IV

In the High Street Wyndham waited impatiently for an omnibus to take him

home again. Instinctively he turned for refuge to the bleak studio, from

whose loneliness he had so often been impelled to escape. But it was his

own corner, and all he had. He would not light his lamp; he would lie

there in the gloom till his pain and self-abasement should have worn

themselves out. Merciful sleep might come; perhaps--and the idea seemed

sweet to him--the sleep of all sleeps.

So he possessed his spirit as best he could, while the vehicle lumbered

along through the endless streets; shivering a little in the autumn dusk

as now and then a gust of wind arose. The sky clouded heavily, and, when

finally he descended, the rain was falling swiftly again.

At last he was at home! He thought of the studio now with affection, and

quickened his pace feverishly. Then he became aware that a familiar

figure, holding a familiar rush-bag with a skewer thrust through it, was

trudging just ahead of him in the growing darkness. But he was not

surprised at catching sight of Mr. Robinson, since it was the regular

hour of the merchant's appearance after his homeward journey from the

City. As usual, Mr. Robinson's house filled the centre of vision,

looming vast at the cross-roads, and softened in the evening mist; and

for the first time the figure plodding towards it under the dripping

umbrella struck Wyndham as interesting and strangely human.

Steadily, steadily, Wyndham gained on his neighbour; then, acting on

some vague instinct, slackened his step so as not to have to pass him to

get to his own door. But just outside the studio Mr. Robinson slipped,

swayed, then came to the ground heavily. Wyndham at once hurried

forward, and helped him to his feet.

"You are not hurt, I hope?" he inquired.

"I think not," returned the old man. He leaned against the studio door,

whilst Wyndham took the rush-bag from his clenched fingers, and gathered

up the umbrella from the gutter into which it had rolled. Mr. Robinson

surveyed his soiled garments ruefully, and shook his head sadly.

"It _is_ beastly," assented Wyndham.

"It can't be helped," said the old man; "though mud like this on a new

suit of clothes puts a hard strain on a man's philosophy." There was a

good-natured gleam in his eye and a brave smile on his face. Wyndham

found himself unexpectedly attracted, and was much concerned when Mr.

Robinson tried to take a step or two, but was pulled up painfully.

"Pray, don't alarm yourself, sir," said Mr. Robinson, as Wyndham caught

at his arm solicitously. "I am only a little bruised, and have had

rather a wrench. I must just breathe for an instant."

"Won't you come into my studio, and rest for a moment or two?" suggested

Wyndham. "I shall be delighted if you will."

He produced the key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and threw

open the door. Then he offered Mr. Robinson the support of his arm.

"It is very kind of you, sir," said the old man, as he linked his arm in

Wyndham's. "My name is Robinson. I live just up the road. I daresay you

may have noticed me: I have often noticed you."

"I am enchanted to make your acquaintance, though I regret the

particular circumstances," said Wyndham, as they passed through the

little ante-room into the dim interior.

"I cannot share your regret," returned Mr. Robinson, with a touch of

suave conviction. "No, not even if the accident were more serious, since

I have been afforded the pleasure of knowing you."

Wyndham was surprised at the sweetness and old-world courtesy revealed

in the old man's personality. "You are very kind," he said with a smile.

"I hope indeed I am worth so pretty a sentiment. But please take this

arm-chair."

He pushed it forward, then set the rush-bag down on the table, hastily

throwing a serviette over the litter of his last meal, which he had not

had the energy to clear away, and which now brusquely offended his

fastidiousness. But as Mr. Robinson, good careful soul, hesitated to

soil the chair, Wyndham got a rag and wiped away the more lurid splashes

from his garments. Then, whilst the old man rested, Wyndham trimmed his

lamp; and presently the glooms vanished before a cosy illumination. Mr.

Robinson at once began to scrutinise the studio on all sides with

amusingly deep interest. The old Normandy presses, the model's throne,

the giant easel, the well-worn Persian carpet, the hosts of canvasses of

all sizes standing with their faces to the wall, the disorder and

informality everywhere--all seemed to strike for him a note of youth and

gaiety, to animate him with a sense of a new romantic universe. His face

lighted with pleasure. He gazed up at the lofty roof and the oak

cross-beams that supported it, and finally his eye rested on the little

stairway and gallery at the far end, now almost lost in the shadows.

