Mr. Gresham, faithful to his promise, appeared once more in London early in December, and remained till he had seen his ward, together with her safeguard, Mrs. Cumberbatch, comfortably settled in the new house in Highbury. The intercourse between Helen and her guardian during the period of removal was extremely slight. The former left to Mrs. Cumberbatch, who gloried in the trust, the whole business of choosing the furniture, and Mr. Gresham was not displeased to have this means of avoiding communication with his ward, in whose presence he could never feel altogether at his ease. Only once did Helen consult him as to her future life, and that was with reference to Lucy Venning. The artist, with characteristic politeness, expressed his complete concurrence in Miss Norman’s plans, saying that he esteemed it a most happy idea, and one which, had he been acquainted with a suitable person, he should certainly have himself suggested. But he showed no desire to make the acquaintance of Miss Venning, being quite content to repose all confidence in Helen’s discrimination. As Mr. Gresham grew older he became more and more convinced that the true philosophy of life consisted in minimising one’s share in the troublesome details of the world’s business. On the very day succeeding that of Helen’s ultimate settlement in Holly Cottage, Mr. Gresham took his departure. Even now he felt that unnecessary delay in the neighbourhood of his fair ward would be dangerous to his peace of mind.
Mr. Heatherley lost no time in paying Helen a visit in her new home. He came on New Year’s eve and found her sitting alone in the pleasant little room which was especially her own, and which she had arranged in the manner of a study. Mrs. Cumberbatch was enjoying herself at a festive gathering with some of her numerous acquaintances, and Lucy Venning, who now made her home with Helen, was passing the evening with her father. Helen met her visitor with a cheerful, even a gay, reception.
“Doubtless I disturb you in some deep and serious philosophical investigation,” said the clergyman, with that slight tone of good-humoured banter with which he generally spoke of Helen’s studies.
“By no means,” she replied, resuming her seat by the fire. “I must actually confess that I had descended to the frivolity of the newspaper. To tell you the truth I feel a little tired tonight and not quite fit for serious work.”
“I suppose you have been receiving a good many visitors since you became settled?”
“Visitors?” asked Helen, smiling.
“Yes,” replied the clergyman. “I mean your friends and acquaintances.”
“You are the first of such visitors, Mr. Heatherley,” said Helen, “and in all probability will he the last. Besides yourself I have neither friends nor acquaintances upon whose visits I may depend.”
“Your life must be a strangely solitary one, Miss Norman,” said Mr. Heatherley, after regarding her for a moment with some appearance of surprise.
“I will confess that I have now and then felt it to be so,” returned Helen, “and on that account I persuaded Lucy Venning to come and be a companion for me.”
There was a brief silence, during which the clergyman knit his brows and appeared to be reflecting upon some rather disagreeable subject.
“I heard of that for the first time,” he said at length, “about a week ago, from Mr. Venning.”
“With pleasure or the opposite?” asked Helen, adding immediately, “perhaps with indifference?”
“Certainly not with indifference,” he replied, coughing slightly and keeping his eyes fixed on the fire, whilst he rested his hands upon his knees in a manner customary with him when about to speak seriously. After pausing for a moment, during which Helen regarded him with a curious look, he again coughed and proceeded.
“May I ask what kind of companionship you look for from Miss Venning?”
“The companionship of a pleasant friend,” replied Helen. “When I am merry she chats with me; when I am in a more earnest mood she saves me from the unpleasant habit of soliloquy. We have taken up a course of reading, too, together. I hope to be able to teach Lucy much that she has hitherto had no opportunity of learning.”
“That I anticipated, Miss Norman,” said Mr. Heatherley, “and it was partly in consequence of this anticipation that I came to see you to-night. If I speak to you with some freedom on a matter of grave interest to me, I am sure you will not take it amiss?”
“I trust you will not do me the wrong of thinking otherwise, Mr. Heatherley.”
“Then I will take the liberty of asking you one more question. Does it enter into your plans to impart to Miss Venning your views on the subject of religion?”
“I have no such intention,” replied Helen, smiling. “Lucy believes me as orthodox in all such matters as she is herself. Indeed, I feel sure that her simple mind is incapable of conceiving heterodoxy as grave as mine; or, if it be, she certainly could not attribute such depravity to the most abandoned of criminals. So careful have I been lest I should prove a rock of offence to her, that I have resolved to be guilty of habitual falsehood, in leading her to suppose that I visit a place of worship in the West End each Sunday. I think you will admit that it is a pious fraud, Mr. Heatherley?”
