Toward ten o'clock that evening, Warburton alighted from a train at
Notting Hill Gate, and walked through heavy rain to the abode of
Norbert Franks. With satisfaction, he saw the light at the great window
of his studio, and learnt from the servant who admitted him that Franks
had no company. His friend received him with surprise, so long was it
since Warburton had looked in unexpectedly.
"Nothing amiss?" said Franks, examining the hard-set face, with its
heavy eyes, and cheeks sunken.
"All right. Came to ask for news, that's all."
"News? Ah, I understand. There's no news."
"Still reflecting?"
"Yes. Keeping away, just to see how I like it. Sensible that, don't you
think?"
Warburton nodded. The conversation did not promise much vivacity, for
Franks looked tired, and the visitor seemed much occupied with his own
thoughts. After a few words about a canvas which stood on the
easel--another woman the artist was boldly transforming into
loveliness--Will remarked carelessly that he had spent the day at
Ashtead.
"By Jove, I ought to go and see those people," said Franks.
"Better wait a little, perhaps," returned the other with a smile. "Miss
Elvan is with them."
"Ah! Lucky you told me--not that it matters much," added Franks, after
a moment's reflection, "at all events as far as I'm concerned. But it
might be a little awkward for her. How long is she staying?"
Will told all he knew of Miss Elvan's projects. He went on to say that
she seemed to him more thoughtful, more serious, than in the old time;
to be sure, she had but recently lost her father, and the subduing
influence of that event might have done her good.
"You had a lot of talk?" said Franks.
"Oh, we gossiped in the garden. Poor old Pomfret has his gout, and
couldn't come out with us. What do you think, by the bye, of her chance
of living by art? She says she'll have to."
"By that, or something else, no doubt," Franks replied disinterestedly.
"I know her father had nothing to leave, nothing to make an income."
"Are her water-colours worth anything?"
"Not much, I'm afraid, I can't quite see her living by anything of that
sort. She's the amateur, pure and simple. Now, Bertha Cross--there's
the kind of girl who does work and gets paid for it. In her modest
line, Bertha is a real artist. I do wish you knew her, Warburton."
"So you have said a good many times," remarked Will. "But I don't see
how it would help you. I know Miss Elvan, and--"
He paused, as if musing on a thought.
"And what?" asked Franks impatiently.
"Nothing--except that I like her better than I used to."
As he spoke, he stood up.
"Well, I can't stay. It's raining like the devil. I wanted to know
whether you'd done anything decisive, that's all."
"I'll let you know when I do," answered Franks, suppressing a yawn.
"Good-night, old man."
For a fortnight, Warburton led his wonted life, shut off as usual from
the outer world. About this time, Allchin began to observe with anxiety
the change in his master's aspect and general behaviour.
"I'm afraid you're not feeling quite yourself, sir," he said at closing
time one night. "I've noticed lately you don't seem quite well."
"Have you? Well, perhaps you are right. But it doesn't matter."
"If you'll excuse _me_, sir," returned the assistant, "I'm afraid it
does matter. I hope, sir, you won't think I speak disrespectful, but
I've been noticing that you didn't seem to care about waiting on
customers lately."
"You've noticed that?"
"I have, sir, if the truth must be told. And I kept saying to myself as
it wasn't like you. What I'm afraid of, sir, if you don't mind me
saying it, is that the customers themselves are beginning to notice it.
Mrs. Gilpin said to me yesterday--'What's come to Mr. Jollyman?' she
says. 'He hasn't a civil word for me!' she says. Of course, I made out
as you'd been suffering from a bad 'eadache, and I shouldn't wonder if
that's the truth, sir."
Warburton set his teeth and said nothing.
"You wouldn't like to take just a little 'oliday, sir?" returned
Allchin. "This next week, I could manage well enough. It might do you
good, sir, to have a mouthful of sea air--"
"I'll think about it," broke in the other abruptly.
He was going away without another word, but, in crossing the shop, he
caught his henchman's eye fixed on him with a troublous gaze.
Self-reproach checked his steps.
"You're quite right, Allchin," he said in a confidential tone. "I'm not
quite up to the mark, and perhaps I should do well to take a holiday.
Thank you for speaking about it."
He walked home, and there, on his table, he found a letter from Franks,
which he eagerly tore open. "I have as good as decided," wrote the
artist. "Yesterday, I went to Ashtead, and saw R. We met like old
friends--just as I wished. Talked as naturally as you and I. I
suspect--only suspect of course--that she knows of my visits to Walham
Green, and smiles at them! Yes, as you say, I think she has
improved--decidedly. The upshot of it all is that I shall call on the
Crosses again, and, when an opportunity offers, try my chance. I think
I am acting sensibly, don't you?"
After reading this, Will paced about his room for an hour or two. Then
he flung himself into bed, but got no sleep until past dawn. Rising at
the usual hour, he told himself that this would not do; to live on in
this way was mere moral suicide; he resolved to run down to St. Neots,
whence, if his mother were capable of the journey, she and Jane might
go for a week or two to the seaside. So, having packed his travelling
bag, he walked to the shop, and arranged with Allchin for a week's
absence, greatly to the assistant's satisfaction. Before noon he was at
The Haws. But the idea of a family expedition to the seaside could not
be carried out: Mrs. Warburton was not strong enough to leave home, and
Jane had just invited a friend to come and spend a week with them.
Disguising as best he could his miserable state of mind and body, Will
stayed for a couple of days. The necessity for detailed lying about his
affairs in London--lying which would long ago have been detected, but
for the absolute confidence of his mother and sister, and the retired
habits of their life--added another cause of unrest to those already
tormenting him, and he was glad to escape into solitude. Though with
little faith in the remedy, he betook himself to a quiet spot on the
coast of Norfolk, associated with memories of holiday in childhood, and
there for the rest of the time he had allowed himself did what a man
could do to get benefit from sea and sky.
And in these endless hours of solitude there grew upon him a perception
of the veritable cause of his illness. Not loss of station, not
overwork, not love; but simply the lie to which he was committed. There
was the root of the matter. Slowly, dimly, he groped toward the fact
that what rendered his life intolerable was its radical dishonesty.
Lived openly, avowedly, it would have involved hardships indeed, but
nothing of this dull wretchedness which made the world a desert. He
began to see how much better, how much easier, it would have been to
tell the truth two years ago. His mother was not so weak-minded a woman
as to be stricken down by loss of money; and as for Sherwood, his folly
merited more than the unpleasantness that might have resulted to him
from disclosure. Grocerdom with a clear conscience would have been a
totally different thing from grocerdom surreptitiously embraced.
Instead of slinking into a corner for the performance of an honourable
act, he should have declared it, frankly, unaffectedly, to all who had
any claim upon him. At once, the enterprise became amusing,
interesting. If it disgraced him with any of his acquaintances, so much
the worse for them; all whose friendship was worth having would have
shown only the more his friends; as things stood, he was ashamed,
degraded, not by circumstances, but by himself.
To undo it all--? To proclaim the truth--? Was it not easy enough? He
had proved now that his business would yield income sufficient for his
mother and sister, as well as for his own needs; the crisis was
surmounted; why not cast off this load of mean falsehood, which was
crushing him to the ground? By Heaven! he would do so.
Not immediately. Better wait till he had heard from Jane that their
mother was a little stronger, which would probably be the case in a
week or two. But (he declared in his mind) the resolve was taken. At
the first favourable moment he would undo his folly. Before taking this
step, he must of course announce it to Godfrey Sherwood; an unpleasant
necessity; but no matter.
He walked about the beach in a piping wind, waved his arms, talked to
himself, now and then raised a great shout. And that night he slept
soundly.