"Good-day, Mr. Vernon," said his guest.
He held out his hand, and Lucas mechanically shook it.
"May we come in?" he asked.
"If you want to--certainly," said Lucas; and they entered.
"A fellow-artist, I presume?" inquired Mr. Walkingshaw, glancing at the
pale and pretty youth.
Lucas automatically introduced them.
"Very happy to meet you, Mr. Hillary," said the W.S. genially. "Let me
introduce my son."
Leaving the two young men to entertain each other, he walked aside for a
few paces with his host. His countenance was composed and his air
dignified; though, as he thoughtlessly took Vernon's arm to direct his
partially paralyzed movements, the artist began dimly to apprehend that
no overt outrage was premeditated.
"I say," he began in that pleasantly unconventional vein which appeared
to afford his vigorous reflections the readiest outlet, "this must seem
a bit odd and so on, but why the deuce should we go on quarreling just
because we've once begun? We're above that, eh?"
"I have no wish--" began the artist.
"Exactly, exactly," interrupted his visitor breezily; "we both mean the
same thing, so that's all right. Perhaps we misunderstood each other on
a previous occasion. Of course perhaps we didn't--we may be a couple of
scoundrels just as we imagined, eh? Ha, ha! Still, let's assume there
was a little misunderstanding. Now what have you been painting?"
The artist's blue eyes looked at him fixedly.
"I am addressing the same Mr. Heriot Walkingshaw?" he inquired in a
voice compounded of several emotions.
"The same, my dear fellow--essentially the same. I look
better--younger--fitter, I dare say, eh?"
"Yes," said Lucas, still eyeing him curiously, "you do."
"But you see I am still Frank's father."
He laughed genially, and this argument at last seemed to convince the
young man that he was not the victim of a strange delusion.
"I am sorry for being a little hasty--" he began, with a candid smile.
"Not at all," interrupted Mr. Walkingshaw good-humoredly. "Don't mention
it. There was a lady in the case; that's excuse enough for any two men
quarreling. By the way, my daughter is not with me, but she would no
doubt wish to have her kind regards--that is to say--well, well, let me
see the pictures."
In the course of this speech the affable gentleman had been reminded by
the senior partner that one must be careful not to commit oneself
rashly. It was odd how often he required these warnings nowadays--and
how frequently they came just half a sentence too late.
"Brush been busy?" he added hastily.
Lucas pointed to a dozen or more canvases stacked against the wall.
"Fairly," he said.
"May I look at them? Oh, don't trouble to take them off the floor. I'll
just turn them over for myself, if I may."
He stooped over the stack and moved each canvas in turn till he could
catch a glimpse of its face. With this ocular demonstration that there
actually were pictures upon all of them he seemed content, for he
turned to his host with an approving smile.
"You have not been altogether idle, then?"
"Altogether idle!"
Hillary turned at the exclamation.
"Poor old Lucas is working himself to death," he said, with his gentle
and insinuating air.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Walkingshaw, and surveyed the artist with
increased respect.
"Hillary is inclined to talk--" began Lucas, but was silenced by a
ferocious stamp of Frank's boot.
"Hush, you idiot!" he murmured.
"No, Lucas," said his friend readily, "I am not inclined to talk as a
rule, but I cannot bear to hear you maligned. I never saw a man work as
you do."
"Is that your candid opinion of our friend?" smiled Mr. Walkingshaw with
a pleasant air.
"It feebly endeavors to express my opinion," replied the engaging young
man. "He paints on an average one picture per six hours of daylight; and
the most astounding thing sir, is their consistently high merit."
Lucas looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"I don't sell them, unfortunately," he blurted out.
The W.S. turned grave.
"None of them?" he inquired.
"I haven't sold much lately."
"How's that?"
"The public is not yet educated up to him," said Hillary. "But between
ourselves, Mr. Walkingshaw, if I had a thousand pounds at this moment, I
should put it all in Vernons; they'll be worth five thousand in ten
years' time at a modest estimate--a very modest estimate."
"You are a critic?" inquired the W.S.
"I am considered so," answered the youth modestly.
Mr. Walkingshaw turned to the embarrassed artist.
"At the same time, I gather that whatever your merits, this is one of
your lean years, eh?"
"Devilish," said Lucas.
"That must be discouraging?"
"It might be if I let it."
"That is a damned good answer, Vernon," said Mr. Walkingshaw
emphatically.
Before the three young men had recovered from the sympathetic surprise
which this reply occasioned, he had planted himself in front of the
unfinished picture on the easel.
"What's this you're doing? A wood? Ah, yes, I recognize the trees. Very
lifelike indeed--most creditable. What's the price of it, if I may ask?"
