It was purely3 an artist’s fancy, he had thought, a piece of study which might give him new ideas.
But never did artist gaze upon mere4 model with the fervour which led Arthur to seek eagerly for Helen’s face in the crowd, and, when he had found it, keep his eyes fixed5 upon its beauty till the very moment when it again disappeared from the church. For him the place was vacant of other forms and features, so intensely was his interest centred in that one alone. He had no need to compare her appearance with that of the other ladies present; for him her beauty was something absolute, a type of perfection which, in the nature of things, could not be compared with other types. He did not notice that her dress was much plainer and simpler than of those all around her; he merely knew that it was richer than that in which he had previously6 seen her, and that its adaptability7 to her loveliness was perfect. The strength of his admiration8 almost amounted to frenzy9. He gazed at her till an actual halo, a visible aureola, seemed to glitter about her, and he feared to turn away his eyes for a moment lest the beautiful effect should vanish.
When at length he suddenly found the church empty, and rose to go away, he was not conscious of any one of his actions. So visibly did he retain Helen’s features in his memory, that they floated before him in the air as he walked, still surrounded by the aureola.
He regained10 his bedroom, which served him for a studio, and sat down before a picture he was then working at, intending to paint. It was impossible. Even as a vision of the sweet-faced Madonna may have floated before the eyes of Fra Angelico, and held his mind in a state of pious11 rapture12 till he took his pencil and, almost without the exertion13 of his will, embodied14 the tender outline in a tangible15 form, so Arthur sat, brush in hand, gazing into vacancy16, unable to think of anything but the chaste17 features of Helen Norman, till, scarcely knowing what he did, he took up a fresh sheet of paper and began slowly and lovingly to outline what he saw. In ten minutes the sketch18 was finished, the likeness19 was complete, and with a loud cry of delight Arthur sprang to his feet and held it at arm’s length to sate20 his eyes upon it. He dared not add another touch, erase21 a line, lest the exquisite22 resemblance should be destroyed. What if it were but a rough outline in crayon? His imagination filled it out with the hues23 of life; it seemed to him to breathe, to smile. He had drawn24 it with the eyes directed full upon his own, and he now thought with rapture that Helen, his Helen, made his by this portrait, would for ever gaze upon him with that sweet, tender smile. No one could deprive him of this joy. However great the gulf25 that wealth and social dictates26 spread between himself and the original, however little Helen might think of him, she could not prevent her lifelike image from gazing upon him as he sat at work, breathing into his blood a rapture of enthusiasm for love, for beauty, for art, which would urge him to the achievement of great things. Henceforth Helen must be his Muse27, his tutelary28 goddess. For a moment he had a glimpse into those regions of immeasurable exaltation which genius alone admits to; he felt that the world was within his grasp.
The sketch was too precious to be put away with the others. Repairing to a stationer’s hard by, he purchased a piece of mill-board, and upon this carefully mounted the drawing. He then emptied his best portfolio30, henceforth to be reserved for the idol31 alone, and, having carefully tied the strings32, put it away in a safe place. This done, he was too over-wrought to proceed as usual with his work. Seeing the afternoon to be very fine, he slung33 over his shoulders the little bag containing his sketch-book and pencils, and set off on a walk to Hampstead Heath.
Meanwhile, the house in Portland Place had assumed its wonted quiet air, but with the departure of the newly-married couple and, very shortly thereafter, of all the guests, a sense of loneliness had come upon those left behind which they did not ordinarily experience.
Mr. Gresham was in his studio, making believe to paint, for his hand refused to work as usual when his thoughts were straying he knew not where. Helen was in her room, busy at some correspondence which arose out of her work in the East End. Upon the completion of this, she endeavoured to study, but wholly without success. The thought of Maud too completely occupied her mind, and made her sad. It was a relief to both guardian34 and ward35 when at length the dinner bell rang, calling them from the cheerless company of their own reflections.
“Well, Helen,” said Mr. Gresham, as they took their seats at table, “now that Maud has left us to our own devices, I suppose the first thing to be done is to decide how we are to spend the next two months. What do you propose?”
“My time will be quite fully29 occupied,” replied Helen, in a tone of natural decision; “but no doubt you purpose taking your usual holiday?”
“And no doubt you purpose doing the same,” said her guardian, with good-natured mockery. “Do you imagine I shall permit you to remain in town all through the autumn, and come back to find you worn to a skeleton?”
“You need not anticipate the latter extremity,” said Helen, smiling; “but it will be impossible for me to leave town.”
Mr. Gresham had learned the significance of the quiet but decisive tone in which his ward delivered these words. He glanced at her furtively36, and read the same significance in her undisturbed features.
