Friends I Have Made

“‘Less than half would pay me well, sir,’ he said.

“‘Tut, tut! stuff man! Smith told me you were poor and hard up. You always will be if you are not more of a man of business.’

“‘Sir!’ he exclaimed, rising and looking at me angrily, ‘I came here expecting the treatment – ’

“He stopped short, reeled, sank into his chair, and covered his face with his hands.

“‘My dear sir – I – really – I – I didn’t mean – ’

“I stammered, perspiring at every pore, for the position was most painful.

“‘No, no,’ he said hastily, ‘I beg your pardon. But – but,’ he continued, striving manfully to master his emotion, ‘I have been very ill, sir, and I am weak. I have been unfortunate – almost starving at times. I have not broken bread since yesterday morning – I could not without selling my colours. I – I am much obliged – forgive me – let me go back to town. Oh, my God! has it come to this?’

“He sank back half fainting, but started as I roared out, ‘Go away!’ for Cobweb was coming into the room.

“‘Thank you,’ he said, softly as he saw what I had done. ‘It was kind of you.’

“‘My dear fellow,’ I said, ‘this is terrible;’ and I mopped my face. ‘There, sit still – back directly.’

“I ran out to find Cobweb in the hall.

“‘Oh, you dear, good father!’ she cried, with tears in her eyes. ‘What a kind surprise! But is anything wrong?’

“‘Artist little faint,’ I said. ‘Here, the sherry – biscuits. Stop away a bit.’

“I ran back with them, and made him take some wine; and, thus revived, he rose and thanked me.

“‘What are you going to do?’ I said, staring.

“‘I’m going back to town, sir,’ he said quietly, but with his lower lip trembling. ‘I am not fit to undertake the task. I thank you, but it is too late. I am not well.’

“I looked at him with business eyes, and in that brief glance, as in a revelation, I saw the struggles of a poor proud man of genius, who could not battle with the world. I saw the man who had sold, bit by bit, everything he owned, in his struggle for daily bread; and as I looked at him I felt ashamed that I should be so rich, and fat, and well.

“‘Mr Grantly,’ I said, offering my hand, ‘I am a rough man, and spoiled by bullying people, and having my own way. I beg your pardon for what I have said, and am going to say. You came down here, sir, to paint my little girl’s portrait, and you are going to paint it before you go back to town; and when you do go, you are going to have fifty guineas in your pocket. Hush! not a word, sir. My old friend Tom Smith told me that you were a gentleman and a man of honour. Tom Smith is never deceived. Now, sir, please come into the dining-room and have some lunch. Not a word, please. If good food won’t bring you round, you shall have the doctor; for, as the police say,’ I continued, laughing, ‘you’re my prisoner – but on parole.’

“He tried to speak, but could not, and turned away.

“‘All right,’ I said, ‘all right;’ and I patted him on the shoulder, and walked away to the window for a few minutes before I turned back to find him more composed.

“That afternoon we all three went out into the wood, and I made Cobweb stand as I had seen her on that day.

“Grantly was delighted, and insisted upon making a sketch at once; and then the days wore on, with the painting progressing slowly, but in a way that was a wonder to me, so exquisite was every touch, for the artist’s whole soul was in his work.

“Those were delightful days, but there was a storm coming. I quite took to the young fellow, though, and by degrees heard from him his whole story – how, young and eager, he had, five years before, come to town to improve in his art, and how bitter had been his struggle, till, just before he had encountered Smith, he had been really, literally dying of sickness and want.

“It was a happy time, that, for when the painting was over for the morning we gardened, or strolled in the country – our new friend being an accomplished botanist, and a lover of every object that we saw. I used to wonder how he had learned so much, and found time to paint as well.

“I say it was a happy time for the first three weeks, and then there were clouds.

“Cobweb was changed. I knew it but too well. I could see it day by day. Grantly was growing distant too, and strange, and my suspicions grew hour by hour, till I was only kept from breaking out by the recollection of Tom Smith’s words – ‘He is a gentleman and a man of honour.’

“‘Tom Smith never was wrong,’ I said one morning, as I sat alone, ‘and for a man like that, after my kindness, to take advantage of his position to win that girl’s love from me, would be the act of the greatest scoun – ’

“‘May I come in, Mr Burrows?’ said the voice of the man of whom I was thinking.

“‘Yes, come in,’ I said; and there we stood looking in one another’s eyes.

“‘He’s come to speak to me,’ I said, and my heart grew very hard, but I concealed my feelings till he spoke, and then I was astounded.

“‘Mr Burrows,’ he said, ‘I’ve come to say good-bye.’

“‘Good-bye!’ I said.

“‘Yes, sir: good-bye. I have wakened from a dream of happiness to a sense of misery of which I cannot speak. Let me be brief, sir, and tell you that I shall never forget your kindness.’

“‘But you haven’t finished the picture.’

“‘No, sir, and never shall,’ he said bitterly. ‘Mr Burrows, I cannot stay. I – that is – I need not be ashamed to own it, I love your child with all my heart.’

“‘I knew it,’ I said bitterly.

“‘And you think I have imposed on your kindness. No, sir, I have not, for I have never shown by word or look – ’

“‘No, you scoundrel,’ I said to myself, ‘but she knows it all the same.’

“‘And, sir, such a dream as mine could never be fulfilled – it is impossible.’

“‘Yes,’ I said, in a cold hard voice, ‘it is impossible.’

“‘God bless you, sir! Good-bye.’

“‘You will not say good-bye to her?’ I said harshly.

“He shook his head, and as I stood there, hard, selfish, and jealous of him, I saw him go down the path, and breathed more freely, for he was gone.

“Gone, but there was a shadow on my home. Cobweb said not a word, and expressed no surprise, never even referring to the picture, but went about the house slowly, drooping day after day, month after month, till the summer time came round again, and I knew that in my jealous selfishness I was breaking her young heart.

“She never complained, and was as loving as ever; but my little Cobweb was broken, and the tears spangled it like dew whenever it was alone.

“It was as nearly as could be a year after, that I, feeling ten years older, went to seek her one afternoon, and found her as I expected, in the little wood, standing dreamy and sad in her old position leaning upon the tree, listening to no bird-song now, but with a far-off longing look in her eyes, that swept away the last selfish thought from my heart.

“I did not let her see me, but went straight up to Smith’s, learned what I wanted, and a short time after I was in a handsome studio in Saint John’s Wood, staring at the finished picture of my child – painted, of course, from memory – framed, against the wall.

“As I stood there, I heard the door open, and turning stood face to face with Grantly.

“We looked in each other’s eyes for a few moments without speaking, and then in a trembling, broken voice, I said —

“‘Grantly, I’ve come as a beggar now. My poor darling – God forgive me! – I’ve broken her heart!’