University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
PADIHAM'S SHOP.

How jubilant I felt the next morning as I
made my way toward Lamely Court! The
Thames really seemed to me a pure and lucent
current. I began to fancy that there might be
a stray whiff of ozone in the breezes of Albion.

What a cheerful clock it was, in some steeple
near at hand, that struck seven as I set foot
upon Padiham's steps! What a blessing to a
neighborhood to have a clock so utterly incredulous
of dolefulness, — a clock that said All 's well
to the past hour, and prophesied All 's well to the
coming!

“Now,” I thought, “I must have my wits
about me. My business is with Padiham the
mechanic, not with Padiham the good Samaritan.
My time and mind belong to Short's
Cut-off. I must not dash off into impertinent
queries about people the dwarf may know nothing
of, may wish to tell nothing of. Keep cool,
Richard Wade! mind your own business, and
then you can mind other people's. Be ready to

be disappointed! Destiny is not so easy to propitiate
as you seemed to believe last night.

As the clock dallied on its last stroke of seven,
I entered Padiham's shop.

My first glance — eyes never looked more
earnestly — was toward the two drawings.

There they were, — fact not fancy.

I could still hold to the joy of a hope.

They were too far away in this dusky corner
for absolute recognition; but there were the
familiar gables of the old hall; and there was
my horse, yes, himself, bending over that very
group of Luggernel Springs. I must cling to
my confidence; I would not doubt. If I doubted,
I should become a stupid bungler over the models,
and probably disgust Padiham by my awkwardness.

“Good morning, Mr. Padiham.”

“Good morning,” said he, in that hearty voice
which resolutely declined being surly.

He was standing, filing away, just where I had
left him yesterday. Put him on a pair of properly
elongated legs, shake the reefs out of his
ribs, in short, let Procrustes have half an hour
at him, and a very distinguished-looking man
would be George Padiham. In fact, as he was,
his remarkable head raised him above pity. Many
of us would consent to be dwarfed, to be half
man below the Adam's apple, if above it we

could wear the head of a Jupiter Tonans, such a
majestic head as this stunted man, the chief
artisan of all England.

Padiham was as gruff as yesterday, but his
gruffness gave him flavor. Better a boor than
a flunkey. There is excitement in talking with
a man who respects you exactly in proportion
to your power, and ignores you if you are a
muff.

We went at our work without delay. For
nearly two hours I put myself and kept myself
at Short's Cut-off. Padiham's skill and readiness
astonished me. Great artists are labor-saving
machines to themselves; they leap to a conclusion
in a moment, where a potterer would be
becalmed for a tide.

By and by, I found that I could be of no further
use to this master craftsman.

“You understand this job better than I do,”
said I.

“I understand it,” said he.

“I 'll take a short spell,” said I, “and look
about the shop a little.”

“Don't be setting my tools by the ears.”

“No; I want to see those pictures by the
chimney.”

He said nothing. His lathe buzzed. His chisel
tortured bars of metal until they shrieked. The
fragrance of fresh-cut steel filled the shop.

I sprang to the dusky corner. My heart choked
me. I wanted to shout so that John Brent, miles
away across the wilderness of the great city,
could hear and come with one step.

For here was what I hoped.

Here we were, our very selves, in this bold,
masterly drawing. John Brent himself, the
wounded knight; myself, bringing him water
from the fountain; our dear Ellen, kneeling
beside; and bending over us, Don Fulano, the
chiefest hero of that terrible ride through the
cañon.

And more, if I needed proof. For here, in
among the water-plants by the spring, there in
the grass under Wordsworth's oak, lurked the
initials, E. C.

Found! Ah, not yet. A clew; but perhaps
a clew that would break in my hands, as I
traced it.

I lost no time.

“These are pretty pictures,” said I, crushing
myself into self-possession.

“What has that got to do with this job?”

“You think I 'm a pretty good mechanic?”

“Middling. You handle tools well enough for
a gentleman.”

“Well, if I were not a bit of an artist, I should
not even be a middling mechanic. I like to see
fine art, such as these drawings, hung up before

a working man. I can understand how appreciating
such things has helped you to become the
first mechanic in England.”

“Who says I am that?”

“So the first engineer in England told me
when he sent me here.”

“O, he sent you! I supposed you did not
find your own way.”

“There has been no chance in my coming
here,” said I, and my heart thanked God.

“You 're right about those drawings, young
man,” Padiham said, and his voice seemed to
find a sweeter tone even than before. “They
do me good, and put a finer edge on my work.
They 're good work, and by a good hand.”

“Whose?”

The dwarf turned about and surveyed me
strictly. Then he started his lathe again, tore
off a narrow ringlet of steel from a bit he was
shaping, and flung another stream of steely perfume
into the air.

“Whose hand?” I asked again.

“Do you ask because you want to know, or
only to make idle talk?”

“I want to know.”

“What for?”

“I think the drawings are good. I should
like a pair by the same hand. Can you direct
me to the artist?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“The artist don't like strangers. I will order
you what you want.”

“That will not do. I prefer to talk over the
subjects with the painter.”

The dwarf turned again and gave me a probing
look, and again took up his chisel and cut
shining curls without reply.

I grew impatient of this parley. He knew
something, and it must out.

“Look at me, George Padiham!” I said.
“Stop your lathe a minute, and charge me for
the time a hundred times over! I know the
hand that painted these pictures. My portrait
and my friend's, and my horse's portrait, are
here on your wall. Only one person in the
world can have painted them, Ellen Clitheroe.
Here are her initials in the corner. You know
where she is. I wish to see her. I must see
her, at once, now!”

“Keep cool, young man! This is my shop.
I 'm master here. I 've put bigger men than
you out of this door before. What 's all this
must and shall about? What 's your name?”

“Richard Wade.”

Padiham left his lathe, came toward me, surveyed
me earnestly again, and then took down
the drawing wherein I appeared. He compared

the man standing before him with his counterfeit
presentment. There could be no mistaking
me. I had the honor to resemble myself, as the
artist had remembered me.

“You 're the man,” said Padiham. “I 've
heard of you. I was n't looking sharp not to
have known you when you first came in and
stood there by the door waiting for me to speak
first. Richard Wade, give me your hand! I
suppose if I am the best mechanic in England,
called so on good authority, you wont mind
striking palms with me.”

I shook him by the hand pretty vigorously.

“You 've got a middling strong grip of your
fist for one of the overgrown sort,” said he.
“Where 's your friend, John Brent?”

“Here in London, searching for Miss Clitheroe!”

“Where 's your horse? — the Black?”

“Dead! Shot and drowned in the Missouri,
helping off a fugitive slave.”

“That 's brave. Well, Richard Wade, my
dear child Ellen Clitheroe and her father are
here in my house. They are safe here, after all
their troubles, up in that room where perhaps
you marked the roses in the window. She has
been sick at heart to have heard nothing from
you since she came to England. It will be the
one thing she lacks to see you, and if you will

let me say a few words to you first, I 'll take
you to them.”

“Go on. If you have protected my friends,
you are my friend, and I want to hear what you
have to say.”