"Is your bedroom up there?" he hazarded, his naive interest slipping out

on his tongue.

"Yes," smiled Wyndham, as he tackled the dying fire. "It's the

traditional arrangement."

"What a fascinating place you've got here! It's all a new world to me."

"Ah, it's a very ordinary sort of world--when once you've settled down

to work."

"I have never known an artist before," pursued the old man, "and it is

all fresh to me. I think that if I were a youngster again, I shouldn't

at all dislike having a place like this, and making my home of it. Not

that I mean I should ever have made anything of an artist," he added

with a smile. "It's the spirit of the thing that appeals to me. You must

be very happy here."

"Not necessarily," said Wyndham. He saw the old man's eyes fixed on him

gravely. "You see, I'm not one of your successful artists, and the years

have a way of passing on." He struggled with the fire, making the sticks

blaze, then piled up the coals unsparingly. Mr. Robinson was the only

person in the world to whom he had ever admitted failure, but somehow it

did not seem to matter.

The old man gazed at him in frank astonishment. "Why, you are in the

prime of early manhood!" he exclaimed. "Really it is most extraordinary

to hear a splendid young man like you complain of the years passing!"

"I'm thirty-three," volunteered Wyndham. "And an unlucky devil of

thirty-three, who has as much trouble in getting rid of his work as I,

feels old enough in all conscience."

"But you artists have to expect these adverse experiences," said Mr.

Robinson. "Art of course isn't like other things--it isn't exactly a

business or profession in the ordinary sense, and so long as a man has

the gift, he ought not to get disheartened. In our business world, of

course, pounds, shillings and pence are everything, but in the world of

art it wouldn't do to set up a standard of that kind."

Such sentiments on the part of a Philistine who came home every evening

from the City at six o'clock struck Wyndham speechless.

"The struggle of genius is proverbial," Mr. Robinson added, before the

younger man could find his tongue; "and genius wouldn't be genius

without it."

"Ah, if I were only a genius!" said Wyndham, laughing.

"I am sure you are a genius," said the old man very gravely. "I have

often thought what a clever face yours was. At home we have often spoken

of you."

"I suppose then I must be a conspicuous figure in the road. I had no

idea of it!" Wyndham laughed again.

"You've been in the neighbourhood some years now," said Mr. Robinson

half apologetically; "and neighbours naturally notice one another.

Besides, if I may say so, you are quite unlike the ordinary run of

people. You are not the sort of man one sees in the City."

"You interest me. In what way do I differ from others?"

"You have the stamp of belonging to leisured people; it is plain from

your walk and bearing, from your voice and manner of speech. And then

there is something about your clothes even--I don't quite know what."

The old man's eyes rested on him with a sort of approval and

satisfaction.

Wyndham was amused. "You are really an original character," he

exclaimed. "I like you."

Mr. Robinson smiled with gratification. "I more than return the

compliment, I can assure you."

"But pray go on," said Wyndham. "I believe you're a wizard. I must get

you to cast my horoscope."

Mr. Robinson raised his hands. "I don't think I could manage that," he

laughed. "I am only a quiet observer of my fellow-men. In the present

case it is very easy to see that yours is the face of a gentleman by

birth. There is a certain composure in your whole style. Whatever you

had to face, you would never have that appearance that men get in the

City--of wearing themselves out."

"Better to wear out than to rust out," said Wyndham meditatively. "I

rust out."

He was astonished at his own frankness. But there was a deep pleasure in

being natural for once, in throwing off the cover of sham and pretence

that had characterised his intercourse with his kind in the past. He did

not even consider it was strange that the person he should be baring

himself to so freely was one whose existence hitherto he had merely

deigned to notice. But nothing could exceed Mr. Robinson's amazement at

this last profession of his.

"Rust out!" The old man's eyes opened wide. "Why, you have done an

immense amount of work!" He waved his hand significantly towards the

army of canvasses ranged against the walls.

