My first glance—eyes never looked more earnestly—was toward the two drawings.
There they were,—fact not fancy.
I could still hold to the joy of a hope.
They were too far away in this dusky corner for absolute recognition; but there were the familiar gables of the old hall; and there was my horse, yes, himself, bending over that very group of Luggernel Springs. I must cling to my confidence; I would not doubt. If I doubted, I should become a stupid bungler over the models, and probably disgust Padiham by my awkwardness.
“Good morning, Mr. Padiham.”
“Good morning,” said he, in that hearty voice which resolutely declined being surly.
He was standing, filing away, just where I had left him yesterday. Put him on a pair of properly elongated legs, shake the reefs out of his ribs, in short, let Procrustes have half an hour at him, and a very distinguished-looking man would be George Padiham. In fact, as he was, his remarkable head raised him above pity. Many of us would consent to be dwarfed, to be half man below the Adam’s apple, if above it we could wear the head of a Jupiter Tonans, such a majestic head as this stunted man, the chief artisan of all England.
Padiham was as gruff as yesterday, but his gruffness gave him flavor. Better a boor than a flunkey. There is excitement in talking with a man who respects you exactly in proportion to your power, and ignores you if you are a muff.
We went at our work without delay. For nearly two hours I put myself and kept myself at Short’s Cut-off. Padiham’s skill and readiness astonished me. Great artists are labor-saving machines to themselves; they leap to a conclusion in a moment, where a potterer would be becalmed for a tide.
By and by, I found that I could be of no further use to this master craftsman.