The clergyman made no immediate reply, but continued to sit with his hands upon his knees, gazing into the fire.
“What are you reading with her at present?” he asked.
“One or two of ‘Macaulay’s Essays,’” she replied, with a smile.
“Is Miss Venning an apt pupil?”
“Extremely so. Her intelligence is admirable, and the excellence of her heart is a guarantee for the soundness of her moral judgment.”
“You have relieved my mind from a very disagreeable load, Miss Norman,” said Mr. Heatherley, after a brief silence. “If you think I have been guilty of an injustice towards you in being for a moment fearful, I beg you will pardon me in consideration of the interests at stake. Since Miss Venning’s joining you in the work of the evening classes, I have seen in her qualities which before I had never suspected, knowing her only as a good and quiet member of my Sunday School. I will confess, too, that your evident fondness of her society has increased my interest in her. It would have been impossible for me to stand by whilst the foundations of her faith were being attacked, and perhaps hopelessly destroyed. But, as I said, you have relieved my mind.”
Finding Helen’s eyes closely fixed upon him, his face coloured slightly as he finished speaking, and, almost immediately, he turned the conversation into a wholly different channel. At the end of about half-an-hour he rose to go.
“I have not made a formal enquiry after your health, Miss Norman,” he said, as he was drawing on his great coat, “for I deemed it unnecessary. For the last few weeks I have been astonished at your improvement. The weather has been so extremely trying, and yet you appear to grow better in health and spirits every day.”
“I certainly do feel much better than I did,” replied Helen, with a slight laugh. “I am somewhat at a loss to account for it.”
“Well, do not, for all that, presume upon your strength. You certainly ought not to walk about much in the snow. Pray take counsel from the past, and exercise prudence.”
“Oh, Mr. Heatherley,” exclaimed Helen, “how can you have the heart to advise me to think so much of my own comfort, when the poor are suffering so terribly! I think if I were ever so ill the thought of starvation in those terrible hovels in weather such as this would compel me to keep at work. Help is more than ever needed just now, and certainly there is more gratification in affording it than when the need is less obvious. I met this morning a wretched woman whom I scarcely ever see sober, and could not help buying her a warm gown and a cloak. I feel almost sure that before tomorrow they will both be pawned for drink, but I could not do otherwise.”
“I often think I am becoming somewhat hard-hearted,” replied the clergyman, as he held out his hand. “I refused charity this morning under very similar circumstances. I cannot afford to throw away what might be of real use.”
The next two months passed quickly both for Helen Norman and for Arthur Golding. During that period they only saw each other once, and then without interchange of more than a bow, and yet there were not many minutes during the day in which the thoughts of each were not occupied with the other. Both were happy, for both were nourishing their hearts with the anticipation of a blissful future, though probably neither ventured to peer too closely into the golden mist which swam before their eyes.
During this time the constant presence of Lucy Venning was inexpressibly comforting to Helen. Without assumedly making her simple friend a confidante in the secret emotions of her heart, Helen did not hesitate to speak to her of Arthur as she would have spoken to no one else, reposing the most absolute trust in Lucy’s discreet and affectionate nature. The latter soon understood that it gave Helen the utmost joy to see any specimen of Arthur’s work, and her woman’s nature taught her how to meet half way Arthur’s wish that she should be the means of taking drawings to Holly Cottage. Every Sunday she spent at home with her father, and sometimes one or two evenings in the week also; and at such times Arthur was sure to find an opportunity of giving into her care a small parcel which she took away with her, and brought back on her next visit. Once or twice Lucy was entrusted to express to Arthur, in private, Miss Norman’s special delight in some drawing she had seen; whereupon Arthur at once sent it back again, begging that Miss Norman would accept it from him. And these gifts Helen treasured up with unspeakable care.