The rest of the dinner, which was quickly finished, passed almost in silence. Only when the dessert was on the table, and the servant who had been waiting had retired37, did the artist renew the conversation in earnest.
“Bye-the-by, Helen,” he began, “did it ever strike you that, now we have lost Maud, I must have some one to look after my house in her place?”
“Yes, I have thought it might be necessary,” replied Helen.
“You have? I never thought of it till Maud brought up the subject the other day.”
Mr. Gresham played with his walnuts38 as he spoke40, and from time to time glanced timidly at Helen from beneath his eyebrows41.
“Do you know,” he said, at length, smiling as he always did when about to advance some particularly audacious proposition, “I have been thinking that, rather than go to the trouble of hunting up such a person from among my list of distant relatives, I would sell the house and emigrate to the farm in Dorsetshire. I might live there in rural peace and happiness for the few remaining years of my life. Might I not, Helen?”
“The few remaining years!” exclaimed Helen, smiling. “I trust that you may reasonably hope for more than a few, Mr. Gresham.”
“Think so? Well, perhaps I may. Do you know my age?”
“I am a bad judge of such questions.
“Well, I am just forty-three. Upon the whole, one is rather young than otherwise at forty-three. Don’t you think so, Helen?”
“At all events, far from old.”
“Yes,” said the artist, as if reflecting, “I was married at twenty-two, when I was a boy, and didn’t know my own mind.”
Helen looked curiously42 at him; but, meeting his covert43 glance, again dropped her eyes.
“Upon my word I have a good mind to carry out the scheme. Do you think I should make a good gentleman-farmer, Helen? Should I be apt to learn the price of grains and bullocks, think you?”
“Not very, I fear.”
“Indeed! But why?”
“It is merely a guess,” said Helen; “but I fancy you would never be so much at home in the country as you are in the city.”
“Upon the whole, I think you are right,” exclaimed her guardian laughing. “No, the Dorsetshire farm is in very good hands, and doubtless had better remain as it is. But then we revert44 to the old question. Who is to take care of my house?”
“You spoke of distant relatives,” said Helen; “do you know of anyone who would suit you?”
“Only one. That is an aunt, a sister of my mother, who, I believe, is very little older than myself. She is a widow without children, living in Birmingham.”
“Do you think she would like to come to London?”
“I really have no idea, but I might ask her.”
There was again a short silence.
“But I had hoped there would be no need of that just yet,” pursued, in a disappointed tone. “I imagined you would town till at least the end of September, and then it would have been time enough to think of my aunt. It would be the easiest thing in the world to make up a party. The Lights are just thinking of going to Ireland, and they would be delighted if we would join them. You would have Mrs. Leigh with her two daughters to chaperon you. Surely you do not mean, Helen, that you intend to stay at home?”
“I seriously mean it, Mr. Gresham.”
“But why? Are you too ascetical to permit yourself a holiday?”
“At present I really have no need of one,” replied Helen. “Then next week I begin my evening school. You would not wish me to disappoint the poor girls who are looking forward to a chance of learning to read and write? Mr. Heatherley thinks I shall have at least a dozen to begin with.”
Helen ceased, and her guardian made no reply. His brow lowered slightly as he heard the clergyman’s name mentioned.
“Mr. Heatherley,” pursued Helen, in unconsciousness of the last movement, “has had no holiday for three years. I heard so from an old lady whom I occasionally meet at his house.”
“Do you go often to his house?” asked Mr. Gresham, cracking a walnut39 somewhat fiercely.
“Not very frequently. If I wish to see him we generally meet at the chapel45. Indeed he is very seldom at home. I should not have thought it possible for anyone to work as hard and as continuously as Mr. Heatherley does.”
The artist rose suddenly from his chair.
“Then I understand,” he said in a rather husky tone, which caused Helen to look up in surprise, “that it is impossible to persuade you to leave town?”
“I really must not,” returned Helen, rising and looking at her guardian with a smile which was not returned.
“Then I remain at home myself,” said the latter.
“But not, I trust, on my account?” said Helen. “Mrs. Thomson — the housekeeper46 — is quite capable of seeing ——”
“No, no,” broke in Mr. Gresham, turning away his head, “of course not only on your account, Helen. I have a picture or two that I must get off my hands. Yes, I shall stay at home.”
“I am sure you will alter your mind,” urged his ward. “You really require a holiday. I hope you will alter your mind, Mr. Gresham.”
