[CHAPTER XX.]
JOHN HAVERIL CLEARS UP THINGS.
John Haveril was a man of few words, and these came slowly; but of ready action. He followed the course of the inquiry, with doubt at first, but, as one point after another came to light, he began to be interested; when the child's clothes were brought home, he had no more doubt on this point: he became impatient. Why should there be any more hesitation? If the lady persisted in her denial, why not go straight to the young man and lead him to his mother? As for what might follow after that, if he thought about it at all, should be left to Providence. Therefore, bearing in mind the agitation and anxiety in which his wife was kept by these delays, he resolved upon independent action of his own. And that was the reason why he took his hands out of his pockets and left the room.
Humphrey Woodroffe sat in his study, getting through the hour before dinner with the help of a French novel. The field of human interest occupied by the kind of French novel which he and his friends chiefly studied, is so limited that one is surprised that its readers never seem to tire of it or to ask for more. The study—which was behind the dining-room—was furnished by himself, and was an excellent example of the day's taste. In the higher æsthetic circles, the members of which are very limited in number, the first and most important rule is that true Art, and with it, of course, the highest expression of Art, changes from year to year; what was last year the one and eternal treatment, is now Philistine and contemptible. His piano was littered with music—mostly in MSS.—his own; weird and wonderful daubs of colour hung upon the walls—they were the pictures of the New School—they called themselves the New School—the school of to-day, of whom he was one. His table was covered with books bound in dainty white and gold, or grey and gold: they were chiefly books of poets—old poets—forgotten poets, who sang of love; it has been reserved for our age to disinter them, and to go into raptures over their magnificent and fearless realism. Poetry, like painting, music, furniture, and wall-paper, changes its fashions for the young every year.
In a word, the study was a temple. For such a temple her worshippers must all be young—under seven and twenty. It is sad to think that they will one day become old—old—old—thirty years old, and that new poets will write, new musicians compose, new painters paint, for younger æsthetes. Sad to reflect that they will then be passés, their utterances Bohemian, their views contemptible, their standards ignoble.
John Haveril advanced into this shrine of the æsthetic muse with more of his later than of his earlier manner. The gardener was, perhaps, below the man of consideration.
"Mr. John Haveril?" Humphrey read the name from the card as if he had never heard it before, and received him with the studied chill which most effectually keeps off the outsider. "I met you, I believe, at Sir Robert Steele's?"
"Yes; I was there."
He looked about for a chair that would bear his weight. There was one which seemed equal to the task. He sat down without being invited. Humphrey remained standing, with his most repellent manner.