At length, early in March, Lucy was once more entrusted with a message to the effect that Arthur would feel grateful if Miss Norman could accord him an interview on a matter of some importance. She brought back the answer that on the following Sunday morning, about eleven o’clock, Miss Norman would be at liberty. At this time Helen knew that Mrs. Cumberbatch would be attending her special place of worship in the Mile End Road, exercising her eternal curiosity on the concerns of heaven instead of those of earth. She felt sure she knew the purpose of Arthur’s visit, and she looked forward to it with an impatience even greater than that she had experienced three months ago.
She received him in the drawing-room, a handsomely-furnished apartment which looked out on to the little garden in front of the house, the view being strictly circumscribed within this small area by the high hedge of impenetrable holly-bushes which skirted the garden on all three sides. The privacy thus secured was delightful to Helen, who detested the sight of vulgar and pretentious people, such as she knew her neighbours on either side to be. She looked forward with delightful anticipation to the warm days of summer, when she would be able to sit on the lawn, and yet be as private as though in her own room.
They met with perfect freedom from embarrassment, and with a keen joy on both sides which neither affected to conceal. After a few introductory sentences exchanged, Arthur proceeded to state the object of his visit.
“A fortnight today, Miss Norman,” he said, “will be my twenty-first birth-day. As Mr. Gresham has, of course, no knowledge of my address, I wish to apprise him of it; but before I can do that, I must know where to write to.”
“I will give you the address,” replied Helen, taking up a piece of paper and writing upon it. “Mr. Gresham lives in France now.”
Arthur took the paper, and, after reading the address, put it in his purse. There was a minute’s silence, during which his eyes wandered round the pictures on the walls. At length they fell upon one of his own drawings, hanging framed in a good light. He turned his head quickly towards Helen, and their eyes met. The latter blushed, bent for a moment over a book which lay open on the table, and then forced herself to speak.
“Are you a reader of poetry, Mr. Golding?” she asked, rustling over the leaves before her, whilst Arthur stood enraptured with the unconscious grace of her attitude and the glowing beauty of her countenance.
“I have had neither time nor opportunity to read as much as I should like to,” he replied. “Shakespeare, and many of the older poets, I learned to love from Mr. Tollady. Of the modern writers, I think I know Shelley best. But perhaps I am more capable of appreciating his principles than his poetry. To enjoy the latter requires, I fear, more culture than I may pretend to.”
“Oh, you underrate your own powers, Mr. Golding,” replied Helen, earnestly. “The very fact that you like Shelley proves you are able to appreciate him. He is not a poet to attract vacant minds by mere empty jingle or easily-digested platitudes. I myself learnt to love Shelley from my father when a mere child, and now I prize him as my surest safeguard against despair of the world. Those who, like myself, see too much of the evil and discouraging side of life, cannot afford to dispense with poetry.”
“I have often thought the same with regard to my own art,” replied Arthur. “I know scarcely anything of the life which is raised above sordid cares and miseries, except from what I have read in books and imagined in my too-frequent daydreams; yet no sooner do I take up a pencil than I seem to taste all the delights of a higher and nobler existence, where the only food which is yearned after is that of the mind and the heart, and where the joys and sorrows are deeper and purer than those of the every-day world. How much I have to thank you for, Miss Norman!” he added, with a voice which trembled with emotion. “Had it not been for your encouraging words I might still have been suffering unspeakable wretchedness. At present I look back upon that time in which I had no thought of art as a period of something worse than death. I think it would be impossible for me to sink into such apathy again.”
“I trust it would be,” she replied. “And yet I am not sure you do right in speaking of it as apathy. Even then your mind was occupied with no ignoble thoughts. No, no; you must not call it apathy; for the thoughts and the plans which then engrossed your attention were the very same which will, I trust, form the occupation of my whole life. I have become convinced, Mr. Golding, that we should not regret any single event in our lives which was not absolutely the result of an evil purpose. Every such event has been necessary for our development; without it we should have lacked some useful experience which has contributed to the formation of our character. I am very optimistic in my philosophy,” she added, smiling, “and it is happy for me I can be so. The difference between my own point of view and that of a pious Christian who says that everything is for the best, is not really so great as it might at first sight appear.”
She watched the result of these words upon him carefully, and was pleased to see the smile of intelligence and sympathy which rose to his lips as she spoke. There was something of pain, too, in the expression of his face, which she attributed to the recollection of some by-gone unhappiness, and which affected her with compassion unspeakably tender. Again a brief silence ensued, during which she turned over the leaves of the book on the table.