“You are anxious to get me away?” he said, and immediately feeling that the words had been spoken unguardedly and with some rudeness, reddened a little and laughed. “Yes, yes,” he repeated, in a jocular tone, “you are anxious to get rid of me, Helen.”
“I am anxious that you should not break an agreeable custom solely47 on my account,” returned his ward. “It would distress48 me to think you did so.”
“It would? Then I shall think the matter over.”
Helen nodded, smiled, and left the room.
“What the devil did she mean by that,” muttered her guardian to himself, when he was left alone. Then he struck the table a blow with his clenched49 fist, drank off what remained in his wine-glass, and walked away, seemingly in no very good humour.
What could be the matter with Mr. Gresham? All the next day he paced up and down, first in the studio, then in the library, quite unable to settle to anything. Several visitors who called were dismissed with the reply that he was not at home; he had no taste whatever for conversation. At meals he spoke very little, but, as often as Helen was not looking, watched her from beneath his eyebrows constantly. When she asked him whether he had decided50 to go to Ireland, he replied that he was thinking the matter over. If so, it appeared to occasion him more reflection than so slight a matter had ever done before. He could scarcely be well.
In the evening he decided to take a walk. Just as he issued from the door into the street, the postman was about to put some letters into the box. He took them from his hands instead, and examined the addresses. Two were for himself, and one was for Helen. Mr. Gresham altered his intention of going for a walk, and went into the library.
He was in no hurry to open his own letters; that directed to Helen seemed to absorb all his attention. On looking at the post-mark he saw that it had been posted in the east of London. That, and the fact that the address was written in a bold male hand, satisfied him that it was from Mr. Heatherley. It was a pity that Mr. Gresham had not just missed the post. man on leaving the house.
Holding this letter in both hands behind his back he once more began to pace the room. Mr. Gresham was, without doubt, a gentleman as far as ordinary manners and social condition went, but it was unfortunate for him that he had decided to live without the guidance of any such thing as principle, that, indeed, he did not think the business of life serious enough to require more than tact51 in its transaction. This state of mind would have been still more unfortunate had Mr. Gresham been so unhappy as to be a poor man; being, on the contrary, a rich man, he had never yet met with any temptation sufficiently52 strong to call for firm principle to resist it. Without a doubt he would himself have conceded this to you in argument, and, for the same reasons, would have looked with the most liberal tolerance53 on a poor man whom temptation had caught unawares and led into mischief54. This was one of the better points in his character. But the fact remained that Mr. Gresham had not principle. Had he possessed55 it, he would, in the present instance, have thrown Helen’s letter on to the table, rung the bell, and ordered it to be taken to her. As it was, for some cause or other, he seemed wholly incapable56 of letting it escape his hands. The expression which rested upon his face, meanwhile, was half a frown, half an ironical57 grin — a smile it could hardly be called — just as if there were at that moment two voices speaking within himself, the one a rather angry and serious one, the other an ironical, bantering58 voice, very much like that in which he usually spoke. Several times he gave utterance59 to exclamations60, such as “Pooh! psha!” evidently part of the internal argument. Then he again looked at the letter, and it seemed to decide him.
Quickly he tore it open and came to the contents. They were these —
“Dear Miss Norman, “You will be glad to hear that I have a list of thirteen girls, all more than fifteen years old, who will gladly attend your class on Tuesday and Saturday evenings. I have told them, as you instructed me, that next Tuesday would be the first evening.
“Faithfully yours, “E. W. Heatherley.”
Mr. Gresham quickly crushed the letter in his hand, and then thrust it into his pocket, with an extremely unpleasant expression of countenance61. He seemed disappointed that he had not found more. The next moment he broke into a low laugh.
“And I have made a damned fool of myself for that! Pooh! I need not fear Heatherley. He’s only a parson.
Muttering this he resumed his intention of taking a walk, and left the house.
This little event formed an epoch62 in the life of Mr. Gresham. Had he been told, but a very few months previously, by some plain-speaking and clear-seeing cynic, that he would one day commit an act which the polite world has agreed to brand as dishonourable, he would have listened to the prophecy with silent contempt; had he been further told that he would commit this act under the impulse of an ignoble64 jealousy65, he would have laughed the idea to scorn. For all that, he had today been both shamefully66 dishonourable and unmistakably jealous. The effect of the unconsidered act could not but prove most disastrous67 to himself. If previously he had renounced68 the guidance of principle, he had at all events been tolerably well led by pride and prudence69 in the same paths in which the former would have guided him; now that he had absolutely set principle at defiance70, his pride would henceforth be his evil genius, bidding him look with contempt upon the rules of morality he had hitherto observed, whilst his prudence would only serve him in keeping secret the outrages71 of which he might be guilty. Had he been twenty years younger, it is just possible that this act of dishonour63 with its altogether futile72 results might have proved such a salutary lesson that, with the help of that new and strong passion which was for the first time taking possession of his being, it might have effected a wholesome73 revolution in his views of life. As it was, such a result was impossible. The man was too hardened in his career of eternal scepticism. For the future, instead of being a mere sceptic, he would be a hypocrite, a character still more despicable. But nature, whose dictates he had so long violated, had prepared a severe punishment for him. Henceforth Mr. Gresham is rather a subject for pity than indignation.
