Yes, he remembered Dr. Page. Dr. Page was dead. But soon it was the vicar's turn to be appreciative, for the intruder's glance kept straying to the Canaletto prints that graced the walls, and it was a rare thing for Mr. Irquetson to have a visitor to whom they spoke. Those glances warmed his heart, and a digression melted his reserve.
"There are not many," he said; "but I think my small room is the richer on that account."
"Surely," said Conrad. "If a picture is worth owning, it is worth a spacious setting. A mere millionaire may buy a gallery, but it takes a man of taste to hang a sketch. I have always thought that a picture calls for two artists—one to create it, and the other to prepare his wall for its reception."
"But how little the second art is understood. Of course the eye should be enabled to rest on a picture reposefully. The custom of massing pictures in conflicting multitudes is barbarous. It's like the compression of flowers into bundles that hide half their loveliness. The Western mind is slowly learning from the Japanese that a flower ought to be displayed so that we may appreciate its form. I have hope that when they have taught us how a flower should be put in water, they may proceed to teach us how a picture should be hung."
Quite ten minutes passed in such amenities.
"Yes, Dr. Page died long ago," said the deep voice again; but the subject was resumed in a manner almost intimate; "his wife was living in—Malvern, I think. There was—it was common knowledge at the time—some domestic unhappiness late in life; or perhaps it would be more correct to say that it culminated late in life, for, like so many mighty issues, I believe it originated in a seeming trifle. He was a man acutely sensitive to noise, and his wife was decidedly a noisy woman. I remember his remarking once that if she but touched a cup it had a collision with all the china on the table, and that a newspaper in her hands became an instrument of torture. No doubt he could have controlled his irritability, but by all accounts his temper grew unbearable. However, the news of his death must have been a blow to the lady, for he died suddenly soon after they had separated. Death is a wondrous peacemaker. The gravest offence looks smaller in our eyes when it is too late to condone it."
"Yes," assented Conrad;
"'And I think, in the lives of most women and men,
There's a moment when all would go smooth and even,
If only the dead could find out when
To come back, and be forgiven.'"
"That is a beautiful thought," said the vicar, "or, speaking more strictly, I should say it is an ordinary thought beautified. From one of Owen Meredith's early poems, isn't it? But do you remember those lines of Coventry Patmore's to the dead?
"'It is not true that Love will do no wrong.
Poor Child!
And did you think, when you so cried and smiled,
How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake,
And of those words your full avengers make?
Poor Child, poor Child!
And now, unless it be
That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee,
O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!
Poor Child!'"