Robert Barton always spoke of him as the old gentleman, but when Olivia had first mentioned his name, he had seemed a little startled, and had questioned her about him.
"He lives alone," he said presently; "it is rather an uncommon name.
There were some Gaythornes in London--a firm of solicitors--perhaps it is one of those. They make plenty of money sometimes." And then the subject had dropped.
Olivia, who had promised to spend an hour or two with Mr. Gaythorne that evening, looked at the clock, and then folded up her work; but as she put it away, a sudden quick exclamation from Robert Barton made her look at him.
He was staring at the picture. "Why, it is my own work," he said, with a flush of pleasure. "The picture I painted at Beyrout, and that I sold for a mere song. Of course the fellow cheated me, he was a mean sort of chap; but it is not so bad after all. And what"s this?--"G.o.ddard." Well, of all the cads! He has put his own name to it, but I swear I painted it. Abdul and his son Ha.s.san were my models.
Oh, I see by your face that you like it, Mrs. Luttrell. I don"t think myself that I ever did anything better. Isn"t it Carlyle that says "Genius is the capacity for taking infinite pains." Well, I took lots of pains with that picture. I meant to get it into the Royal Academy, but ill-luck obliged me to sell it."
"You painted that picture of the Prodigal Son!" exclaimed Olivia, excitedly.
"Oh, yes, I painted it all right. It was a nasty trick of G.o.ddard"s putting his name to it. Look, that was Abdul"s wife, the one with the distaff; the other two were two women I saw sitting under a palm-tree one evening. Well, your old gentleman has sent it to the right person to touch it up. It shall be done to-morrow before I go."
Olivia was so full of this wonderful piece of intelligence that she could hardly wait until Phoebe had closed the library door. "Oh, Mr.
Gaythorne," she exclaimed, "what do you think! Your beautiful picture of the Prodigal Son is Mr. Barton"s work. G.o.ddard is only the name of the man who bought it. Yes," as Mr. Gaythorne looked very much astonished at this. "You will not call him the gentlemanly tramp any longer, now that he is a real artist."
"Look here, Mrs. Luttrell," he said, abruptly, "I don"t believe all this. You are being gulled. G.o.ddard painted that picture, not Barton; I hate imposition. I daresay the fellow can paint in a pretty amateurish sort of way, and he will be able to do my job, but I am not going to swallow this without proof. Tell him to bring the picture back himself, and you can come too if you like. If he has been imposing on your credulity I shall very soon detect him." But Olivia was indignant at this.
"Of course he shall bring back the picture if you wish it," she said, a little stiffly. "And I shall ask him to bring the sketch of Dot, too, and then you will see for yourself how well he paints, but he is no impostor, I am certain of that;" but as usual Mr. Gaythorne only held obstinately to his opinion.
"My dear young lady," he said, irritably, "you have hardly enough experience to judge in a case like this. If Mr. Barton really painted that picture, which I deny, for G.o.ddard painted it, he is a worse scamp than I thought him. What business had he to be starving on a doorstep or supping off dry bread and thin cocoa in a casual ward? My dear, we old fellows know the world better than that. Robert Barton is a black sheep, and not all your charity can wash him white."
Mr. Gaythorne was evidently in one of his obstinate moods, and Olivia thought it prudent to say no more on this subject. Robert Barton would be able to vindicate himself without difficulty. When Mr. Gaythorne saw the sketch of Dot and the kitten he would be more lenient in his judgment of the young artist.
During the remainder of her visit she chatted to him cheerfully about a book he had lent her; but just before she took her leave she unfortunately broached the subject of her new friend. At the mention of her name Mr. Gaythorne started and changed color.
"Greta Williams," he observed, with a sharp, almost displeased intonation in his voice. "That is not a common name. And she lives in Brunswick Place?"
"Yes; they have been living there for some years, but before that they were in the country." But to her surprise Mr. Gaythorne interrupted her impatiently.
"Yes, yes, you said that before; go on with what you were telling me about her father. He is a dipsomaniac, you say." And then Olivia proceeded with her story.
"Is it not sad for the poor girl?" she observed when she had finished, but Mr. Gaythorne made no reply. He was sitting in a stooping att.i.tude over the fire and seemed lost in thought.
His first remark took Olivia by surprise. "Have you ever mentioned my name to Miss Williams?" he asked, with one of his keen searching looks.
"You are very frank, Mrs. Luttrell. I daresay you have dropped a word or two about me."
But Olivia shook her head.
"I am quite sure that I have not done so. I have only seen Miss Williams four or five times, and we have only talked about her own troubles and--oh yes, a little about Mr. Barton. No, I am certain that your name has never been mentioned."
"That is well," he returned, slowly. "Perhaps you will be good enough for the future to leave me out of your conversations when you go to Brunswick Place.
"The fact is, Mrs. Luttrell," he went on, slowly, "the Williamses were old neighbours of ours. And Greta and my Olive were dear friends, but they left the neighbourhood long before we did. I never liked Mr.
