A Yellow Aster, Volume 2 (of 3)Caffyn, Mannington, Mrs.
General
A Yellow Aster, Volume 2 (of 3)
Caffyn, Mannington, Mrs.
Fiction
“Yes, even your beastliest daubs have something in them that saves their
souls. One has to look more than once at everything you do, even if it
is only to swear at it. You have capacity somewhere about you, wherever
you hide it—as for drawing, you don’t know the beginnings of it! But
what’s that? You can learn, it’s a mere question of swatting. If I had
any doubt of your success, I wouldn’t be here to-day. I never on
principle put a penny into a rotten concern, and I am here to make you a
definite distinct offer, as binding on you as on me. I will defray your
expenses in Paris for three years, I will give you enough to learn under
the best men, and to live decently, not a farthing more,—don’t speak
yet!—”
Brydon had jumped up rather wildly.
“Wait till you hear all about it—your conditions are pretty hard. In
case you should die during your apprenticeship—the best of us are liable
to that contingency—I shall insist on you insuring your life for an
amount equivalent to that I lay out on you. If you live (the best thing
you can do under the circumstances), you shall pay me back principal and
interest in a given term of years, say fifteen, after you begin to
sell.”
Brydon threw himself down into his chair and buried his head in his
hands, a limited diet of bread and mustard had taken the starch out of
him. He was soft, and his eyes were brimful of tears, he was young too,
and nearly burst in his efforts to bolt them, then he lifted his head
from his hands and began precipitately,
“You have given me the chance of a career, you put the world within
reach of me, you trust me down to the ground, all in one breath. Look
here!”
For one minute he was about to throw back the salvation waiting under
his nose with most laudable self-respect, but he looked at Strange and
his heart got soft again.
“I’d black your boots for you, why shouldn’t I be dependent on you? I’ll
take your offer, and—and—and—”
“I told you the conditions, I shall stick to them, we don’t thank one
another or get emotional in these transactions, I mean to have my money
back, principal and interest, my full pound of flesh. I’m doing a trade
with you—take it or leave it, as you like.”
“Do you know I’d die for you?” cried Brydon, in a burst of low-diet
mawkishness.
“Die, before you’ve paid in a penny of your premium! If we can come to
terms off-hand, I should like to finish up the matter at once, and start
for my lawyer’s.”
Brydon got up without a word, and began to make himself decent with
shaking hands. At last he found safety in a wild burst of gaiety and by
the time he had his best coat on, he was bubbling over with a nervous
gentle sort of fun peculiar to his kind.
When they were going downstairs he stopped, and remarked in a soft
deprecatory sort of way,
“I say! I believe my heart’s next to gone. Three goes of rheumatic fever
leaves that part of a fellow not worth mentioning. Won’t that make the
premium pretty stiff?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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