Some seven years after the ambitious boy left Coombe-Acton, honest farmer Abraham, just when the old-fashioned hedges were in whitest bloom, sickened, turned his face to the wall and died. Gerald had been summoned, but arrived too late to see his father alive. Perhaps it was as well it should be so, the farmer’s last moments were troubled ones and full of regret that Watercress Farm would no longer know a Leigh. The nephew who had taken Gerald’s place had turned out an utter failure, so much so that Abraham Leigh had roundly declared that he would be bothered with no more boys, and for the last few years had managed his business single-handed. However, although Gerald’s of family traditions made the farmer’s deathbed unhappy, he showed that his son had not his love. All he , some three thousand pounds, was left to him. Mr. Herbert took the lease of the farm off the young man’s hands, by and by the live and the dead stock were sold off, and Watercress Farm was waiting for another .
The winding-up of the father’s affairs kept Gerald in the neighborhood of some weeks, and when it became known that Mr. Herbert had insisted upon his taking up his quarters at the hall the simple Coombe-Acton folks were stricken with a great wonder. Knowing nothing of what is called the “aristocracy of art,” their minds were much exercised by such an unheard of . What had “Jerry” Leigh being doing in the last seven years to merit such a distinction?
Nothing his agricultural friends could have understood. After picking up the of his art in a well-known ’s studio, young Leigh had been sent to study in the schools at Paris. Mr. Herbert told him that, so far as his art was concerned, Paris was the workshop of the world,—Rome its and showroom. So to Paris the boy went. He studied hard and lived . He won certain prizes and medals, and was now looking forward to the time when he must strike boldly for fame. Even now he was not quite unknown. A couple of modest but very beautiful studies in low relief had appeared in last year’s exhibition, and, if overlooked by the majority, had attracted the notice of a few whose praise was well worth winning. He was quite satisfied with the results of his first attempt. In all things that concerned his art he was wise and patient. No sooner had he placed his foot on the lowest step of the ladder than he realized the amount of work to be done—the technical skill to be acquired before he could call himself a sculptor. Even now, after seven years’ study and , he had selfdenial enough to resolve upon being a pupil for three years longer before he made his great effort to place himself by the side of contemporary . and as was his true nature, he could follow and woo art with that calm and method which seem to be the surest way of winning her smiles.
He is now a man—a singularly handsome man. If not so tall as his youth promised, he is well built and . Artist is stamped all over him. Brow, eyes, even the slender, well-shaped hands, proclaim it. The general expression of his face is one of calm and[160] ; yet an acute observer might assert that, when the moment came, that face might passions stronger than those which sway most men.
His dark hair and eyes, and something in the style of his dress, gave him a look not quite that of an Englishman—a look that terribly poor Abraham Leigh on those rare occasions when his boy paid him a visit; but, nevertheless, it is a look not out of place on a young artist.
This is the kind of man Gerald Leigh has grown into; and, whilst his has been in progress, Miss Eugenia Herbert has become a woman.
Although remembering every feature of the child, who seemed in some way associated with the day of his liberation, Gerald had not again seen her until his father’s death called him back to England. Each time he had visited Coombe-Acton he had, of course, reported progress to Mr. Herbert; but, shortly after the change in his life, Mr. Herbert by a great effort of self-denial, had sent his darling away to school, and at school she had always been when Gerald called at the Hall; but now, when he accepted Mr. Herbert’s hospitality, he found the fairy-like child grown, it seemed to him, into his ideal woman, and found, moreover, that there was a passion so intense that even the love of art must pale before it.
He made no attempt to resist it. He let it master him; overwhelm him; sweep him along. Ere a week had gone by, not only by looks, but also in burning words, he had told Eugenia he loved her. And how did he fare?
His very and disregard of everything, save that he loved the girl, succeeded to a . Eugenia[161] had already met with many admirers, but not one like this. Such passionate pleading, such love, such vivid were strange and new to her. There was an , a freshness, a thoroughness in the love he offered her. His very her reason. All the wealth of his imagination, all the crystallizations of his dreams, he threw into his passion. His whirled the girl from her mental feet; his warmth created an answering warmth; his reckless pleading conquered. She forgot obstacles as his eloquence overleaped them; she forgot social distinction as his great dark eyes looked into hers, and at last she confessed she loved him.