“I was reading Tennyson when you came,” she said. “There is a deep, glad ring of hope throughout his poems which chimes delightfully with my own best thoughts. You have read Tennyson?”
“With the exception of a few short poems,” replied Arthur, “I do not know him.”
“Oh, then you must lose no time in making his acquaintance!” replied Helen. “Please to let me lend you his works. Will you take all at once, or one volume at a time?”
“I shall be very grateful,” replied Arthur, his face flushing with joy. “But only one volume at once. It is but very little time I can find for reading, for I almost grudge every moment which is not given to drawing.”
“Then you shall take this volume,” she resumed. “I think it likely you will find many suggestions for pictures here. One verse particularly struck me this morning, and made me think of — that an artist might make a wonderful painting from it. It is in ‘The Palace of Art,’ — a delightful poem. It is this,” she added, opening the book and reading:
L>DD>And one a full-fed river, winding slow
By herds upon an endless plain,
The rugged rims of thunder brooding low,
With shadow-streaks of rain.
Or this, if you are in a wild, instead of a melancholy, mood —
L>DD>And one a foreground black with stones and slags,
Beyond, a line of heights, and higher
All barr’d with long white cloud the scornful crags,
And highest, snow and fire.
Are they not grand?”
“Wonderful pictures, indeed,” replied Arthur, upon whose ear the melody of her voice had fallen with intoxicating sweetness. “Is it a long poem, Miss Norman?”
“Oh no; comparatively short.”
“How I should like to hear you read it all! Poetry never sounded so delightful to me as in those two verses from your lips.”
He spoke thoughtlessly, allowing himself to be carried away by the current of his passion. Helen blushed, but with pleasure, and motioning him to a seat, at once began to read. Her voice was rich and full, and lent itself admirably to the expression of the varying moods of the poem. At first there was something of timidness in her tone, but this speedily faded, and, seeing her hearer sunk in the deepest enjoyment, she read her very best. When she had finished Arthur made no remark. Commonplace compliment would have been ridiculously out of place. Silence was the best way of showing the impression made upon him. Helen was the first to speak.
“This poem,” she said, “contains an admirable moral, very applicable to myself. How often have I been tempted to build just such a Palace of Art, and to shut myself up in it with an infinitude of intellectual delights, heedless of the rest of the world. Happily I have hitherto been able to resist such temptations, as I trust I may always do.”
Very shortly Arthur took his leave, and walked home with a heart brimming over with happiness which left no place for a single speck of gloom or doubt. During the afternoon he plunged into the delights of the volume Helen had lent him, the fact that the book he held in his hand was hers adding unspeakably to the genuine enthusiasm which the poetry aroused. He turned over the pages delicately, and held the book with an exquisite tenderness of touch, as though it were the hand of Helen herself. Many times did he read through to himself “The Palace of Art,” for with the sight of the printed words came back upon his ear, with an almost startling distinctness, each gentle modulation of the reader’s voice. Every peculiarity of emphasis or of punctuation reproduced itself as from a ghostly tongue in the silence of his room. He felt that if he were to lay the poem aside for fifty years and then once more read it, he should still have that voice in his ears, and once more thrill through every nerve to the sound of its exquisite melody.
As the evening deepened into night he sat by his fire brooding over the two verses which Helen had indicated to him, for already he had resolved to do his utmost to depict the scenes in visible form, in order to have the pleasure of offering them to his idol. The tender gloom of the hour and the kindled enthusiasm of his mind worked together to arouse his imagination, and when at length the silence was slightly broken by the sound of a solemn melody played in the room below, the inspiration of the air came upon him, and in the glowing embers he saw distinctly the outlines of the first scene. He fixed his attention so strongly upon it that it attained to absolute reality. Snatching up a piece of paper from the table he drew rapidly in broad dark lines the main features of the landscape, for all, even to the moulding of the low, black clouds, was plain before him. The whole thus secured, he averted his eyes for a moment, and, as he did so, a piece of coal crumbled into ruin, veiling the vision. He reflected, listening to the solemn music half unconsciously the while, and by degrees h eyes once more wandered to the fire, where the heat had no built up new forms. Before long the subject of the second verse began to grow before him, and at length, from the black foreground to the glowing summits, he saw it all. Again he took paper and hastily outlined the bold mountain masses, fixing in his mind all the rich gradations of hue which burned before him, and which on the morrow he would exhaust his pallet to obtain. In this way he spent two hours in an artist’s dreamland, issuing from it purified and exalted, as though he had drunk of the water of an enchanted spring.