When he and Helen met at dinner on the following evening the latter’s first remark caused him acute suffering.
“It is a curious thing,” she said, looking directly at h guardian, “Mr. Heatherley tells me that he posted a letter for me yesterday, about noon, which I ought to have received by one of the evening posts. Yet it has never come.
“Very curious,” replied Mr. Gresham, forcing himself to re turn her direct gaze. “Have you made enquiry of the servants?”
“Yes. They tell me we had no letters yesterday except by the morning post. No doubt it is the fault of the post office. Have you ever failed to receive letters?”
“Once or twice, I think, at long intervals74. But never anything of consequence. I hope your letter was not important?”
“Oh, no; not at all. Merely a note in reference to my evening classes. I begin on Tuesday, Mr. Gresham.”
“What sort of pupils shall you have?” asked Mr. Gresham, relieved at length, and smiling in the usual manner.
“Mostly grown up girls. Girls who are hard at work all day, poor things, and have never had the opportunity of learning to read and write.”
“What are your hours?”
“From eight to ten, using a room in the chapel for schoolroom. You cannot imagine the pleasure with which I look forward to these lessons. As the attendance is of course purely voluntary, I know I shall have some capital scholars. And then I hope by degrees to be able to find better situations for those who show themselves able and industrious75. Mr. Heatherley is doing his best to interest several ladies in the scheme, whose help will be very useful.”
“But eight to ten!” exclaimed Mr. Gresham. “That is horribly late, Helen. You won’t be home till eleven. Do you consider it altogether ladylike to be travelling about London, alone, at such hours?”
“I certainly see no objection to it,” replied Helen, “when one’s engagements make it necessary.
“H’m. You are aware, I presume, that young ladies do not, as a rule, permit themselves to indulge in such night excursions; that, in fact, it is hardly considered bon ton?”
“The ordinances76 of so-called society concern me very little, as you know, Mr. Gresham. As yet I am unconscious of having in any way neglected propriety77. It is only between the chapel and the station that there could be any real danger for me, and in that walk Mr. Heatherley will always be kind enough to accompany me. It happens to lie in his way as he goes home.”
Mr. Gresham flinched78 visibly at these words, and endeavoured, by raising his glass to drink, to conceal79 the expression which rose involuntarily to his countenance. He made no reply, and the meal continued in silence.
As they rose, at its conclusion, Helen asked whether Mr. Gresham had yet. decided upon leaving town.
“I find I have too much work on hand,” he replied. “I shall not leave town at all.”
“Indeed? I am sorry.”
“I wrote last night to my aunt, Mrs. Cumberbatch,” he continued. “In. all probability I shall have a reply tomorrow morning. I hope it will be favourable80.”
Helen said nothing, but left the room, pondering on the possible character of Mrs. Cumberbatch. Mr. Gresham, unable to find rest at home, went out very shortly and passed his evening at the theatre.
On the following morning the anticipated letter arrived, bringing the news that Mrs. Cumberbatch, after mature reflection, had decided to accept her nephew’s proposition. As it happened, she was just then on the point of removing from her house, so that it only remained for her to dispose of her furniture and come at once to London. In all probability she would present herself at the house in Portland Place in not later than a week.
After hearing her guardian read this letter, Helen went up to her sitting-room81. She purposely left her door slightly ajar, and when at ten o’clock she recognised the footstep of Arthur Golding passing by and entering the studio, which was on the same landing, she left her room and followed him.
“Have you heard anything from Mr. Tollady lately,” she asked, “with regard to Mrs. Thomson?”
This, as the reader will perhaps remember, was the woman Helen had assisted at the printer’s request.
“Yes,” replied Arthur, who had been startled by Helen s entrance, his pulses throbbing82 with delight at the sound of her voice. “Only this morning Mr. Tollady told me that she was getting better every day, and able to do more work. She is very anxious to see you, Miss Norman, and to thank you with her own mouth for your kindness to her.”
“I am so glad to hear she is better!” exclaimed Helen. “I must see Mr. Tollady again very shortly; perhaps he has found some other poor people for me.”
