Young Leigh did not speak, but his eyes thanked Mr. Herbert. That gentleman followed him from the room, leaving the farmer to amuse the little maid. He did this so far as he was able by producing a well-thumbed copy of the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” the leaves of which Miss Herbert condescended to turn daintily over until she was quite terrified by the picture of the combat with Apollyon.
Meanwhile “Jerry,” with a beating heart, led Mr. Herbert up-stairs to a room destitute of furniture save an old table and chair. A bucket half-full of common red clay stood in one corner, and on the table were several of the little clay figures which had excited the farmer’s ire and consternation.
Crude, defective, full of faults as they were, there was enough power in them to make Mr. Herbert look at the lad in wonderment, almost envy. He was a man who worshipped art; who had dabbled as an amateur in painting and sculpturing for years; who considered a gifted artist the most fortunate of mankind. So the word envy is not ill-chosen. What he would have given half his wealth to possess came to this boy unsought for—to the son of a clod of a farmer the precious gift was vouchsafed!
As he would have expected, the most ambitious efforts were the worst—the “naked ’ooman” was particularly atrocious—but, still wet, and not ruined by an abortive attempt at baking, was a group modelled from life; a vulgar subject, representing, as it did, Abraham Leigh’s prize sow, surrounded by her ten greedy offspring. There was such power and talent in this production that, had he seen nothing else, Mr. Herbert would have been certain that the lad as a modeller and copyist must take the first rank. If, in addition to his manual dexterity, he had poetry, feeling, and imagination, it might well be that one of the greatest sculptors of the nineteenth century stood in embryo before him.
As Mr. Herbert glanced from the rough clay sketches to the pale boy who stood breathless, as one expecting a verdict of life or death, he wondered what could have been the cause of such a divergence from the traits habitual to the Leighs. Then he remembered that some twenty years ago Abraham Leigh had chosen for a wife, not one of his own kind, but a dweller in cities—a governess, who exchanged, no doubt, a life of penury and servitude for the rough but comfortable home the Somersetshire farmer was willing to give her. Mr. Herbert remembered her; remembered how utterly out of place the delicate, refined woman seemed to be as Leigh’s wife; remembered how, a few years after the birth of the boy, she sickened and died. It was from the mother’s side the artistic taste came.
Mr. Herbert, although a kind man, was cautious. He had no intention of raising hopes which might be futile. Yet he felt a word of encouragement was due to the lad.
“Some of these figures show decided talent,” he said. “After seeing them, I need scarcely ask you if you wish to be a sculptor?”
Young Leigh clasped his hands together. “Oh, sir!” he gasped. “If it could only be!”
“You do not care to be a farmer, like your father?”
“I could never be a farmer, sir. I am not fit for it.”