Denzil Quarrier. George Gissing

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СКАЧАТЬ paid it back, I can't submit to any more of your abuse. My patience has its limits."

      "I am no brawler," replied the other, "and I can do no good by talking to you. But if ever I come across any of your acquaintances, they shall know, very plainly, what opinion I have of you. Prosecute me for slander, Mr. Glazzard, if you dare—I desire nothing better!"

      And Mr. Charnock went hurriedly from the room.

      For several minutes Glazzard kept the same attitude, his eyes fixed on the floor, one hand behind his back, the other thrust into his waistcoat. Then he uttered an inarticulate exclamation, and walked with hurried, jerky step across the room; his facial muscles quivered ceaselessly, distorting the features into all manner of grotesque and ugly expressions. Again the harsh sound escaped him, and again he changed his place as though impelled by a sudden pain. It was a long time before he took a seat; on doing so, he threw up his feet, and rested them against the side of the fireplace. His hands were thrust into his trouser-pockets, and his head fell back, so that he stared at the ceiling. At one moment he gave out a short mocking laugh, but no look of mirth followed the explosion. Little by little he grew motionless, and sat with closed eyes.

      From the walls about him looked down many a sweet and noble countenance, such as should have made the room a temple of serenity. Nowhere was there a token of vulgar sensualism; the actress, the ballet-nymph had no place among these chosen gems of art. On the dwarf book-cases were none but works of pure inspiration, the best of old and new, the kings of intellect and their gentlest courtiers. Fifteen years had gone to the adorning of this sanctuary; of money, no great sum, for Glazzard had never commanded more than his younger-brother's portion of a yearly five hundred pounds, and all his tastes were far from being represented in the retreat where he spent his hours of highest enjoyment and endeavour. Of late he had been beset by embarrassments which a man of his stamp could ill endure: depreciation of investments, need of sordid calculation, humiliating encounters. To-day he tasted the very dregs of ignoble anguish, and it seemed to him that he should never again look with delight upon a picture, or feast his soul with music, or care to open a book.

      A knock at the door aroused him. It was a civil-tongued serving-woman who came to ask if he purposed having luncheon at home to-day. No; he was on the point of going forth.

      Big Ben was striking twelve. At a quarter-past, Glazzard took a cab which conveyed him to one of the Inns of Court. He ascended stairs, and reached a door on which was inscribed the name of Mr. Stark, Solicitor. An office-boy at once admitted him to the innermost room, where he was greeted with much friendliness by a short, stout man, with gleaming visage, full lips, chubby hands.

      "Well, what is it now?" inquired the visitor, who had been summoned hither by a note that morning.

      Mr. Stark, with an air of solemnity not wholly jocose, took his friend's arm and led him to a corner of the room, where, resting against a chair-back, was a small ill-framed oil painting.

      "What have you to say to that?"

      "The ugliest thing I've seen for a long time."

      "But—but—" the solicitor stammered, with indignant eagerness—"but do know whose it is?"

      The picture represented a bit of country road, with a dung-heap, a duck-pond, a pig asleep, and some barn-door fowls.

      "I know whose you think it is," replied Glazzard, coldly. His face still had an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes looked as if they had but just opened after the oppression of nightmare. "But it isn't."

      "Come, come, Glazzard! you are too dictatorial, my boy."

      Mr. Stark kept turning a heavy ring upon his finger, showing in face and tone that the connoisseur's dogmatism troubled him more than he wished to have it thought.

      "Winterbottom warrants it," he added, with a triumphant jerk of his plump body.

      "Then Winterbottom is either cheating or cheated. That is no Morland; take my word for it. Was that all you wanted me for?"

      Mr. Stark's good-nature was severely tried. Mental suffering had made Glazzard worse than impolite; his familiar tone of authority on questions of art had become too frankly contemptuous.

      "You're out of sorts this morning," conjectured his legal friend. "Let Morland be for the present. I had another reason for asking you to call, but don't stay unless you like."

      Glazzard looked round the office.

      "Well?" he asked, more gently.

      "Quarrier tells me you are going down to Polterham. Any special reason?"

      "Yes. But I can't talk about it."

      "I was down there myself last Sunday. I talked politics with the local wiseacres, and—do you know, it has made me think of you ever since?"

      "How so?"

      Mr. Stark consulted his watch.

      "I'm at leisure for just nineteen minutes. If you care to sit down, I have an idea I should like to put before you."

      The visitor seated himself and crossed his legs. His countenance gave small promise of attention.

      "You know," resumed Mr. Stark, leaning forward and twiddling his thumbs, "that they're hoping to get rid of Welwyn-Baker at the next election?"

      "What of that?"

      "Toby Liversedge talks of coming forward—but that won't do."

      "Probably not."

      The solicitor bent still more and tapped his friend's knee.

      "Glazzard, here is your moment. Here is your chance of getting what you want. Liversedge is reluctant to stand; I know that for certain. To a more promising man he'll yield with pleasure.—St! st! listen to me!—you are that man. Go down; see Toby; see the wiseacres and wire-pullers; get your name in vogue! It's cut out for you. Act now, or never again pretend that you want a chance."

      A smile of disdain settled upon Glazzard's lips, but his eyes had lost their vacancy.

      "On the Radical side?" he asked, mockingly. "For Manchester and Brummagem?"

      "For Parliament, my dear boy! For Westminster, St. Stephen's, distinction, a career! I should perhaps have thought of your taking Welwyn-Baker's place, but there are many reasons against it. You would lose the support of your brother and all his friends. Above all, Polterham will go Liberal—mark my prediction!"

      "I doubt it."

      "I haven't time to give you all my reasons. Dine with me this evening, will you?"

      "Can't. Engaged to Quarrier."

      "All right!" said the latter. "To-morrow, then?"

      "Yes, I will dine to-morrow."

      Mr. Stark jumped up.

      "Think of it. I can't talk longer now; there's the voice of a client I'm expecting. Eight sharp tomorrow!"

      Glazzard took his leave.

      CHAPTER III

      Like so many other gentlemen whose function in the world remains indefinite, chiefly because of the patrimony they have inherited, Denzil Quarrier had eaten his dinners, and been called to the Bar; he went so far in specification as to СКАЧАТЬ