Wyndham affected to be impressed by the consideration. "Yes," he

admitted; "I have used up a considerable amount of material in my time,

I must admit." He had suddenly perceived that Mr. Robinson was largely

discounting his ingenuous frankness, and was really taking his

profession of failure, which, as it happened, he had thrown out in an

offhand way, as rather affectation than literal truth.

"And no doubt will be using up still larger amounts in the future." The

old man smiled and rose. "But I am taking up your time!"

"No, indeed," Wyndham assured him. "I hope you have quite recovered

now."

"Oh, quite," returned Mr. Robinson. "I had altogether forgotten the

little accident in the pleasure of our conversation."

There was a pause. "I am sorry there's no light," said Wyndham; "else I

should show you some of my work--that is, if you cared to see it."

The old man looked eager. "Couldn't you make the lamp do?" he exclaimed.

"I'm sure it would give me a very good idea of your pictures. But I am

presuming on your kindness."

"Oh, no," protested Wyndham.

He began to move about the studio, conscious of a new energy. Somebody

was here to appreciate him; somebody desired to see his work, was

looking up to him in admiration! He felt strangely rejuvenated--it was

as if he had taken a dose of some wonderful elixir. He selected half a

dozen of the smaller pictures, and brought them forward. Then, as he

wheeled the great easel into position, the whim took him to see how his

huge "masterpiece" looked after all this long interval of time.

For, since he had stood it with its face to the wall on Lady Betty's

wedding-day, he had never had the heart to glance at it again. Not

merely failure and wasted years were associated with it, but it stirred

memories of the hours he had spent at Grosvenor Place in the first

freshness of his hopes, when he had worked with the passion of youth.

Then, too, there was the silent drama that had played itself out in the

depths of his own spirit. Looking back, it seemed to him that no man

could ever have cherished a more hopeless love, or have encountered a

more inevitable one. Nor had the lapse of time softened the bitterness

of that strange romantic chapter. Lady Betty's figure and personality

would remain with him as his ideal of woman for the rest of his life;

and he clung to the memory of his hurt as typical of his whole fortune.

But though the thought of the picture to-night inevitably stirred up

some of these old emotions, there was joined to them a sudden

overwhelming curiosity. What would be his impression at the first

glance? Would all its deficiencies and crudities stand out in relief,

and make him turn away from it in sickness and loathing? Or would it

strike him, however unfinished it might be, as having yet promise in it,

as justifying some at least of the time--nay, even life-blood--he had

consecrated to it?

"What a huge thing!" ejaculated Mr. Robinson, as Wyndham tilted it back

from the wall.

"It _is_ tremendous," smiled Wyndham. "I'm afraid I shall have to ask

you to give me a hand with it."

Together they carried it to the easel, and Wyndham hoisted it to its old

place. "I don't know whether we shall be able to make head or tail of

it," he said; "but I'll do what I can with the lamp. As you see, it's a

powerful one."

"Of course I don't profess to be a connoisseur of oil paintings," Mr.

Robinson warned him. "But I know what I like, though I daresay you will

think me extremely benighted."

"No, indeed," protested Wyndham; "I shall value your opinion highly." He

worked away at the little wheel at the back of the easel as he inclined

the canvas at the most favourable angle, whilst the old man watched the

process fascinated.

The next moment Wyndham was holding the big lamp high in the air, and

carefully illumining the surface of the picture. For a moment everything

before his eyes was blurred, and he could see nothing at all; but he

stood his ground firmly, and gripped the lamp heroically. And before the

mist could clear he heard Mr. Robinson's voice rise in admiration.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed the old man, his tone vibrating with an immense

conviction; and at that moment Wyndham received the picture full on his

vision and felt at once he had there a basis that could be worked up

into a splendid achievement.

"The crowd of strikers with their banner is the most life-like thing

I've ever seen. Wonderful!" Mr. Robinson gazed and gazed, his interest

overflowing into a running comment. "It's Hyde Park Corner! Why, of

course--there's the Duke of Wellington's house, and there's Lord

Rothschild's. Marvellous! What a variety of faces and characters! And

the old fellow there in the corner--what powerful features full of

despair! And the old woman with the red shawl--she hasn't had a morsel

of food, poor creature, for twenty-four hours, I'll wager. Why don't you

leave her alone, you old ruffian of a policeman! And then that

fashionable lady in her brougham with her over-fed poodle--what contempt

on her face for all these artizans! How real everything is--the

perspective is grand! Why, you could take a walk out there in the

distance! Marvellous! It doesn't need an art education to see that's a

work of genius."

