Notwithstanding Maud’s parting injunction, Mr. Gresham still remained for some time in the gathering darkness of the library, plunged in thought of a description somewhat unusual to him.
The subject of his meditation was Maud herself. That last remark of hers in reference to her future husband had, he scarcely knew why, jarred most unpleasantly upon his ear. For the first time he asked himself seriously whether this marriage of his daughter with Mr. Waghorn was a prudent one, or likely to be a happy one. In vain he represented to himself that Waghorn was undoubtedly a highly respectable man — a railway director, to boot — and that Maud had exhibited no repugnance whatever for the match; indeed that she had been left to her own will entirely in the matter. He could not restore his mind to that state of calm indifferentism which it was his habit to pursue. He reflected upon his own marriage. It had been a happy one, he thought; yes, he certainly thought so; for the truth of the matter was, that his wife had been a helpless, good-hearted, inoffensive child, with whom scarcely most refractory husband could have had the brutality to quarrel.
In all probability, he thought, Maud had no particular affection for her intended husband; but what matter, so long as she did not absolutely dislike him? It was a highly respectable match.
“Pooh, pooh!” exclaimed Mr. Gresham, at length, and went to dinner. The mood had passed away.
Mr. Gresham had been more favourably impressed with Arthur Golding than, in accordance with his usual habit, he had seen fit to declare. He looked forward with some pleasure to his return on the ensuing evening, and, when he arrived, was awaiting him in the studio. Arthur had a large portfolio under his arm.
“You have brought me some drawings to look at?” said the artist. “Let me see.”
He took the portfolio, laid it open upon the table, and proceeded to examine the contents, whilst Arthur stood regarding the pictures on the wall, from time to time stealing a glance at Mr. Gresham in an endeavour to observe the effect the drawings were producing upon him.
“Some of these are by no means bad,” said the latter, at length, “considering the circumstances under which they were produced. Well, did you discuss the matter with Mr. Tollady?”
Arthur replied that he had done so. He did not say, however, that in doing so, he had made no mention of the pecuniary circumstances, and had merely spoken of Mr. Gresham’s offer to give him lessons for an hour or two each day.
“And what was the result?” asked the artist.
“We fear that it would be impossible for me to cease working in the office altogether; but Mr. Tollady. is very anxious that I should accept your kind offer to direct me in my studies.”
“Well, I will tell you, Mr. Golding,” said the artist, “precisely my opinion on this affair. I have carefully examined your drawings, and I feel sure that you possess ability, which, if rightly directed, will make you an eminent and successful artist. But you no doubt understand that ability alone is of little good without careful training. Your drawings are very clever, there is no denying it; but, if I chose, I could pick holes in them after a manner you wouldn’t thank me for. And this merely because your taste has not been trained properly. Now if I undertake to instruct you in these things you lack, you understand it would be with the intention of making an artist of you. That to become an artist, you must be able to devote all your time to your art. Now, what is to be done?”
“Then I am sorry, sir,” replied Arthur, “but I fear it is useless for me to think of becoming an artist. My duty must come before my inclinations.”
“But is it not one’s first duty to consider one’s own future?” asked Mr. Gresham, looking at Arthur from under his eyebrows.
“Not in such a manner as to inflict injury upon others,” replied Arthur, firmly.
“And you would be content to resign the glories of a successful artist’s life merely because your preparation for such would give Mr. Tollady a little inconvenience?”
“You do not know Mr. Tollady, sir,” replied Arthur, with a touch of indignation in his tone. “He would gladly submit to any inconvenience if he thought it for my benefit; but I could not accept such a sacrifice. It would not merely be inconvenience to him if I were to desert his business now, it would be a serious loss; for circumstances have made me very useful to him. I must not think of taking such a step; I could not.”
“You are young, Mr. Golding,” said the artist, with his peculiar smile. “If you live another twenty years your views of life will change.”
“Never, I trust, in this particular!” exclaimed Arthur.
“I see a number of drawings from casts here,” said Mr. Gresham, turning suddenly round to the portfolio. “Did you purchase the models?”
