: "What a picture it will make!" His second, "How beautiful it is!" Then he looked for a long time without thinking. He was gazing at the simple whole without reflection, as one may listen to a note prolonged, and be yet content, although there is no succession of anything produced in the mind, no idea suggested by the sound.
Then his mind came back suddenly, and he thought: "By Jove! it requires no painting at all. It paints itself." He had not been able to say "By Jove!" as long as his form of thought was abstract. But the moment he thought of the concrete, of brushes and canvas, and tubes and palette, he fell to the level of his own mind in his studio, where came no intoxicating visions of delight, no visitings of poetry, no fine frenzy to cause the eye to roll. Of his own nature he was not capable of evolving a thought or idea worthy of any more powerful or enthusiastic form of expression than "By Jove!" But here something new had been set before him. He felt there was poetry in the scene. He knew at a glance it would make a good picture. A second glance showed him there was poetry in it, but where he could not tell. He had no originality. He was a reflector, not a prism.
After another period of mere gazing, he looked around. Yes, the place would do admirably for a painting room. The vault ran north and south, and the back or lower end of the archway, that from which the scene should be painted, faced the north, which settled the question of light in his favour. Then the archway was quite wide enough for an easel.
The legs of the easel might stand in the water, and he could make a little platform of flat stones on which to rest a seat for himself. At the back of the archway spread an open green space. The place was damp. But then in summer the roof would not drip, and that was all he cared about. He should have to write up to London for a much larger canvas than any he had with him. His easel, too, he should write for. Well, he'd go back to The Beagle now and have some breakfast, and write his letters afterwards.
He clambered up out of the hollow on the northern side, and walked back to the inn much more briskly than he had come.
"I shall make sketches and studies of the place while I am waiting for the easel and the canvas," he thought, as he went along the road.
When he arrived at the inn he ordered breakfast, and sat down to write a couple of letters while he was waiting. The first of these was to the man in London from whom he got his colours, asking him to send a canvas of the size he wanted. The second ran as follows: