A Fortnight of Folly

by Maurice Thompson; Hugh Conway

However, before a fortnight had gone by, Abraham Leigh received a letter from his landlord, and the same evening, whilst smoking his pipe in the farm kitchen, informed his son and his sister that to-morrow he was going into Gloucestershire to see if his brother Joseph could spare him one of his many boys to take Jerry’s place. Jerry was to go to London the next day and meet Mr. Herbert. Most likely he’d stay there. ’Twas clear as noontide the boy would never make a farmer, and if there were fools enough in the world to buy white figures at hundreds of pounds apiece, Jerry might as well try to make his living that way as any other.

The truth is, Mr. Herbert told Abraham Leigh that if he would not consent to pay for his son’s art education, he, Mr. Herbert, would bear the expense himself. But the monetary part of it troubled the substantial farmer little. He could pay for his child’s keep if he could bring his mind to consent to his going. And now the consent was given.

Gerald heard his father’s communication with glowing eyes. For shame’s sake he hid his joy, for he knew that, with all his stolid demeanor, his father almost broke down as he contemplated the diverging paths his son and he must henceforward thread. The boy thanked him from his heart, and the rough farmer, laying his hand on his child’s head, blessed him and bade him go and prosper.

In this way Gerald Leigh left Coombe-Acton. At long intervals he reappeared for a few days. The worthy villagers eyed him askance; the only conception they could form of his profession being connected with dark-skinned itinerants who bore double-tiered platforms on their heads, and earned a precarious livehood by traversing the country selling conventional representations of angels and busts of eminent men.

CHAPTER II.

Some seven years after the ambitious boy left Coombe-Acton, honest farmer Abraham, just when the old-fashioned hawthorn hedges were in whitest bloom, sickened, turned his stolid face to the wall and died. Gerald had been summoned, but arrived too late to see his father alive. Perhaps it was as well it should be so, the farmer’s last moments were troubled ones and full of regret that Watercress Farm would no longer know a Leigh. The nephew who had taken Gerald’s place had turned out an utter failure, so much so that Abraham Leigh had roundly declared that he would be bothered with no more boys, and for the last few years had managed his business single-handed. However, although Gerald’s upheaval of family traditions made the farmer’s deathbed unhappy, he showed that his son had not forfeited his love. All he possessed, some three thousand pounds, was left to him. Mr. Herbert took the lease of the farm off the young man’s hands, by and by the live and the dead stock were sold off, and Watercress Farm was waiting for another tenant.

The winding-up of the father’s affairs kept Gerald in the neighborhood of some weeks, and when it became known that Mr. Herbert had insisted upon his taking up his quarters at the hall the simple Coombe-Acton folks were stricken with a great wonder. Knowing nothing of what is called the “aristocracy of art,” their minds were much exercised by such an unheard of proceeding. What had “Jerry” Leigh being doing in the last seven years to merit such a distinction?

Nothing his agricultural friends could have understood. After picking up the rudiments of his art in a well-known sculptor’s studio, young Leigh had been sent to study in the schools at Paris. Mr. Herbert told him that, so far as his art was concerned, Paris was the workshop of the world,—Rome its bazaar and showroom. So to Paris the boy went. He studied hard and lived frugally. He won certain prizes and medals, and was now looking forward to the time when he must strike boldly for fame. Even now he was not quite unknown. A couple of modest but very beautiful studies in low relief had appeared in last year’s exhibition, and, if overlooked by the majority, had attracted the notice of a few whose praise was well worth winning. He was quite satisfied with the results of his first attempt. In all things that concerned his art he was wise and patient. No sooner had he placed his foot on the lowest step of the ladder than he realized the amount of work to be done—the technical skill to be acquired before he could call himself a sculptor. Even now, after seven years’ study and labor, he had selfdenial enough to resolve upon being a pupil for three years longer before he made his great effort to place himself by the side of contemporary sculptors. Passionate and impulsive as was his true nature, he could follow and woo art with that calm persistency and method which seem to be the surest way of winning her smiles.