“I am afraid he is himself far from well,” said Arthur, only venturing to glance for a moment at the face before him.
“Not well!” exclaimed Helen, in a tone of pained surprise. “What is he suffering from?”
“I hardly know. A short time ago, after we had been a rather long walk together, he fainted as soon as he entered the house. The same thing happened again last night, and this morning I left him seeming very depressed83.”
“But has he seen a physician?”
“I think not. He makes light of it, and says that it is only what he must expect now he is growing old. But it makes me very uneasy.”
“But he must certainly have advice, Mr. Golding,” urged Helen, earnestly, “I am sure his life is of far too much value to be lightly risked. Pray tell him this from me, will you? Say that I beg he will consult a doctor.”
“I have myself frequently urged him to do so,” replied Arthur, feeding his eyes upon the speaker’s beauty, thus heightened by emotion, “but he always puts me off with a good-natured excuse. Perhaps your request will weigh more with him. It is very kind of you to express so much interest in his welfare.”
“I must see him,” pursued Helen. “Though I have only spoken with him once, I feel as if I had known him all my life. It is only noble natures that can inspire such confidence.”
“And only noble natures, Miss Norman, that are so quick to recognise nobility in others. You do not exaggerate Mr. Tollady’s goodness. I have not seen a day pass for several years without some act of kindness on his part to those who were in need of it.”
For a moment their eyes met. The sincere feeling with which the young man spoke gave to his countenance a striking vivacity84, and Helen saw in its expression a spirit in closer sympathy with her own than any she had discerned elsewhere. When Arthur turned his head away, she followed his look, and her eyes fell upon the picture he was then working at. It was a copy of a small Rembrandt which Mr. Gresham possessed. She bent85 forward to examine it.
“You are making wonderful progress,” she said, frankly86. “To my uncritical eyes this piece that is finished seems scarcely inferior to the original. I envy you your talent, Mr. Golding.”
The last words were spoken warmly, with a look which avouched87 their genuineness. Arthur’s reply followed rapidly, and in eager tones —
“You envy me, Miss Norman; you, who are so richly endowed with every excellent quality, envy another’s trifling88 facility in handling a brush or a pencil? It may excite your wonder, perhaps, but never your envy!”
“That is hardly fair, Mr. Golding,” said Helen, smiling. “I spoke truth, and you reply to me with flattery. Let me advise you, if it is not too great a liberty, never to depreciate89 your art. In your estimation nothing should excel it. You will be more zealous90 for its claims some day, when you become one of its foremost representatives.”
And nodding a pleasant good-morning she left the studio. For some seconds Arthur remained gazing at the door through which she had disappeared, with passionate91 longing92 and regret depicted93 upon his countenance, then, with a deep sigh, passed his hand over his eyes, as if to prepare them for their ordinary functions, and hurried to his work.
It happened that the studio had two doors, the one ordinarily used, which led out into the landing; the other, at present concealed94 behind an easel supporting a large canvas, which communicated with Mr. Gresham’s dressing-room Through this latter Mr. Gresham had passed a few minutes before Arthur entered the studio, and had left it very slightly ajar, but quite sufficiently to admit of his becoming acquainted with every word of the conversation between his pupil and his ward. He had no scruples95 in listening; in his present state of mind would have had none even if the act had been far more objectionable, than, considering his relationship to Helen, it in reality was. What he had heard, innocent and meaningless as it would have sounded to any less interested auditor96, inflicted97 upon him the keenest torture. That Helen should so far transgress98 the bounds of conventional propriety as to enter into conversation under such circumstances at all, was alone sufficient to aggravate99 his new-born intolerance; that the conversation should terminate in what he regarded as unwarrantable familiarities exasperated100 him almost beyond endurance. For a full half-hour he sat in his dressing-room, exerting his utmost ingenuity101 in the devising of self-torment. Doubtless she was in the habit of indulging in these morning interviews. No doubt, also, she saw Golding at other times, when he knew nothing of it; for what considerations could restrain a girl who openly defied all social regulations. These same social regulations which he had hitherto looked upon with such scorn, how he now respected them in his heart, how convinced he was of their propriety and necessity! Yet how was it possible for him to begin to assert his authority as guardian for the purpose of compelling Helen to observe them. It would be to stultify102 himself, nothing less. He thought with exasperation103 of her spending all the day in going from place to place alone, making acquaintances of which he knew nothing, meeting with respect and admiration which he had no means of checking. For, had he possessed the power, he would have reduced her to the condition of a Turkish slave, allowing her to see, and be seen by no one; so fiercely had his involuntary infatuation begun its operation upon him.
