CHAPTER XII. THE PARABLE OF THE SOWER.

"The sower scattereth his seeds

In rich or barren ground,

And soon the earth in place of weeds

With golden corn is crowned."

Meanwhile the old squire was much better in health, owing to the skill of Dr. Nestley, but dreading a relapse he insisted upon the young doctor staying with him for a time, and, though miserly as a rule, yet paid him a handsome sum for his services, so great was his dread of death. As Nestley's practice was not a very large one he looked upon this whim of the squire's as an unexpected piece of good luck, so made a hurried visit to the country town where he lived and, having arranged with his partner about the carrying on of their joint business, returned to Garsworth and took up his abode at the Grange as the medical attendant of the old man.

The village doctor did not give in to this arrangement without a struggle, but Squire Garsworth, who consulted no man's feelings or interests when they clashed with his own desires, soon reduced the local Sangrado to silence.

Mr. Beaumont came daily to the Grange in order to paint the portrait of its master, and was now deeply interested in the picture, which was beginning to have a wonderful fascination for him. In truth the squire was no commonplace model, for his keen, ascetic face with the burning eyes and his spare figure wrapped in a faded black velvet dressing-gown made a wonderfully picturesque study. Besides, Basil liked to hear the wild extravagant talk of the old man, who talked in a desultory sort of manner, mingling gay stories of his hot youth, with mystical revelations of medi?val alchemists and whimsical theories of spiritual existence. That he was mad, Beaumont never for a moment doubted; nevertheless, his madness was productive of a certain fantasy of thought that proved most alluring to the poetic nature of the artist, weary of the commonplace things of the work-a-day world.

With regard to Reginald the artist treated him in his usual manner, and neither by word nor deed betrayed the relationship which existed between them, but nevertheless used all his powers of fascination to attain a mastery over the young man's mind.

In this he was partially successful, for nothing is so flattering to the vanity of an unformed youth as the notice bestowed upon him by a cultured man of the world. The artist told him stories of London and Parisian life, described the famous men he had met, the beautiful women he had known, and the keen excitements of Bohemian life, thus investing an unknown world with a magic and glamour which could not fail to attract a nature so clever, ardent and impressionable as that of this unsophisticated lad.

Patience Allerby, living in a state of almost monastic seclusion, congratulated herself upon her foresight in defeating Beaumont's possible plans, little dreaming that he was now enmeshing her son in subtle toils which would render him the willing slave of his heartless father. It was true that Una, with a woman's keen instinct, distrusted the brilliant adventurer, and ventured to warn Reginald against him, but the young man received such a warning with somewhat ill grace and talked about the need of experience. Beaumont, with his keen power of penetration, soon discovered that Una distrusted him, and as it was his aim to gain her over to his side he soon hit upon a plan by which he hoped to achieve his end.

One morning, after he had been working at the squire's portrait, he was strolling out on the terrace when he met Una leaning over the balustrade, looking at the still pool of water, encircled by a marble rim, in the centre of which was a group of Naiads and Tritons which should have spouted water in wreaths of foam from their conch shells, but as the source of the fountain was dried up there only remained the stagnant waters in the basin, reflecting their enforced idleness.

Una was thinking about Beaumont when he appeared, and in no very generous strain, as she was afraid of his rapidly increasing influence over the plastic mind of her lover--therefore when the artist paused beside her she was by no means prepared to receive him with that suave courtesy with which she generally greeted everyone.

"I'm glad to see you, Miss Challoner," observed Beaumont lifting his hat, "as I want to speak to you about Blake."

"About Mr. Blake," said Una rather coldly, "yes?"

"Of course you know how I admire his voice," remarked Beaumont leisurely, "and thinking it a pity he should waste its sweetness on the desert air of Garsworth I wrote up to a friend of mine in London."

"That is very kind of you, Mr. Beaumont," said Una in a more cordial tone, "and what does your friend say?"

"He wants Blake to go up to London, and will take him to Marlowe, who is a very celebrated teacher of singing; if Marlowe is satisfied, Blake can study under him, and when he is considered fit can make his appearance."

"It will take a lot of money," observed Una thoughtfully.

"Oh! I've no doubt that can be arranged," said Beaumont quietly. "Blake and myself will come to some agreement about things, but I am anxious that Blake should benefit by his talents."

"What do you mean?" asked Miss Challoner in a puzzled tone, "I do not understand."

"Of course you do not," answered the artist smoothly. "You do not understand the world--I do--and at the cost of expenditure of money, and sacrifice of illusions. Blake has an exceptionally fine organ and great musical talent; if he went up to London unprovided with money--of which I understand he has not any great store--he would very likely be picked up by some hanger-on of musical circles who would do him more harm than good, perhaps force him to sing before he was matured and thus run the very probable risk of a failure--or if he was taught by a good master and made a great success, unless he was very careful, some impresario would entice him into some agreement to last for years which would be eminently disadvantageous to him in the end."

