When Franks was gone, Warburton took up _The Art World_, which his
friend had left, and glanced again at the photogravure of "Sanctuary."
He knew, as he had declared, nothing about art, and judged pictures as
he judged books, emotionally. His bent was to what is called the
realistic point of view, and "Sanctuary" made him smile. But very
good-naturedly; for he liked Norbert Franks, and believed he would do
better things than this. Unless--?
The thought broke off with an uneasy interrogative.
He turned to the few lines of text devoted to the painter. Norbert
Franks, he read, was still a very young man; "Sanctuary," now on
exhibition at Birmingham, was his first important picture; hitherto he
had been chiefly occupied with work in black and white. There followed
a few critical comments, and prophecy of achievements to come.
Yes. But again the uneasy interrogative.
Their acquaintance dated from the year after Warburton's return from
St. Kitts. Will had just established himself in his flat near Chelsea
Bridge, delighted to be a Londoner, and was spending most of his
leisure in exploration of London's vastness. He looked upon all his
earlier years as wasted, because they had not been passed in the city
on the Thames. The history of London, the multitudinous life of London
as it lay about him, with marvels and mysteries in every highway and
byway, occupied his mind, and wrought upon his imagination. Being a
stout walker, and caring little for any other form of exercise, in his
free hours he covered many a league of pavement. A fine summer morning
would see him set forth, long before milk-carts had begun to rattle
along the streets, and on one such expedition, as he stepped briskly
through a poor district south of the river, he was surprised to see an
artist at work, painting seriously, his easel in the dry gutter. He
slackened his pace to have a glimpse of the canvas, and the painter, a
young, pleasant-looking fellow, turned round and asked if he had a
match. Able to supply this demand, Warburton talked whilst the other
relit his pipe. It rejoiced him, he said, to see a painter engaged upon
such a subject as this--a bit of squalid London's infinite
picturesqueness.
The next morning Warburton took the same walk, and again found the
painter at work. They talked freely; they exchanged invitations; and
that same evening Norbert Franks climbed the staircase to Will's flat,
and smoked his first pipe and drank his first whisky-and-soda in the
pleasant room overlooking Ranelagh. His own quarters were in Queen's
Road, Battersea, at no great distance. The two young men were soon
seeing a great deal of each other. When their friendship had ripened
through a twelvemonth, Franks, always impecunious, cheerily borrowed a
five-pound note; not long after, he mirthfully doubled his debt; and
this grew to a habit with him.
"You're a capitalist, Warburton," he remarked one day, "and a generous
fellow, too. Of course I shall pay what I owe you when I sell a big
picture. Meanwhile, you have the gratification of supporting a man of
genius, without the least inconvenience to yourself. Excellent idea of
yours to strike up a friendship, wasn't it?"
The benefit was reciprocal. Warburton did not readily form intimacies;
indeed Godfrey Sherwood had till now been almost the only man he called
friend, and the peculiarity of his temper exposed him to the risk of
being too much alone. Though neither arrogant nor envious, Will found
little pleasure in the society of people who, from any point of view,
were notably his superiors; even as he could not subordinate himself in
money-earning relations, so did he become ill-at-ease, lose all
spontaneity, in company above his social or intellectual level. Such a
man's danger was obvious; he might, in default of congenial associates,
decline upon inferiors; all the more that a softness of heart, a
fineness of humanity, ever disposed him to feel and show special
kindness for the poor, the distressed, the unfortunate. Sherwood's
acquaintances had little attraction for him; they were mostly people
who lived in a luxurious way, went in for sports, talked about the
money market--all of which things fascinated Godfrey, though in truth
he was far from belonging by nature to that particular world. With
Franks, Will could be wholly himself, enjoying the slight advantage of
his larger means, extending his knowledge without undue obligation, and
getting all the good that comes to a man from the exercise of his
kindliest feelings.
With less of geniality, because more occupied with himself, Norbert
Franks resembled his new friend in a distaste for ordinary social
pleasures and an enjoyment of the intimacies of life. He stood very
much alone in the world, and from the age of eighteen he had in one way
or another supported himself, chiefly by work on illustrated papers.
His father, who belonged to what is called a good family, began life in
easy circumstances, and gained some reputation as a connoisseur of art;
imprudence and misfortune having obliged him to sell his collection,
Mr. Franks took to buying pictures and bric-a-brac for profit, and
during the last ten years of his life was associated in that capacity
with a London firm. Norbert, motherless from infancy and an only child,
received his early education at expensive schools, but, showing little
aptitude for study and much for use of the pencil, was taken by his
father at twelve years old to Paris, and there set to work under a good
art-teacher. At sixteen he went to Italy, where he remained for a
couple of years. Then, on a journey in the East, the elder Franks died.
