Will Warburton | Page 5

the means were provided."
Mrs. Hopper squeezed herself more tightly than ever between door and
jamb. Her head was bent in an abashed way, and when she spoke it was
in a thick, gurgling tone, only just intelligible.
"There's a little lodging 'ouse at Southend, sir, where we used to go
when my 'usband could afford it."
"Well, look here. Get a doctor's opinion whether Southend would do; if
not, which place would. And just send her away. Don't worry about the
money."
Experience enabled Mrs. Hopper to interpret this advice. She
stammered gratitude.
"How's your other sister--Mrs. Allchin?" Warburton inquired kindly.
"Why, sir, she's doing pretty well in her 'ealth, sir, but her baby died
yesterday week. I hope you'll excuse me, sir, for all this bad news just
when you come back from your holiday, and when it's natural as you
don't feel in very good spirits."
Will had much ado not to laugh. On his return from a holiday, Mrs.
Hopper always presumed him to be despondent in view of the
resumption of daily work. He was beginning to talk of Mrs. Allchin's
troubles, when at the outer door sounded a long nervous knock.
"Ha! That's Mr. Franks."
Mrs. Hopper ran to admit the visitor.

CHAPTER 2

"Warburton!" cried a high-pitched voice from the passage. "Have you
seen _The Art World_?"
And there rushed into the room a tall, auburn-headed young man of
five-and-twenty, his comely face glowing in excitement. With one hand
he grasped his friend's, in the other he held out a magazine.
"You haven't seen it! Look here! What d'you think of that, confound
you!"
He had opened the magazine so as to display an illustration, entitled
"Sanctuary," and stated to be after a painting by Norbert Franks.

"Isn't it good? Doesn't it come out well?--deuce take you, why don't
you speak?"
"Not bad--for a photogravure," said Warburton, who had the air of a
grave elder in the presence of this ebullient youth.
"Be hanged! We know all about that. The thing is that it's there. Don't
you feel any surprise? Haven't you got anything to say? Don't you see
what this means, you old ragamuffin?"
"Shouldn't wonder if it meant coin of the realm--for your shrewd
dealer."
"For me too, my boy, for me too! Not out of this thing, of course. But
I've arrived, I'm lance, the way is clear! Why, you don't seem to know
what it means getting into The Art World."
"I seem to remember," said Warburton, smiling, "that a month or two
ago, you hadn't language contemptuous enough for this magazine and
all connected with it."
"Don't be an ass!" shrilled the other, who was all this time circling
about the little room with much gesticulation. "Of course one talks like
that when one hasn't enough to eat and can't sell a picture. I don't
pretend to have altered my opinion about photogravures, and all that.
But come now, the thing itself? Be honest, Warburton. Is it bad, now?
Can you look at that picture, and say that it's worthless?"
"I never said anything of the kind."
"No, no! You're too deucedly good-natured. But I always detected what
you were thinking, and I saw it didn't surprise you at all when the
Academy muffs refused it."
"There you're wrong," cried Warburton. "I was really surprised."
"Confound your impudence! Well, you may think what you like. I
maintain that the thing isn't half bad. It grows upon me. I see its merits
more and more."
Franks was holding up the picture, eyeing it intently. "Sanctuary"
represented the interior of an old village church. On the ground against
a pillar, crouched a young and beautiful woman, her dress and general
aspect indicating the last degree of vagrant wretchedness; worn out, she
had fallen asleep in a most graceful attitude, and the rays of a winter
sunset smote upon her pallid countenance. Before her stood the village
clergyman, who had evidently just entered, and found her here; his
white head was bent in the wonted attitude of clerical benevolence; in

his face blended a gentle wonder and a compassionate tenderness.
"If that had been hung at Burlington House, Warburton, it would have
been the picture of the year."
"I think it very likely."
"Yes, I know what you mean, you sarcastic old ruffian. But there's
another point of view. Is the drawing good or not? Is the colour good or
not? Of course you know nothing about it, but I tell you, for your
information, I think it's a confoundedly clever bit of work. There
remains the subject, and where's the harm in it? The incident's quite
possible. And why shouldn't the girl be good-looking?"
"Angelic!"
"Well why not? There are girls with angelic faces. Don't I know one?"
Warburton, who