“Mr. Tollady has bought me them from time to time, sir.”
“And when do you work at them?”
“In the evenings and early in the morning.”
“When do you usually rise?”
“At five, sir.”
“And go to bed?”
“Generally a little before midnight.”
“Have you any design upon your life, Mr. Golding?”
“Habit has made those hours easy to me,” replied Arthur, with a smile.
“Yesterday,” resumed the artist, after a short pause, “I referred to a legacy of Mr. Norman’s. I think it is time to speak of it in detail. Mr. Norman left you in his will the sum of five thousand pounds.”
Arthur kept his eyes fixed upon the floor, and made no reply.
“The money,” pursued Mr. Gresham, “is invested in Three per cent. Consols, and produces accordingly a hundred and fifty pounds a year. You could almost live on that, Mr. Golding?”
Probably Mr. Gresham had no intention of looking fiendish when he spoke these words; but an observer could scarcely have helped associating his expression of face with that of a diabolical tempter.
Arthur still held his eyes down and made no reply.
“Discretion is left to me in the will,” pursued the artist, “with regard to the disposal of this money till you reach your twenty-first year. If you think it desirable, I will direct that the half-yearly dividends shall be paid to you henceforth.”
Still Arthur made no reply.
“Perhaps I am taking you at an unfair advantage,” said Mr. Gresham, after watching the young man with an amused face for several minutes. “Suppose you were to ask my advice on this point. I am in a certain sense, you see, your guardian.”
“I should gladly listen to your advice, sir,” said Arthur, raising a pale and anxious face to his questioner.
“It shall be sincere, then. Listen! As you conceive that to give up your printing would be an unjustifiable injury to Mr. Tollady, suppose you reconcile your doubts in this way. Say to Mr. Tollady: ‘I find it is very desirable that I should have all my time to devote to my art studies. In place, therefore, of working myself in the business for the future, I will become a sleeping partner, advancing towards our joint expenses of every kind the sum of a hundred and fifty pounds a year. With this we shall be able to employ another man in my stead, and I shall esteem my board and lodging as quite adequate interest upon my money.’ I am well aware that this would be a peculiar arrangement under ordinary circumstances, but between yourself and Mr. Tollady it might possibly exist.”
“Nothing would please me so much as to use my money for Mr. Tollady’s advantage,” replied Arthur: “but I very much fear he could not be brought to accept it.”
“Mr. Tollady has, probably, maturer views of life than yourself, Mr. Golding,” said Mr. Gresham, smiling.
“I am sure, sir,” replied Arthur, “it is quite impossible for any man to be more nobly disinterested in all his views. Had he been of a less benevolent nature he would be a far richer man than he is.”
“Do you mean he employs much money in charity?”
“More than he can afford to. I know his life would be valueless to him if he lost the means of relieving suffering.”
“I fear there are not many such men,” said the artist, with concealed irony.
“It is impossible there should be,” replied Arthur. “The world would not be so miserable as it is.”
“Do you find it miserable? On the whole, it appears to me a sufficiently agreeable spot.”
“You view it as a wealthy man, sir,” replied Arthur, surprised at his own boldness, but feeling impelled to speak. “You see only the bright side of life; into the darkness which envelopes the majority of mankind you never penetrate, the scorn or disgust which it excites in you is too strong. Could you view a tenth of the hopeless depravity, the unspeakable wretchedness, which we who live in a poor quarter have daily before our eyes, it would render you unhappy for the rest of your life.”
“I must not detract from your estimation of my humanity,” replied Mr. Gresham. “But let us stick to the matter in hand. Do you think it would be of any use if I saw Mr. Tollady personally, and endeavoured to bring him round to our plans?”
“But I beg,” interposed Arthur, “that you will not consider me to have given my absolute consent. In any case I must necessarily have a few hours of leisure time during each day, and you would not object to my employing these in Mr. Tollady’s affairs?”