Williams; he had a knack of quarrelling with all his friends, and we soon came to loggerheads. He made himself obnoxious in many ways, and I declared I would never enter his house again. I am sorry to hear we are such close neighbours."
"What a pity!" observed Olivia, regretfully. "And poor Miss Williams is so nice."
"Oh, I have no fault to find with her," he returned, in a softer voice.
"She was a good creature, and my Olive was very fond of her. At one time she was always in our house, and she and Alwyn--let me see, what was I saying?" interrupting himself with a frown of vexation. "No, there is no harm in the girl, and I shall always wish her well, for my little Olive"s sake. But it would be painful for us both to meet." He stopped, sighed heavily, and then, shading his eyes, sat for some minutes without speaking.
Olivia rose at last. Her visit had not been a pleasant one; the subjects of conversation had been unlucky. She was vexed with herself, and yet it was no fault of hers. For once Mr. Gaythorne did not try to detain her, but there was no want of cordiality in his manner as he bid her good-bye.
"I shall see you to-morrow," he said; "you had better come early, as the afternoons are so short," but before she had closed the door he seemed again lost in thought.
That evening Robert Barton was in high spirits, and talked in a most sanguine manner of his future. He would set about a picture for the Royal Academy at once. He had his subject ready. A group in the casual ward that had greatly impressed him. He had sketched it roughly with an old, battered lead-pencil he had picked up. He discussed it with animation all tea-time.
"It is just the sort of thing to take the fancy of the public," he said. "I shall take pains with it and work it up, patches and all. It will be sure to sell." And Marcus applauded this resolution.
During the rest of the evening Robert Barton was excellent company. He told stories--pathetic stories and comical ones, until Olivia put down her work to listen. And Marcus"s laugh had more than once brought Martha out of the kitchen.
But towards the end of the evening, when Olivia brought him a cup of hot cocoa, his gaiety suddenly vanished, and he looked at her a little sadly.
"To-morrow evening I shall be missing my kind nurse and hostess," he said, gently, "and shall be wishing myself back in this cosy parlour,"
and then he added, abruptly, "Look here, Mrs. Luttrell, I am not much of a hand at making pretty speeches, but if ever I can do a good turn for you and the doctor I shall be proud and happy to do it."
"He is very grateful, Marcus," observed Olivia, as she lingered a moment by her husband"s side. "There were tears in his eyes as he said that. Poor fellow, I cannot help liking him. There is something _debonnaire_ and boyish about him, in spite of all he has been through, and certainly he has been very amusing this evening, but," with a little caressing touch, "how nice it will be when we are alone again!"
And Marcus smiled a.s.sent.
CHAPTER XIV.
AN EVENTFUL DAY.
"Forget not thy sins that thou mayest sorrow and repent."--_Petrarch_.
When Olivia woke the next morning she was conscious of a curious feeling; an indefinable presentiment that she could not put into words.
"How I wish the day were over," she said to herself; and the thought of her visit to Galvaston House, and Mr. Gaythorne"s sharp, cynical speeches, quite oppressed her.
"I hope he will be civil to Mr. Barton," she observed later on to her husband. "Mr. Barton is very proud and touchy, and he will not submit to a course of cross-examination from a stranger. I am quite dreading the afternoon." But Marcus only laughed at her fears.
"Barton can hold his own," was his reply. "He is a bit peppery, but he is not such a fool as to quarrel with his bread and b.u.t.ter. He knows Mr. Gaythorne is a connoisseur, and he will put up with a few sarcastic speeches in the hope of future profits. Mr. Gaythorne could make him extremely useful; he hinted as much to me this morning. There are some pictures he wants rehung, and one or two that need cleaning and varnishing. Barton has only got to prove without doubt that he and not G.o.ddard painted that picture, and then they will get on all right. You must just hold your tongue, Livy, and leave them to fight it out." And Olivia resolved to abide by this prudent advice.
Robert Barton worked hard most of the morning, and then, as the sun shone brightly, he went out for a stroll before the early dinner.
He came back looking so pale and tired that Olivia scolded him for taking too long a walk.
"I have not been far," he returned, sitting down in rather a weary manner, "and it was so warm and pleasant in the sunshine that I thought it would do me good." Then he gave a short laugh, and said, abruptly, "The fact is, something has bowled me over--I have seen a ghost." Then Olivia, who was clearing the table for the early dinner, stared at him.
"Oh, of course, I am only speaking figuratively," he went on. "I suppose it was really flesh and blood that I saw; but no ghost could have been more startling. I wonder"--speaking as though to himself--"if my sight deceived me; but it was certainly a singular likeness. If I had only had the courage to stop and speak; but when I recollected myself the opportunity had gone--a pa.s.sing omnibus hindered me--and then I was too late."
"Did you think it was someone you knew?"
"Yes," very curtly--"a friend of my happier days." But he seemed disinclined to say more. He was so silent and moody all dinner-time that Dr. Luttrell looked at him in surprise more than once.
"I suppose you will go straight to your lodgings from Galvaston House,"