"But surely no men are so base?"

Beaumont shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear lady, they don't call it baseness but business--the only difference is in the name however--and how would leeches live if there is no one for them to live on? The Genius very often has no business capabilities and no money, the Leech, as a rule, has both, and as poor Genius cannot get himself or his works before the public without the help of Mr. Middleman Leech, of course that gentleman expects to be well-paid for his trouble, and generally pays himself so well that Genius gets the worst of it--the Middleman gets the money, the public get the pleasure, and the Genius--well, he gets next to nothing, except the delightful thought that his works have enriched one man and pleased another. Genius is a fine thing, no doubt, but the capability of being a leech is finer."

"And yet you propose to be the middleman between Mr. Blake and the public," said Una, looking at him keenly.

"Only to save him from others," observed Beaumont quickly. "For all I know, Blake may be an exceedingly clever business man and quite capable of holding his own against the tribe of Leech and Middleman, still he has no money wherewith to bring his voice to that perfection which will make it a saleable article. I can supply that money, and as the labourer is worthy of his hire, I expect a fair remuneration for my trouble, but I will act honestly towards him, and neither force him into singing before he is fit, nor bind him for any term of years; if he makes a financial and artistic success through my help, I am willing to receive what is my just due, but if he goes to London with no influence--no friends--no money--with nothing but that fine voice, well then, unless he is as I said before a clever business man, there will be some fine pickings for Mr. Leech."

"It's a dreadfully wicked world," sighed Una.

"It is as God made it," rejoined Beaumont cynically, "I don't think mankind have improved it much, but I daresay we're no worse now than we ever were, the only change I can see is the art of concealment--it was fashionable to be wicked in Borgian Rome, so accordingly everyone proclaimed his or her darling sins from the housetops, now it is considered the correct thing to be decent, so we sin in private and preach in public; the wickedness is with us all the same, but we hide it carefully and prate about the morality of nineteenth century England compared with sixteenth century Rome."

"You are rather pessimistic."

"My misfortune, not my fault, I assure you," returned the artist carelessly. "Very likely if I had gone through life wrapped up in the cotton wool of position and money I would have found human nature all that is honest and true. Unfortunately Poverty is a deity who takes a pleasure in destroying the illusions of youth, therefore I see the world in a real and not in an ideal sense--it's unpleasant but useful."

"I hope Reginald will never cherish such harsh thoughts," murmured Una.

"That depends upon the great god Circumstance, but if he comes to London I'm afraid he will be disenchanted. Arcady may be found in this isolated village I've no doubt, but London soon disillusionises the most generous and confiding nature, however, let us hope for the best--but what do you say about my offer, Miss Challoner?"

"Well really," said Una with a laugh, "what can I say? it is Mr. Blake's business and not mine."

"Still, you take an interest in him," observed Beaumont keenly.

"As a very clever man I do," replied Una serenely, for she was determined not to betray her love to this cold-eyed man of the world. "I think it is a pity he should be condemned to stay down here."

"I think so also," said Beaumont cordially, for he was too crafty to press a question he saw might prove distasteful to the proud woman before him, "so I'll speak to Blake."

"And how are you getting on with my cousin's picture?" asked Una, dexterously turning the conversation as they walked down the terrace.

"Oh, very well indeed--it will make an excellent picture, and I enjoy talking to the Squire, his ideas are so very strange."

"The effect of solitude I've no doubt," replied Una absently, "a solitary existence generally engenders strange thoughts."

"Exactly. I'd rather talk to a recluse than to a man or woman of the world, for although the ideas of a hermit may be old fashioned they are infinitely fresh."

"Don't you like Society then?"

"Sometimes I do--man is a gregarious animal you know--but Society people as a rule are fearful humbugs. I suppose a certain amount of deception is necessary to make things go smooth. A tells B lies and B knows they are lies, still he believes them, because to preserve a necessary friendship with A it won't do to tell him he's a liar; if all our friends were put in the Palace of Truth it would be a mighty unpleasant world, I assure you."

"But you don't think it is necessary to tell lies to make things go smoothly?" said Una rather shocked.

"I daresay that's the plain, brutal truth," retorted Beaumont coolly; "lies are the oil which diplomacy pours on the troubled waters of Society. Lord, what a world of humbugs we are to be sure."

"Well, good-bye just now," said Una laughing, as she turned away, "don't forget to tell Mr. Blake about London."

"Oh no, I won't forget," replied Beaumont, and taking off his hat, he strolled away down the avenue, very well satisfied with the result of his conversation.

"I think I've succeeded in pacifying her," he murmured to himself, "now she sees how anxious I am to help her lover she won't distrust me any more--it's the parable of the sower over again--a little seed sown in fruitful ground bears a goodly crop--now I am sowing the seed--when I get Reginald in London I will reap the harvest."