Soon after six o’clock he was disturbed by the arrival of a visitor, William Noble. Of late he had grown rather to fear Noble’s visits, both because he knew that the latter looked with but little less than contempt upon the choice he had made of his life’s work, and because Noble’s inflexible moral judgment so often found expression in sentiments which had a disagreeable application to Arthur’s present state of mind. Noble constantly spoke of Carrie, taking it for granted that Arthur would never cease to exert himself to rediscover the unhappy girl. Already once or twice Arthur had been compelled to tell a direct falsehood in answering his friend’s questions, and the awakening of conscience subsequent upon such conversation had caused him several hours of acute misery. Very much of the old cordiality had already faded from their intercourse, and the subjects upon which they could converse seemed to grow fewer and less interesting at each meeting. Arthur often thought that Noble assumed a monitorial tone to him which was scarcely warrantable, and, though withheld by the gentleness of his disposition from provoking an open outbreak, by degrees listened with less of good-humour to the other’s moral strictures.
Noble seemed in unusually high spirits to-night, a circumstance explained by the first words he uttered.
“Well, I have succeeded at last!” he exclaimed, on entering. “The club is to be established once more, and, I believe, on a firmer foundation. During the last few days I have made the acquaintance of an admirable man, by trade a builder, who has risen from the extremest poverty to comparative wealth, and, on my asking him to join me in this work, he offered out of hand to pay the rent of a club-house, if I could only find half-a-dozen men willing to subscribe a shilling a week and to work with a heart. We have decided to begin upon a rather different plan, though. When I got together the old club I expected rather too much, I fear. It’s difficult to find a number of working men who will give their money and their time for other people’s advantage, and be content to derive nothing themselves except the sense of doing their duty. This time we shall go more on the lines of the ordinary benefit society. We shall have a certain minimum subscription, and shall try to collect our members from the poorest and most wretched classes. We shall have men, women and children — anyone in short who will join, and in return for the subscriptions we shall do our best to give assistance to any member who really wants it. The lectures and debates we shall continue as before, and no doubt before long we shall be able to have a reading-room, and perhaps a library. Having a building ready to our hands and free of expense, of course gives us a glorious start. Well, I have got four of the half dozen subscribers; men I know well myself and who can be depended upon. Now I have come to ask you to make up the total, Golding. I didn’t come before, because I felt sure I could depend upon you, and I knew you would be glad to hear what progress I had made. Your help will be invaluable in keeping the thing well together and making the men enthusiastic. I haven’t forgotten how you used to speak at the old club. When have you a free evening? When shall I take you to see Lawton? — that’s the builder’s name.
Arthur was silent for some moments before replying. To refuse to join in this scheme would, he knew, deeply grieve, if not offend, Noble, and yet he felt it impossible to give his assent. He spoke at length in a voice which betrayed his embarrassment.
“I am glad, heartily glad, Noble, that you have such an excellent prospect of carrying out your plans. No one could possibly feel their excellence more than I do, and no one could wish you success more heartily. But I fear it is impossible for me to join you in the work as I did before. What money I can possibly spare I will gladly devote to the club, but my time I must be so selfish as to withhold. I know you do not approve of the path I am following; it seems to you one of mere idle self-gratification. But it is my nature; I act under impulses which I feel compelled to obey. I could not be content with giving you only part of my time and my thoughts; either you must have all, or none. You have no need of half-workers, and such I should be, even in spite of myself.”
Noble listened to these excuses with a look of surprise, passing into one of pain and displeasure.
“I certainly couldn’t have believed you would refuse your help in such a matter as this,” he replied, whilst Arthur’s eyes drooped before his stern gaze. “Have you then lost all interest in what you were once ready to devote your life to?”
“You must do your best to understand me,” rejoined Arthur, gathering courage and resolving to act independently. “Did I not say that I still retained the utmost interest in this work, and was willing to help it with money as much as ever I could?”
