When Mr. Lake and his daughter came in from their walk, and their talk about Willie, and about art, and about the “effects” and “bits” which Rose and her father mutually pointed out to each other, to find this unexpected conjunction in the parlour, their surprise, and indeed consternation, may be imagined. But it was only in the mind of Rose that the latter sentiment existed. As for Mr. Lake, he had long made up his mind how, as he said, “a man of superior position” ought to be received when he made his appearance in an artist’s house. Perhaps, to tell the truth, he forgot for the moment that his visitor was young, and his daughter very handsome, and that it was to visit Barbara and not himself that Mr. Cavendish had come. The little drawing-master would not suffer himself to be seduced by thoughts which were apart from the subject from carrying out his principles. When Mr. Cavendish rose up confused, with a look of being caught and found out, Mr. Lake held out his hand to him with perfect suavity—“I have the pleasure of knowing you only by sight,” said the innocent father, “but I am very glad to make your acquaintance in my own house;” and as this was said with the conscious dignity of a man who knows that his house is not just an ordinary house, but one that naturally the patrician portion of the community, if they only knew it, would be glad to seek admittance to, the consequence was that Mr. Cavendish felt only the more and more confused.
“I happened to be passing,” he explained faintly, “and having heard that Miss Lake, whom I have had the pleasure of meeting—”
“I assure you,” said the drawing-master, “that I hail with satisfaction the appearance of a gentleman whose intelligence I have heard so much of. We artists are a little limited, to be sure; for life, you know, is short, and art is long, as the poet says; and our own occupation requires so much of our thoughts. But still we are sympathetic, Mr. Cavendish. We can understand other subjects of study, though we cannot share them. Yes, Barbara has been a little poorly—but she does not look as if there was much the matter with her tonight. Ask for the lamp, Rose,” said Mr. Lake, with a little grandeur. There was no light in the room except the candles at the piano, which lighted that corner and left the rest of the apartment, small as it was, in comparative shade. There was something magnificent in the idea of adding the lamp to that illumination; but then it is true that, as Mr. Lake himself said, “every artist is a prodigal in his heart.”
Rose had been standing all this time with her hat on, looking at Mr. Cavendish like a little Gorgon. What did he want here? How had he been admitted? She scorned to go and interrogate the maid, which involved a kind of infidelity to her sister, but all the same she looked hard at Mr. Cavendish with a severity which had, on the whole, a reassuring effect upon him. For, to tell the truth, the benign reception which he was receiving from Mr. Lake, instead of setting the visitor at his ease, made him nervous; for he was not in the least aware of the heroic soul which existed in the drawing-master’s limited person. Mr. Cavendish thought nothing but that he was being “caught,” according to his own vulgar theory. He thought Barbara’s father was cringing to him, and playing the usual mean part of an interested parent who means to secure a good match for his daughter. But as for Rose, she evidently, either from jealousy or some other reason, was not in the plot. She stood apart and scowled, as well as she knew how, upon the intruder. “I suppose, papa,” said Rose, “Mr. Cavendish wished to hear Barbara sing, and she has been singing. She is always very good-natured in that way; but as we have none of us anything particular to do, I don’t see what need we have for a lamp.”
At this trenchant speech Mr. Cavendish rose. He was quite grateful to the little Preraphaelite for her incivility. It made him feel less as if he had committed himself, and more as if he were an intruder, which was the more agreeable suggestion of the two under the present circumstances. “You remind me that I should thank Miss Lake for letting me come in and hear once more her lovely voice,” he said. “I am at present only a visitor in Carlingford, and indeed in England—I may have to leave again in a day or two—goodbye. If I am still here, I shall hope to meet you on Thursday.” And then he pressed Barbara’s hand, who, to tell the truth, was very reluctant to let him go away.
“If you must go—” she said, so low that her father could not hear her, though the vigilant, suspicious little Rose caught the sound, and came a step nearer, like
