“No more idea than you have, my dear!” he answered. “Introduced himself as a humble fellow-labourer in the same field, in which—so he said—I’m a past master. Said he was holidaying in the neighbourhood, and had heard of me, so ventured to call and see me. Wanted to know if there were any objects worthy of his attention round about here—sepulchral things and so on. The odd thing,” continued Parslewe, with one of his sardonic laughs, “the very odd thing was that I never saw a man who looked less like an antiquary in my life!”
“Or talked less like one, I should think,” suggested Madrasia.
“Oh, he’d picked up a few cant phrases, somewhere or other,” observed Parslewe.
“He told me that he’d turned to this sort of thing, as he called it, for a hobby—a man, he observed, with the air of one uttering a hitherto-undiscovered truth, must have something to do. Ha-hah-hah!”
“He seems to have amused you, anyway,” remarked Madrasia.
“Aye!—why not?” assented Parslewe. “Of course he did; I thought he looked much more at home with a glass in his hand and a pipe in his mouth than he would amongst either books or barrows.”
“Well, really, I wondered whatever brought him here!” said Madrasia. “A neophyte, indeed!—in loud tweeds and a glaring necktie. I thought he was a sporting publican out for a walk.”
I did not say what I thought. The fact was I had some queer suspicions about Mr. Pawley. I had noticed his odd, shrewd, examining glances; he looked to me like a man who has an object, a mission; who is spying out the land; endeavouring to get at a discovery. That he had some purpose in view I was sure, but I said nothing to Parslewe and Madrasia. Just then we had a more pertinent and interesting matter to discuss.
Parslewe wanted me to stay there a while and to paint a landscape for him. He had a favourite view, near the house, and was keenly anxious that somebody should do justice to it—moreover, he wanted the picture to be painted in the freshness of springtide, though my own private inclination would have led me to paint it in the autumn. And he had offered me a handsome price for it, agreeing, too, that I should be allowed to submit it for the next Royal Academy exhibition. I was by no means unwilling to accept his offer, for apart from the advantages of the commission, the work meant spending at least a month or six weeks at Kelpieshaw—in the society of Madrasia. And I had already fallen in love with Madrasia.
We settled the affair of the picture over that tea-table. I decided to start on it at once, and the first thing then was to get a suitable canvas. Parslewe said I should be sure to find one in Newcastle, and I arranged to journey there next day, seek out an artist’s colourman, and buy what I wanted. On this errand I was in Newcastle about noon on the following morning, and the first person I saw there was our recent visitor, the somewhat mysterious Mr. Pawley.