Wyndham stood listening in elation, though, in his own perception of the

work just now, he felt as aloof from it as if it had sprung from

another's labours. His brain seemed emancipated from the tangle of its

old problems and all his old flounderings. And as Mr. Robinson continued

his admiring ejaculations, Wyndham put in now and again a word of

explanation, drawing attention to a point here and there, though this

was at first rather by way of soliloquy than conversation. But,

presently, as he moved the lamp to and fro, up and down, he warmed to

the occasion; even enlarging on his pet ideas, and pointing out where he

had failed to realise his own scheme and formula. Mr. Robinson listened,

wholly absorbed and fascinated by these new horizons that opened before

him. His respect and worship for art was contagious: Wyndham began to

worship it more himself.

And the younger man grew eloquent, expatiated on the old art and the

new, on academies and masters, on realism and symbolism, on plein air

and sunlight, on colour and technique. And as he spoke, he was enchanted

with his own voice. It was splendid to feel himself speaking again after

all this long suppression--he was realising the strength and

infallibility of his own artistic convictions. Never before had he felt

so sure of his conceptions; his former humility had only led to

confusion and hesitation. In future, his own mind should dominate--he

would not be blown about by all these conflicting schools and critics.

He was conscious of standing more vigorously upright; and, as he

enlarged on the picture, he seemed to get a new and sure hold of it,

seeing more and more the potentiality of a great and powerful structure

that no Academy could dare refuse to recognise. He saw now that his long

interval of hibernation had not been unfruitful. And it had made a

necessary sharp division between the two parts of his life--the first,

uncertain, stumbling, unsuccessful; the second, confident, mature,

triumphant.

The picture before him was transformed. Problems that had baffled him

seemed to solve themselves in a flash. Effects he had vainly sought

through maddening months stood at once revealed, flowing naturally out

of what he had already set down. His hand longed to be wielding the

brush again.

"But if I may make the remark," interposed Mr. Robinson at length; "it

seems matter for surprise that a gentleman like you should be attracted

to the choice of such a subject. I should hardly suppose that you have

ever come into any real contact with labour, and workmen on strike would

therefore scarcely come within the sphere of your sympathy."

"The artist is of universal sympathy," said Wyndham gravely, and himself

believed it. At that moment he felt his endless sympathy spreading

itself out, embracing all creation. "And then it was not only the

humanity of the scene that touched me, and inspired me to attempt to put

it down finely and greatly; there was also the pure art part as it

appealed to the trained vision--the splendid difficulties to be

vanquished, the opportunities for draughtsmanship and subtle colour, the

sense of far-stretching space to be produced from only a narrow gamut of

light and shade."

"Marvellous!" echoed Mr. Robinson again.

"But if I may make the remark in my turn," said Wyndham, "your sympathy

with labour surprises me equally."

"Why so?" asked Mr. Robinson.

"The natural antagonism between capital and labour!" smiled Wyndham.

"Oh, I started as a poor boy--right at the foot of the ladder,"

explained Mr. Robinson. "My father was a carpenter. Wages were low in

those days, and prices of all necessaries were high. I remember in my

childhood we had a pretty hard time of it. In my own firm we share the

profits with all the employees. So you see I'm rather partial to labour

so long as it's decent and reasonable. When I think of my own struggles,

I like to see every man get fair opportunities. When a man has no

particular talent--such as myself, for instance--it is ever so much the

harder to go through discouragements. But, at the worst of times, it

must be a great thing for a gifted man like yourself to be conscious of

his own powers."

"So you set up to have no particular talent!" explained Wyndham. "You

amuse me. Haven't you made your fortune unaided? I confess that that

seems to me the most difficult thing in the world--immensely cleverer

than anything in the way of art or painting."