“That will, of course, be your own business. I think we shall find a way out of the difficulty. In the meantime, will you do me the favour of dining with me? Then we will go together and see Mr. Tollady after dinner.”
Arthur started at the unexpected invitation, and was on the point of making a hurried and awkward excuse, when Mr. Gresham, who was by no means deficient in agreeable tact, when he chose to exercise it, perceiving his embarrassment, hastened to reassure him.
“My daughter and myself are alone to-night, and dinner under such circumstances is apt to lack conversation. You have no pressing engagement?”
Arthur could not allege that he had, and Mr. Gresham turned to show the way from the room.
“Bye-the-by,” he remarked, as they passed out of the studio, “do you remember Miss Norman, the little girl at the Rectory, as she was in those days?”
“I remember her distinctly,” replied Arthur. “One circumstance has especially fixed itself in my memory, that of our having once looked over a book of engravings together, which gave me great delight.”
“You were an artist even then?” returned Mr. Gresham. “Miss Norman will be with us in a short time. She has been studying in Germany for a couple of years.”
As he spoke they entered the dining-room, where Maud awaited them. Arthur was duly presented, and got through the business in a very creditable manner. His natural grace of demeanour never suffered him to be absolutely awkward in his movements, but the deep blush upon his features told how keenly he felt the unwonted nature of his position.
“How delightfully you have altered papa’s picture!” exclaimed Maud, as they assumed their seats at table, the wonted expression of the corners of her lips rendering it uncertain how she meant the remark to be interpreted. “I really scarcely recognised it in your beautiful little water-colour.”
“The alterations were due to my not having seen the original picture,” replied Arthur, in his tone of manly modesty. “I made the copy from an engraving, and had to trust to my imagination for the colouring.”
“Our imaginations are wonderfully useful; are they not, papa?” proceeded Miss Gresham. “Life would be scarcely tolerable without them.”
“I thought, Miss Gresham,” said her father, “you rather prided yourself upon your actuality.”
“Very possibly,” replied Maud, “but that does not exclude a very useful employment for my imagination. By means of it I gauge the sufferings of those whose imagination is too powerful, and derive consolation from the contrast.”
Conversation was maintained with more or less vivacity till the dessert was being laid, when a servant announced that Mr. Waghorn had called.
“Oh, ask him to come in here,” said Mr. Gresham. “He is just in time for dessert. Mr. Waghorn is one of our especial friends, Mr. Golding.”
Mr. John Waghorn entered. He was rather a tall man, partly bald, and, to judge from his features, about thirty-six or thirty-seven. The appearance was intensely respectable, from the scanty locks carefully brushed forward on each side of the forehead, down to the immaculate boots which made no sound upon the carpet. He was in evening dress, and wore an exceedingly massive gold chain, supporting a wonderable number of valuable seals. In body he showed a tendency to stoutness, and one observed that his fingers were short and chubby. He had a very full beard, but no moustache. The outlines of his face could hardly be called agreeable; and there was an expression in the dull eye and the rather thick lips which denoted a sensual temperament; whilst the narrow and retreating forehead was suggestive of no very liberal supply of brains. For all that, Mr. Waghorn’s appearance was intensely respectable. He bore the stamp of a wealthy man on every part of his person. A certain habit he had of drawing in the lips and suddenly shooting them out again somehow conveyed an impression of the aftertaste of good dinners. Stepping up to the table with an astonishingly polite air, he shook hands with Mr. and Miss Gresham, and bowed to Arthur Golding, then assumed the seat indicated by Mr. Gresham, which was over against Arthur.
Why did this man’s face appear familiar to Arthur? He felt sure that he did not now see it for the first time, but, though he racked his brains to discover when he and Mr. Waghorn could by any possibility have met, the effort was quite in vain. The countenance excited in him feelings of intense repulsion, though he had no idea why. He felt instinctively that beneath that smooth outside of immaculate respectability lay hidden secret depths of foulness and all impurity. He felt uncomfortable in the man’s presence, and when he discerned, as he soon did, that closer relation than mere acquaintanceship existed between him and Miss Gr............