CHAPTER V
"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."