That morning he did not visit the studio at all, sending a servant to excuse him to Arthur on the ground of other engagements. He felt it would be impossible to face his pupil with any degree of calmness, and an acute feeling of shame, which was but a little less strong than his jealousy, withheld104 him from any risk of self-exposure.
The same evening Helen fulfilled her intention of visiting Mr. Tollady. Arthur was again away from home, and Mr. Tollady, when he had submitted to his visitor’s pressing interrogations with regard to his health, turned the conversation by asking what she thought of Arthur’s progress in the studio.
“It is impossible to speak too hopefully of it, Mr. Tollady,” she replied. “I have been delighted with what little I have seen of his work. I suppose you have many pictures of his here?”
“A great many drawings,” replied the old man, with that air of justifiable105 pride which always marked his tone when he spoke of Arthur. “It is possible you would like to see a few, Miss Norman?”
“If it would not be taking too great a freedom in Mr. Golding’s absence,” replied Helen.
“It is one of the greatest pleasures my life affords me to look over his work,” said the printer. “I frequently take down his portfolios106 when I am alone. But it is so seldom that I have the opportunity of looking over them with anyone capable of appreciating their merits that you will confer a real favour on me, Miss Norman, by allowing me to show them to you.”
He went up accordingly to Arthur’s room, and brought down the portfolios which held the young artist’s work. The first they opened was full of copies, some in crayon, some in sepia or Indian-ink, of celebrated107 pictures by old masters.
“It is Arthur’s habit to make copies such as these,” said Mr. Tollady, as he turned them over with a loving hand, “whenever he meets with engravings of old pictures in books or elsewhere. His collection will soon be a large one. Ah! Here are his copies of Raphael’s Cartoons. Are they not admirably finished? There is a Madonna of Correggio; the original is in the Museum of Parma. I always think he has caught the expression of the child’s face wonderfully. Here are a series of pen and ink copies from Albert Dürer, grand old pictures, and finely drawn.”
They passed on to another portfolio.
“That is a copy of an etching by Nasmyth, ‘The Alchemist.’ It took Arthur more than a week’s hard work, there is such an immense amount of detail in it. You like it? I knew you would. Ah! Here are a few water-colours. I like that copy of Rosa Bonheur; the sheep are admirable. I often laugh at my learning iii these matters, Miss Norman. Arthur has made quite a connoisseur108 of me.”
The next portfolio was a smaller one; and contained only a few drawings, most of them in pencil.
“These,” said Mr. Tollady, with a smile of peculiar109 delight, and with a confidential110 lowering of his voice, “these are his original designs. He has made a great number at times, but there are only a few that he has cared to preserve. Indeed he often destroys drawings which I think admirable These are a series illustrating111 Shelley’s ‘Witch of Atlas112.’ It was a bold flight to undertake, but I notice that Arthur is most at home at regions farthest removed from the earth. It seems to me there is much of delicate fancy in these drawings What is your opinion, Miss Norman?”
“I should say they were quite admirable. I certainly never saw illustrations of the poem which at all approached them. I know they are defective113 in drawing here and there,” she added, “but the ideas are wonderful in each case.”
“Here again,” went on Mr. Tollady, his face beaming with pleasure, “are a few sketches114 of subjects from Scott. There is Rob Roy’s wife challenging the invaders115 from the top of the rocks. There is astonishing force in that woman’s attitude. That is meant for a portrait of Habbakuk Mucklewrath. Ha, ha! I always think that capital. There is the Master of Ravenswood on his last ride.”
And so the old man went on, pointing out all the merits of the drawings — and indeed the merits were not few — delighted whenever Helen put in an assent116 or expressed herself pleased. When they. came to the last of the four portfolios, he exclaimed —
“What have we in this other? He has been making some changes here lately. It is a portrait, carefully mounted, too. Why, it is ——”
Indeed it was no other than Arthur’s memory-drawn portrait of Helen. She saw it, and blushed deeply.
“I did not know you had favoured him with a sitting,” said the old man, regarding Helen with wonderful na?evé. “But it is an admirable likeness, though so slight.”
“I never did,” replied Helen, in some confusion. “It — it must be some picture he has copied which bears some slight likeness to me. Have we seen all, Mr. Tollady?”
“Those are all his finished drawings. He has an abundance of crayon studies from casts, and of sketches from nature, but those I know he does not like to be seen. He calls them his chips.”