Then Gerald Leigh came down from the clouds and realized what he had done, and as soon as he touched the earth and became reasonable Eugenia fancied she did not care for him quite so much.
His conscience him. Not only must Mr. Herbert be reckoned with, but a terrible must elapse before he had fame and fortune to lay before Eugenia. He could scarcely expect her to leave her home in order to live au quatrieme or au cinquieme in Paris whilst he completed his studies. He grew sad and downcast as he thought of these things, and Eugenia, who liked pleasant, bright, well-to-do people, felt less disposed toward him and showed she did so.
This made him reckless again. He threw the future to the winds, recommenced his passionate wooing, recovered his lost ground and gained, perhaps, a little more.
But Abraham Leigh’s affairs were settled up, and Gerald knew he must tear himself from Acton Hall and go back to work. He had lingered a few days to finish a of Mr. Herbert. This done he had no excuse for staying longer.
The summer deepened into night. The sculptor and Miss Herbert stood upon the broad and gravelled terrace-walk that runs along the stately front of Acton Hall. They leaned upon the gray stone balustrade; the girl with eye was looking down on shadowy lawn and flower-bed ; the young man looked at her, and her alone. Silence long between them, but at last she .
“You really go to-morrow?”
“Tell me to stay, and I will stay,” he said, , “but next week—next month—next year, the moment, when it does come, will be just as bitter.”
She did not urge him. She was silent. He drew very near to her.
“Eugenia,” he whispered, “you love me?”
“I think so.” Her eyes were still looking over the darkening garden. She spoke dreamily, and as one who is not quite certain.
“You think so! Listen! Before we part let me tell you what your love means to me. If, when first I asked for it you had scorned me, I could have left you unhappy, but still a man. Now it means life or death to me. There is no middle course—no question of joy or —simply life or death! Eugenia, look at me and say you love me!”
His dark eyes charmed and compelled her. “I love you! I love you?” she murmured. Her words satisfied him; moreover, she let the hand he grasped remain in his, perhaps even returning the pressure of his own. So they stood for more than an hour, whilst Gerald[163] talked of the future and the fame he meant to win—talked as one who has the fullest confidence in his own powers and directing genius.
Presently they saw Mr. Herbert walking through the twilight towards them. Gerald’s hand on the girl’s so as to cause her positive pain.
“Remember,” he whispered; “life or death! Think of it while we are apart. Your love means a man’s life or death!”
Many a lover has said an equally thing, but Eugenia Herbert knew that his words were not those of poetical imagery, and as she re-entered the house she trembled at the passion she had aroused. What if time and should work a change in her feelings? She tried to herself by thinking that if she did not love him in the same blind, reckless way, at any rate she would never meet another man whom she could love as she loved Gerald Leigh.
The sculptor went back to Paris—to his art and his dreams of love and fame. Two years slipped by without any event of serious import happening to the persons about whom we are concerned. Then came a great change.
Mr. Herbert died so suddenly that neither doctor nor lawyer could be summoned in time, either to aid him to live or to carry out his last wishes. His will gave Eugenia two thousand pounds and an estate he owned in Gloucestershire—everything else to his son. Unfortunately, some six months before, he had sold the Gloucestershire property, and, with , had not made a fresh will. Therefore, the small money was all that his daughter could claim. However, this seemed of little moment, as her[164] brother at once announced his intention of settling upon her the amount to which she was entitled. He had given his instructions to prepare the deed.
James Herbert, Eugenia’s brother, was unmarried, and at present had no intention of settling down to the life of a country gentleman. Six weeks after Mr. Herbert’s death the greater number of the servants were paid off, and Acton Hall was practically shut up. Eugenia, after spending some weeks with friends in the north of England, came to London to live for an indefinite time with her mother’s sister, a Mrs. Cathcart.
Since her father’s death Gerald Leigh had written to her several times—letters full of passionate love and penned as if the writer felt sure of her constancy and wish to keep her promise. He, too, was coming to London. Had she wished it, he would at once have come to her side; but as it was he would take up his quarters in town about the same time Eugenia arrived there.
The hour was at hand—the hour to which Miss Herbert had for two years looked forward with stran............