Free The Dark Clue by James Wilson

Booth,’ he murmured. ‘Did she elucidate the mystery, or add to it?’
    From his sharp sidelong look I deduced that this was a test of some kind, and that his good opinion of me depended on my making the right answer; but since I had no idea what that might be, I said lamely:
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    He did not reply, but nodded; and, stopping by a green gate in a wall, opened it, and led me into one of the kitchen gardens. Around the perimeter ran a pleasant grassy walk, lined with fruit trees and rambling roses, and broken here and there by an arbour with a wooden seat.
    â€˜Peace,’ he said, looking round. ‘And the last blessed warmth of the sun.’
    We sat on one of the benches, beneath a trailing rose that was still, even now, covered with flowers. Ruskin gazed silently at two apple trees near the opposite wall, as if gathering his thoughts. At length he said:
    â€˜You do know, do you not, that you are not alone, Mr. Hartright? There is already another labourer in the vineyard?’
    â€˜You mean Mr. Thornbury?’ I said.
    He nodded. ‘What, if you will forgive my asking, makes you think that you are better qualified than he?’
    This was delicate indeed, and I hesitated before answering:
    â€˜I was approached by a friend of Turner’s, who expressed some confidence in me – and none whatever, I’m sorry to say, in Mr. Thornbury.’
    â€˜And may I inquire
which
friend?’
    â€˜That, I’m afraid, I cannot tell you.’
    â€˜I see.’ He tapped his fingers and nodded, as if beating time to a tune in his own head.
    I had chosen my words carefully, but I was forced to acknowledge that, even to my ears, they had sounded flimsy and unconvincing; and I was not entirely surprised when he went on:
    â€˜Sometimes, Mr. Hartright, we may deceive ourselves, or allow others to deceive us, into thinking we are capable of some great task which is beyond us. I speak here as a friend, and from my own experience. I regarded Turner as my earthly master. I venerated him. I knew him personally for the last ten years of his life, and for much of that time, and for long after his death, I thought of little but him and his work. And yet in many respects I feel I did not know him at all.’
    Anxious not to appear still more foolish, I said nothing. He reached out to touch a white rose which drooped above his shoulder. A drop of moisture broke free from the petal where it had taken refuge, and rolled down his finger.
    â€˜Perhaps you know, Mr. Hartright, that the first volume of
Modern Painters
was intended as a defence of Turner against his critics. It was – as I am all too keenly aware – a youthful effort, full of a young man’s zeal and prejudices – but it did enjoy a certain success. Yet it gave Turner, I believe, not an ounce of pleasure. Cold and solitary though he was, the flame of my approbation did not warm him. It was a year and a half before he even mentioned the book to me; and then, indeed, he did thank me, in his way – for he invited me in, one night after dinner, and insisted that I take a glass of sherry with him, in an under-room as chilly as the tomb, and lit by a single tallow candle. Yet he always made it plain that – though I regarded him, as I still regard him, as the greatest landscape painter in the historyof the world – I had not grasped the meaning, or the purpose, of his work. And I fear he was right.’
    A wiry, grizzled man in a white shirt entered the kitchen garden, pushing a wheelbarrow. He stopped when he saw us, and tipped his moth-eaten felt hat.
    â€˜Good afternoon, Pearce,’ called Ruskin.
    â€˜Good afternoon, sir.’
    â€˜Please, don’t mind Mr. Hartright and me,’ said Ruskin; and the man continued on his way. Ruskin turned to me again.
    â€˜But just how
little
I saw . ..’ He shook his head.’
That
I only discovered this past winter, when I undertook to