At last the old gentleman’s appetite for the Memorial yielded to the fatigue of standing on the stone steps and looking upwards. He proposed that they should find a seat and examine the edifice from a little distance.
“I think I see a bench down there with only one person on it, Mary,” he said, as they descended the steps at the west side. “Can you see whether he is respectable?”
The young lady, who was shortsighted, placed a pair of glasses on her salient nose, lifted her chin, and deliberately examined the person on the bench. He was a short, thick-chested young man, in an old creased frock coat, with a worn-out hat and no linen visible. His skin, pitted by smallpox, seemed grained with black, as though he had been lately in a coal mine, and had not yet succeeded in toweling the coal-dust from his pores. He sat with his arms folded, staring at the ground before him. One hand was concealed under his arm: the other displayed itself, thick in the palm, with short fingers, and nails bitten to the quick. He was clean shaven, and had a rugged, resolute mouth, a short nose, marked nostrils, dark eyes, and black hair, which curled over his low, broad forehead.
“He is certainly not a handsome man,” said the lady; “but he will do us no harm, I suppose?”
“Of course not,” said the younger gentleman seriously. “But I can get some chairs, if you prefer them.”
“Nonsense! I was only joking.” As she spoke, the man on the bench looked up at her; and the moment she saw his eyes, she began to stand in some awe of him. His vague stare changed to a keen scrutiny, which she returned hardily. Then he looked for a moment at her dress; glanced at her companions; and relapsed into his former attitude.
The bench accommodated four persons easily. The old gentleman sat at the unoccupied end, next his daughter. Their friend placed himself between her and the man, at whom she presently stole another look. His attention was again aroused: this time he was looking at a child who was eating an apple near him. His expression gave the lady an uncomfortable sensation. The child, too, caught sight of him, and stopped eating to regard him mistrustfully. He smiled with grim good humor, and turned his eyes to the gravel once more.
“It is certainly a magnificent piece of work, Herbert,” said the old gentleman. “To you, as an artist, it must be a treat indeed. I don’t know enough about art to appreciate it properly. Bless us! And are all those knobs made of precious stones?”
“More or less precious: yes, I believe so, Mr. Sutherland,” said Herbert, smiling.
“I must come and look at it again,” said Mr. Sutherland, turning from the memorial, and putting his spectacles on the bench beside him. “It is quite a study. I wish I had this business of Charlie’s off my mind.”
“You will find a tutor for him without any difficulty,” said Herbert. “There are hundreds to choose from in London.”
“Yes; but if there were a thousand, Charlie would find a new objection to every one of them. You see the difficulty is the music.”
Herbert, incommoded by a sudden movement of the strange man, got a little nearer to Mary, and replied, “I do not think the music ought to present much difficulty. Many young men qualifying for holy orders are very glad to obtain private tutorships; and nowadays a clergyman is expected to have some knowledge of music.”
“Yes.” said the lady; “but what is the use of that when Charlie expressly objects to clergymen? I sympathize with him there, for once. Divinity students are too narrow and dogmatic to be comfortable to live with.”
“There!” exclaimed Mr. Sutherland, suddenly indignant: “you are beginning to make objections. Do you expect to get an angel from heaven to teach Charlie?”
“No, papa; but I doubt if anything less will satisfy him.”
“I will speak to some of my friends about it,” said Herbert. “There is no hurry for a week or two, I suppose?”
“Oh, no, none whatever,” said Mr. Sutherland, ostentatiously serene after his outbreak: “there is no hurry certainly. But Charlie must not be allowed to contract habits of idleness; and if the matter cannot be settled to his liking, I shall exert my authority, and select a tutor myself. I cannot understand his objection to the man we saw at Archdeacon Downes’s. Can you, Mary?”
“I can understand that Charlie is too lazy to work,” said Mary. Then, as if tired of the subject, she turned to Herbert, and said, “You have not yet told us when we may come to your studio and see The Lady of Shalott. I am very anxious to see it. I shall not mind its being unfinished.”
“But I shall,” said Herbert, suddenly becoming self-conscious and nervous. “I fear the picture will disappoint you in any case; but at least I wish it to be as good as I can make it, before you see it. I must ask you to wait until Thursday.”
“Certainly, if you like,” said Mary earnestly. She was about to add something, when Mr. Sutherland, who had become somewhat restive when the conversation turned upon pictures, declared that he had sat long enough. So they rose to go; and Mary turned to get a last glimpse of the man. He was looking at them with a troubled expression; and his lips were white. She thought he was about to speak, and involuntarily retreated a step. But he said nothing: only she was struck, as he composed himself in his old attitude, by his extreme dejection.
“Did you notice that man sitting next you?” she whispered to Herbert, when they had gone a little distance.
“Not particularly.”
Do you think he is very poor?”
“He certainly does not appear to be very rich,” said Herbert, looking back.
“I saw a very odd look in his eyes. I hope he is not hungry.”
They stopped. Then Herbert walked slowly on. “I should think not so bad as that,” he said. “I don’t think his appearance would justify me in offering him—”
“Oh, dear, dear me!” said Mr Sutherland. “I am very stupid.”
“What is the matter now, papa?”
“I have lost my glasses. I must have left them on that seat. Just wait one moment whilst I go back for them. No, no, Herbert: I will go back myself. I recollect exactly where I laid them down. I shall be back in a moment.”
“Papa