“But you refuse any personal participation in my plans. To say that I must have all your time or none is absurd. I should not think of asking for more than you could reasonably spare — an evening once or twice in the week, or so. I should be quite satisfied with that. It is your personal influence that I need far more than your money. Surely you will not refuse so slight a sacrifice?”
“It’s extremely difficult to make you see my reasons for refusing what seems so little, for you have no sympathy with the work I am wholly devoted to. I am working at art under difficulties just now; having to give my whole day to bread-winning labour, and only having the nights and the early mornings for my real work. Under these circumstances I confess, Noble, I should grudge a single hour even for such a cause as yours. Very shortly I hope to be free from my daily labour, and you will perhaps think I might at least then be able to spare a few evenings. But if I hope to succeed as an artist, even the whole day and night is scarcely enough for me; I shall dread to lose a minute. And besides, in joining you there would be something even worse for me than the mere loss of precious time. It would be such a terrible distraction. When I ought to keep my thoughts constantly fixed upon one object, I should be occupied perpetually with a thousand, and each one of them sufficient to make me weary and wretched. I tell you plainly I should fear to recommence with you, for I know well what an irresistible fascination your scheme would soon exercise over me. Indeed, Noble, you must pardon me, and try, at least, to believe that I am not altogether actuated by an ignoble selfishness. There is something higher than that in this art work of mine, though I fear it would be useless for me to endeavour to make you see it. I see you are angry. Well, I am sorry for it, but what can I do? Surely you should be the last, Noble, to compel anyone to act in the teeth of his firmest convictions.”
“Your convictions seem to have so little consistency in them,” replied the other, with something of bitterness in his tone, “that I confess myself unable to respect their latest form. Can you seriously tell me that — after seeing as much as you have done of the evils of poverty, after being so strongly convinced that it is the duty of each honest man to do his utmost to lessen them, after seeing how much can be done even with the slightest means, if only there is real energy to back them up — can you seriously say that, after all this, now that there is a better opportunity than ever of being useful, you believe it your duty to turn aside from the work and spend your life in devotion to a mere unreasoning passion, in efforts directed towards a useless end? If you mean that, it is indeed useless to try to make me understand. I can only be sorry for the fate of all your good resolutions.”
For a moment Arthur was on the point of replying angrily, but with a great effort he checked the rising irritation, and, after pacing the room once or twice, spoke calmly.
“Then you are resolved to be uncharitable in your views, Noble. Perhaps you even think me ungrateful in acting as I do since I owe you so much. In all probability you saved my life, and you think it only just that I should spend it henceforth according to your guidance. But believe me, I am making a better use of my life than you would have me do. I am so certain of this, that I even risk your worst misinterpretations. Perhaps you will some day see that I was right. Pursue your own path; it is a glorious one, and for you the only right one. But I know well that it would only lead me astray.”
“Good-bye!” exclaimed Noble, holding out his hand, as he turned to go.
“Till when?” asked Arthur.
“What is the use in our continuing to meet?” returned the other, with sadness in his tone. “It would be a constant pain to me to see you. I should always be reproaching you, or, if I did not speak what I thought, you would be conscious of all I felt, and could not be at ease with me.”
“But cannot we still be friends? Do you hold that all who are not with you are against you? Cannot we meet on the ground of mutual liking, and see whether that will not improve into mutual respect? I have not so many friends, Noble, that I can afford to quarrel with one of the best.”
“For the present, Golding,” returned Noble, “we had better part. My life is so bound up in this work that I have no leisure to devote to one who has no share in it. Don’t think I speak harshly. You plead to me the constitution of your mind, and I must do the same to you. No, you are not against me, but you are indifferent. I have somewhat downright habits of thought and speech, I fear, and it would be impossible for me to affect cordiality when I did not feel it. Good-bye.”
“Since it must be so then,” replied Arthur, “good-bye. But I feel sure it is only for a while, Noble. Where shall I send my subscription to?”
“From you I could not accept it, Golding. It would only make me think of the help you might have given me. You may alter your purpose, still. If you do you know how it will delight me to see you.”
They parted with a silent hand-grasp, and Will Noble went on his way, convinced that he had behaved as his principles required. The hard work of the world he felt could not be done by mere time-service, and lack of firmness in little things seemed to him as bad as in great. Noble was not the only man who obeys an exaggerated consistency, but there are few who trace the principle to so pure a source.