"What I can get," replied Lucas, with a reminiscence of his afternoon's
despair.
"Still the same unpractical fellow!" smiled Mr. Walkingshaw. "You're not
very strong on figures, eh?"
"I don't meet many," said the artist candidly.
"Well," suggested his visitor kindly, "what about fifty pounds?"
"I'd think myself devilish lucky."
"May I have it at that?"
"_You?_"
"It isn't booked already, I trust?"
"N--no."
"That's a bargain, then?"
Lucas's eyes were again fixed in a strange stare. Then a quick change of
expression broke over his face.
"You're very kind, Mr. Walkingshaw!" he said warmly.
"Tuts, tuts, not a bit. I want to warm up my study with a splash of
color. That's the way you artists would put it. Eh?"
"A splash of color--yes."
"You see, I'm getting the hang of your lingo already, Vernon. And now,
what else have you got for sale? What do you recommend, Hillary, eh?"
That young man displayed a sudden aptitude for business which had never
characterized his own efforts to make a livelihood.
"As a work of art likely to rise enormously in value, I conscientiously
recommend that," he said, pointing to another canvas.
"A nice head," commented Mr. Walkingshaw. "High-toned yet spiritual, one
might term it. I like the way the eyes seem to look out of the paper--or
is it canvas it's done on?"
"Oh--er--I beg your pardon," said Lucas, waking suddenly from his
reverie; "I--I'll let you have that thrown in."
"Wits a wool-gathering, Vernon?" smiled his patron indulgently. "But I
dare say you've some excuse. I'll take the picture with pleasure, but I
insist on paying for it. Let us put this at twenty-five pounds."
"I won't let you!" cried Lucas. "I give it you--I make you a present of
it. You've been so kind already--"
"Pooh! Come, come," interrupted Mr. Walkingshaw kindly, yet firmly.
"You've got to make your way, and how will you do that if you give away
your--fruits of the brush you'd call them, I suppose, eh?"
The artist could not but admit the force of this argument, and in the
course of an hour had the satisfaction of selling, at considerably above
his usual market price, no fewer than four of his masterpieces; while
Mr. Walkingshaw, on his part, became the fortunate possessor of a
promising but unfinished sylvan scene, the portrait of an unknown lady,
a rainy day upon the Norfolk coast, and (what he considered the gem of
the collection) a recognizable panorama of Edinburgh from the north,
including among its minor details a splash of red ocher which he felt
certain was the grand stand at the Scottish Union's football field. This
recalled the sympathetic widow, and gave the picture a sentimental as
well as an artistic value. He could have wished that on this, as indeed
on most other occasions, the artist had paid more attention to
verisimilitude and less to mere vague harmonies and so forth, but as he
was assured by that intelligent young Hillary that this method was all
the Go at present, and that his friend Lucas was recognized as a rising
Dab at it. That at least is how he retailed the argument afterwards.
At the conclusion of these arrangements he again drew the artist aside.
"Would you like a check immediately," he inquired, "or upon delivery of
the pictures?"
With considerable animation Lucas assured him there was no hurry at all.
"There is a distinction between punctuality and hurry," replied Mr.
Walkingshaw. "I recommend it to your notice, Vernon. As to the date of
payment, I suggest by the first post after the delivery of the pictures.
Does that satisfy you?"
"Quite," said the painter, with a subdued air.
"Strenuous work, patience, and the cultivation of business habits are
the recommendations I make to you, my dear fellow--as I would to any
other young man. They have been, if I may say so, the secret of any
little success I may have achieved myself. Good-by, Vernon, good-by!"
He departed thus upon a note of austere benevolence, leaving behind him
a grateful yet chastened artist.
"Well, Frank," said he, as they drove back together, "that young fellow
has managed to sell one or two pictures, I'm glad to find."
His eyes twinkled merrily as he spoke, but before his son had time to
reply the senior partner spoke again.
"I only hope he keeps it up," was his addendum.
For a young man, Frank had remarkable discretion (apart from his one
lamentable lapse). He dutifully agreed with this sentiment, and then
proceeded to congratulate his parent on the taste with which he had
selected his pictures and the excellence of the investment he had made.
Mr. Walkingshaw appeared gratified by his approval.
"I don't throw my money away, Frank," he said complacently. "By the way,
what's the cab fare?"
"One and six," said Frank.
In the temporary absence of the senior partner, Mr. Walkingshaw handed
the man half a crown, and entered the hotel humming a romantic melody.
As he crossed the hall a deferential attendant approached with a
telegram.
"Hullo!" said he, "a wire. I wonder who the deuce this is from."