Norbert returned to England, learnt that a matter of fifty pounds was
all his heritage, and pluckily turned to the task of keeping himself
alive. Herein his foreign sketch-books proved serviceable, but the
struggle was long and hard before he could house himself decently, and
get to serious work as a painter. Later on, he was wont to say that
this poverty had been the best possible thing for him, its enforced
abstinences having come just at the time when he had begun to
"wallow"--his word for any sort of excess; and "wallowing" was
undoubtedly a peril to which Norbert's temper particularly exposed him.
Short commons made him, as they have made many another youth, sober and
chaste, at all events in practice; and when he began to lift up his
head, a little; when, at the age of three-and-twenty, he earned what
seemed to him at first the luxurious income of a pound or so a week;
when, in short, the inclination to "wallow" might again have taken hold
upon him, it was his chance to fall in love so seriously and hopefully
that all the better features of his character were drawn out,
emphasized, and, as it seemed, for good and all established in
predominance.
Not long after his first meeting with Warburton, he one day received,
through the publishers of a book he had illustrated, a letter signed
"Ralph Pomfret," the writer of which asked whether "Norbert Franks" was
the son of an old friend of whom he had lost sight for many years. By
way of answer, Franks called upon his correspondent, who lived in a
pleasant little house at Ashtead, in Surrey; he found a man of
something less than sixty, with a touch of eccentricity in his thoughts
and ways, by whom he was hospitably received, and invited to return
whenever it pleased him. It was not very long before Franks asked
permission to make the Pomfrets acquainted with his friend Warburton, a
step which proved entirely justifiable. Together or separately, the two
young men were often to be seen at Ashtead, whither they were attracted
not only by the kindly and amusing talk of Ralph Pomfret, but at least
as much by the grace and sweetness and sympathetic intelligence of the
mistress of the house, for whom both entertained respect and admiration.
One Sunday afternoon, Warburton, tempted as usual by the thought of tea
and talk in that delightful little garden, went out to Ashtead, and, as
he pushed open the gate, was confused and vexed at the sight of
strangers; there, before the house, stood a middle-aged gentleman and a
young girl, chatting with Mrs. Pomfret. He would have turned away and
taken himself off in disappointment, but that the clank of the gate had
attracted attention, and he had no choice but to move forward. The
strangers proved to be Mrs. Pomfret's brother and his daughter; they
had been spending half a year in the south of France, and were here for
a day or two before returning to their home at Bath. When he had
recovered his equanimity, Warburton became aware that the young lady
was fair to look upon. Her age seemed about two-and-twenty; not very
tall, she bore herself with perhaps a touch of conscious dignity and
impressiveness; perfect health, a warm complexion, magnificent hair,
eyes that shone with gaiety and good-nature, made of Rosamund Elvan a
living picture such as Will Warburton had not often seen; he was shy in
her presence, and by no means did himself justice that afternoon. His
downcast eyes presently noticed that she wore shoes of a peculiar
kind--white canvas with soles of plaited cord; in the course of
conversation he learnt that these were a memento of the Basque country,
about which Miss Elvan talked with a very pretty enthusiasm. Will went
away, after all, in a dissatisfied mood. Girls were to him merely a
source of disquiet. "If she be not fair for me--" was his ordinary
thought; and he had never yet succeeded in persuading himself that any
girl, fair or not, was at all likely to conceive the idea of devoting
herself to his happiness. In this matter, an excessive modesty subdued
him. It had something to do with his holding so much apart from general
society.
On the evening of the next day, there was a thunderous knock at
Warburton's flat, and in rushed Franks.
"You were at Ashtead yesterday," he cried.
"I was. What of that?"
"And you didn't come to tell me about the Elvans!"
"About Miss Elvan, I suppose you mean?" said Will.
"Well, yes, I do. I went there by chance this afternoon. The two men
were away somewhere,--I found Mrs. Pomfret and that girl alone
together. Never had such a delightful time in my life! But I say,
Warburton, we must understand each other. Are you--do you--I mean, did
she strike you particularly?"
Will threw back his head and laughed.
"You mean that?" shouted the other, joyously. "You really don't
care--it's nothing to you?"
"Why, is it anything to _you_?"
"Anything? Rosamund Elvan is the most beautiful girl I ever saw, and
the sweetest, and the brightest, and the altogether flooringest! And,
by heaven and earth, I'm resolved to marry her!"