“Yes, if I could do them satisfactorily. The agent who dealt with my father’s work has already written to me asking if I could carry on. I know he will help me so far as he can. He was quite fond of my father.”
“And you have nothing else in view?”
“Nothing by which I could earn a real living. For the last year or two I have worked at writing and illuminating; addresses, testimonials, and church services, when I could get them, and filled in the time writing special window-tickets. But that isn’t very remunerative, whereas the wax figures would yield quite a good living. And then,” she added, after a pause, “I have the feeling that Daddy would have liked me to carry on his work, and I should like it myself. He taught me quite a lot and I think he meant me to join him when he got old.”
As she had evidently made up her mind, and as her decision seemed quite a wise one, I concurred with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
“I am glad you agree,” said she, “and I know Arabella does. So that is settled, subject to my being able to carry out the plan. And now, if we have finished, I should like to show you some of my father’s works. The house is full of them and so, even, is the garden. Perhaps we had better go there first before the light fails.”
As the treasures of this singularly interesting home were presented, one after another, for my inspection, I began to realize the truth of Miss Boler’s statement. Julius D’Arblay had been a remarkably versatile man. He had worked in all sorts of mediums and in all equally well. From the carved stone sundial and the leaden garden figures to the clock-case decorated with gilded gesso and enriched with delicate bronze plaquettes, all his works were eloquent of masterly skill and a fresh, graceful fancy. It seems to me little short of a tragedy that an artist of his ability should have spent the greater part of his time in fabricating those absurd, posturing effigies that simper and smirk so grotesquely in the enormous windows of Vanity Fair.
I had intended, in compliance with the polite conventions, to make this, my first visit, a rather short one; but a tentative movement to depart only elicited protests, and I was easily persuaded to stay until the exigencies of Dr. Cornish’s practice seemed to call me. When at last I shut the gate of Ivy Cottage behind me and glanced back at the two figures standing in the lighted doorway, I had the feeling of turning away from a house with which, and its inmates, I had been familiar for years.
On my arrival at Mecklenburgh-square I found a note which had been left by hand earlier in the evening. It was from Dr. Thorndyke, asking me, if possible, to lunch with him at his chambers on the morrow. I looked over my visiting list, and finding that Monday would be a light day—most of my days here were light days—I wrote a short letter accepting the invitation and posted it forthwith.
CHAPTER VII.
Enlarging Thorndyke’s Knowledge
“I am glad you were able to come,” said Thorndyke, as we took our places at the table. “Your letter was a shade ambiguous. You spoke of discussing the D’Arblay case, but I think you had something more than discussion in your mind.”