And Mr. Tollady laughed with a quiet gaiety of heart which only appeared when he spoke of Arthur. A little conversation followed with regard to the poor people in whom the printer was interested, and then, leaving half-a-sovereign for one of these, Helen took her leave. She walked thoughtfully homewards, not unfrequently smiling to herself, as if her reflections were far from disagreeable. Throughout the evening she was distraite, being wholly unconscious that her guardian scarcely averted117 his eyes from her during dinner, and replying to his few questions in an absent manner which goaded118 him to hardly repressible irritation119. But Helen was not aware of his feeling. When she retired to her room, it was with the intention of reading a new volume of poems she had just purchased, but the lines seemed to her lacking in inspiration. There are certain moods in which even the loftiest verse seems poor to us compared with the odes and poems which nature is chanting within our own hearts; and in such a mood Helen Norman found herself to-night.
The next day was Sunday.
“Will you read to me for an hour or two this morning, Helen?” Mr. Gresham asked, at breakfast.
It was a scheme which had just entered his head for keeping his ward near him.
Helen assented120, and they shortly met in the studio, which was Mr. Gresham’s favourite room at all times. After looking round the room as if in search of something, as soon as she entered Helen asked —
“Did Mr. Golding take away his picture yesterday?”
“I suppose so,” replied Mr. Gresham, averting121 his face, and endeavouring to speak with indifference122. It was only a few minutes ago that he had taken the picture in question from the easel and placed it with its face leaning against the wall, because he could not bear to have it before his eyes.
“I am sorry,” said his ward. “I wished to look at it again.”
Then she proceeded to tell her guardian of the treat she had enjoyed on the previous evening in looking at Arthur Golding’s drawings. Every word of praise she uttered was torture to her hearer, but he mastered his feelings with a great effort and succeeded in keeping the slightly sneering123 smile upon his features unbroken.
“Golding will never make an artist,” he said, with all the calmness of a habitual124 calumniator125, though such had hitherto by no means been his character. A somewhat contemptuous universal toleration had always marked his criticisms; and in Arthur’s case, that portion of genuine artistic126 feeling which he undoubtedly127 possessed had made him at first even sincerely laudatory128. But the change which had for weeks been developing itself within him now began to make itself openly seen, and imparted a sincerity129 to many of his remarks which could hardly be mistaken.
On hearing him speak thus of Arthur, Helen looked at him in surprise.
“Never make an artist, Mr. Gresham?”
“Not he. He has no perseverance130. He takes offence at my slightest corrections, and not unfrequently shows hastiness of temper. I shouldn’t be surprised if he thanked me for my trouble and went off about his business one of these days.”
He had begun to speak with his eyes firmly fixed on Helen’s, but could not support her gaze to the end. In his heart he trembled lest her clear intelligence, of which he had always stood in awe131, should see through his narrow disguise of words and pierce down to his inner purpose. Helen made no reply, however, save a pained look of infinite surprise. At Mr. Gresham’s request she began to read, and continued for about an hour, the former standing132 at an easel the while and painting. At the end of that time he suddenly laid down his pallet and brushes, and stood with a satisfied smile upon his face till a pause came in the reading.
“There,” he said, “we have had our first sitting. Will you inspect the result, Helen?”
Helen rose, surprised, and, on looking at the canvas at which the artist had been engaged, saw the first outline of her own face. She did not know whether to appear pleased or annoyed, for, in. truth, she was neither; the matter was indifferent to her.
“Does it please you?” asked Mr. Gresham.
“Any opinion would be premature,” she answered. “Besides, I am, in any case, the worst person to consult with regard to my own portrait. Shall I continue to read, Mr. Gresham?”
For a moment the artist’s lips worked, as if under some keen inward emotion, and once he raised his eyes with a serious expression, seeming about to speak. But a momentary133 paleness, followed by a flush, was the only result of this hesitation134. He nodded merely, and Helen resumed her book.
When Arthur entered the studio on the following morning Mr. Gresham was in his dressing-room, purposely. The door was left slightly open, and an easel arranged in front of it so as still to permit a clear view of all that the artist desired to see. The first object that met Arthur’s eyes on entering was the newly-commenced portrait. He could not help seeing it, one person well knew. He started as he recognised the likeness, then gazed at it long and intensely. Not one of the shades of expression which passed over his countenance escaped the notice of the watcher in the dressing-room.
Five minutes after Mr. Gresham entered the studio as usual. His reply to Arthur’s “Good-morning” was a trifle curt135, and he continued throughout the morning somewhat abstracted in manner. Not unfrequently he glanced searching looks at his pupil, when the latter was closely occupied with his work, and each look was more lowering than the last. When Arthur requested his assistance he replied in the briefest possible manner, scarcely turning his head whilst he spoke; and whilst. it yet wanted nearly half an hour to the usual time for the former’s departure, he consulted his watch and excused himself on the plea of an engagement.
Arthur, whose temperament136 was keenly sensitive to the least slight, noticed these changes and did not cease during the rest of the day to distress himself in searching for an explanation of them. On the following morning, Mr. Gresham’s inattention was yet more marked; it amounted to plain incivility. It was Arthur’s way to be explicit137 in matters that nearly concerned him, and just before he left he could not resist speaking out the thought that had troubled him.
“I fear, sir,” he said, speaking in decided, though respectful tones, “that I have been so unfortunate as to offend you. May I beg you to tell me how?”
“Offend me, Mr. Golding?” returned the artist, with a curl of the lip. “I scarcely understand you.”
“Your altered manner to me yesterday and today,” pursued the young man, and somewhat irritated by the ill-concealed contempt of the other’s manner, “appeared to me only to admit of that explanation.”
“Do you refer to my correcting a mistake in your colouring?” asked Mr. Gresham, without turning from his canvas. “I have noticed that you seemed to resent my interference of late. Perhaps it would be better if you finished the picture without consulting me, and then allow me to criticise138 it at the end.”
“I certainly was not aware that I received your remarks otherwise than with gratitude139, Mr. Gresham,” replied the young man, with quiet dignity. “I much regret it if I should have given you reason to think me disrespectful.”
“I am sorry I have not time to discuss terms with you,” said the artist, consulting his watch. “I find I must leave you, for the present, to the guidance of your own genius. And, bye-the-by, I am sorry I shall not be able to see you tomorrow. I am engaged during the morning.”
So saying he left the studio, and Arthur retraced140 his way slowly to Charlotte Place, half-grieved, half-angry, and altogether astonished at what had occurred. He scarcely knew whether he should return to the studio again. At all events he would tell Mr. Tollady what had happened, and ask his advice. Something must have occurred to annoy Mr. Gresham, in which case the next meeting would be sure to bring with it an explanation from him. To this, at least, Arthur felt he had a right. He forgot that superiority of social standing brings with it a licence in the matter of insults quite unknown to those whose civil bearing is the only test of their respectability.
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1
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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2
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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3
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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5
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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7
adaptability
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| n.适应性 | |
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8
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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9
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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10
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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11
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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12
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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13
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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14
embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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15
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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16
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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17
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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18
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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19
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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20
sate
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| v.使充分满足 | |
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21
erase
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| v.擦掉；消除某事物的痕迹 | |
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22
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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23
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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24
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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25
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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26
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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27
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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28
tutelary
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| adj.保护的；守护的 | |
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29
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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31
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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32
strings
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| n.弦 | |
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33
slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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36
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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37
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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38
walnuts
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| 胡桃（树）( walnut的名词复数 )； 胡桃木 | |
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39
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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40
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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41
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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42
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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43
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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44
revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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45
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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46
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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47
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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48
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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49
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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51
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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52
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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53
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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54
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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55
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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56
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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57
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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58
bantering
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| adj.嘲弄的v.开玩笑，说笑，逗乐( banter的现在分词 )；（善意地）取笑，逗弄 | |
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59
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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60
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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61
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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62
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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63
dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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64
ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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65
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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66
shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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67
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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68
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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69
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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70
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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71
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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72
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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73
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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74
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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75
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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76
ordinances
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| n.条例，法令( ordinance的名词复数 ) | |
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77
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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78
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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79
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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80
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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81
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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82
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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83
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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84
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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85
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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86
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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87
avouched
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| v.保证，断言，承认( avouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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88
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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89
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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90
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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91
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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92
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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93
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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94
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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95
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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96
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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97
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
transgress
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| vt.违反，逾越 | |
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99
aggravate
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| vt.加重(剧)，使恶化；激怒，使恼火 | |
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100
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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101
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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102
stultify
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| v.愚弄；使呆滞 | |
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103
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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104
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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105
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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portfolios
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| n.投资组合( portfolio的名词复数 )；（保险）业务量；（公司或机构提供的）系列产品；纸夹 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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111
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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atlas
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| n.地图册，图表集 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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114
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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115
invaders
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| 入侵者，侵略者，侵入物( invader的名词复数 ) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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118
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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120
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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averting
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| 防止，避免( avert的现在分词 )； 转移 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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calumniator
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| n.中伤者，诽谤者 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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laudatory
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| adj.赞扬的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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135
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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136
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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138
criticise
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| v.批评，评论；非难 | |
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139
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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140
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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