Love Among the Artists ebook

The Author to the Reader

Dear Sir or Madam:

Will you allow me a word of personal explanation now that I am, for the second time, offering you a novel which is not the outcome of my maturer experience and better sense? If you have read my Irrational Knot to the bitter end, you will not accuse me of mock modesty when I admit that it was very long; that it did not introduce you to a single person you could conceivably have been glad to know; and that your knowledge of the world must have forewarned you that no satisfactory ending was possible. You may, it is true, think that a story teller should not let a question of mere possibility stand between his audience and the satisfaction of a happy ending. Yet somehow my conscience stuck at it; for I am not a professional liar: I am even ashamed of the extent to which in my human infirmity I have been an amateur one. No: my stories were meant to be true ex hypothesi: the persons were fictitious; but had they been real, they must (or so I thought at the time) have acted as I said. For, if you can believe such a prodigy, I was but an infant of twenty-four when, being at that time, one of the unemployed, I sat down to mend my straitened fortunes by writing The Irrational Knot. I had done the same thing once before; and next year, still unemployed, I did it again. That third attempt of mine is about to see the light in this volume. And now a few words of warning to you before you begin it.

(1)Though the wisdom of the book is the fruit of a quarter century's experience, yet the earlier years of that period were much preoccupied with questions of bodily growth and nutrition; so that it may be as well to bear in mind that even the youngest of us may be wrong sometimes. (2) Love among the Artists is what is called a novel with a purpose; I will not undertake to say at this distant me what the main purpose was; but I remember that I had a notion of illustrating the difference between that enthusiasm for the fine arts which people gather from reading about them, and the genuine artistic faculty which cannot help creating, interpreting, and unaffectedly enjoying music and pictures. (3)This book has no winding-up at the end. Mind: it is not, as in The Irrational Knot, a case of the upshot being unsatisfactory! There is absolutely no upshot at all. The parties are married in the middle of the book; and they do not elope with or divorce one another, or do anything unusual or improper. When as much is told concerning them as seemed to me at the time germane to my purpose, the novel breaks off. But, if you prefer something more conclusive, pray do not scruple to add a final chapter of your own invention. (4)If you find yourself displeased with my story, remember that it is not I, but the generous and appreciative publisher of the book, who puts it forward as worth reading. I shall polish it up for you the best way I can, and here and there remove some absurdity out of which I have grown since I wrote it, but I cannot substantially improve it, much less make it what a novel ought to be; for I have given up novel writing these many years, during which I have lost the impudence of the apprentice without gaining the skill of the master.

There is an end to all things, even to stocks of unpublished manuscript. It may be a relief to you to know that when this "Love among the Artists" shall have run its course, you need apprehend no more furbished-up early attempts at fiction from me. I have written but five novels in my life; and of these there will remain then unpublished only the first—a very remarkable work, I assure you, but hardly one which I should be well advised in letting loose whilst my livelihood depends on my credit as a literary workman.

I can recall a certain difficulty, experienced even whilst I was writing the book, in remembering what it was about. Twice I clean forgot the beginning, and had to read back, as I might have read any other man's novel, to learn the story. If I could not remember then, how can I presume on my knowledge of the book now so far as to make promises about it? But I suspect you will find yourself in less sordid company than that into which The Irrational Knot plunged you. And I can guarantee you against any plot. You will be candidly dealt with. None of the characters will turn out to be somebody else in the last chapter: no violent accidents or strokes of pure luck will divert events from their normal course: no forger, long lost heir, detective, nor any commonplace of the police court or of the realm of romance shall insult your understanding, or tempt you to read on when you might better be in bed or attending to your business. By this time you should be eager to be at the story. Meanwhile I must not forget that it is only by your exceptional indulgence that I have been suffered to detain you so long about a personal matter; and so I thank you and proceed to business.

29, Fitzroy Square, London, W.

I

One fine afternoon during the Easter holidays, Kensington Gardens were in their freshest spring green, and the steps of the Albert Memorial dotted with country visitors, who alternately conned their guidebooks and stared up at the golden gentleman under the shrine, trying to reconcile the reality with the description, whilst their Cockney friends, indifferent to shrine and statue, gazed idly at the fashionable drive below. One group in particular was composed of an old gentleman intent upon the Memorial, a young lady intent upon her guide-book, and a young gentleman intent upon the young lady. She looked a woman of force and intelligence; and her boldly curved nose and chin, elastic step, upright carriage, resolute bearing, and thick black hair, secured at the base of the neck by a broad crimson ribbon, made those whom her appearance pleased think her strikingly handsome. The rest thought her strikingly ugly; but she would perhaps have forgiven them for the sake of the implied admission that she was at least not commonplace ; for her costume, consisting of an ample black cloak lined with white fur, and a broad hat with red feather and underbrim of sea green silk, was of the sort affected by women who strenuously cultivate themselves, and insist upon their individuality. She was not at all like her father, the grey-haired gentleman who, scanning the Memorial with eager watery eyes, was uttering occasional ejaculations of wonder at the sum it must have cost. The younger man, who might have been thirty or thereabout, was slight and of moderate stature. His fine hair, of a pale golden color, already turning to a silvery brown, curled delicately over his temples, where it was beginning to wear away. A short beard set off his features, which were those of a man of exceptional sensitiveness and refinement. He was the Londoner of the party; and he waited with devoted patience whilst his companions satisfied their curiosity. It was pleasant to watch them, for he was not gloating over her, nor she too conscious that she was making the sunshine brighter for him; and yet they were quite evidently young lovers, and as happy as people at their age know how to be.

At last the old gentleman's appetite for the Memorial yielded to the fatigue of standing on the stone steps and looking upwards. He proposed that they should find a seat and examine the edifice from a little distance.

"I think I see a bench down there with only one person on it, Mary," he said, as they descended the steps at the west side. "Can you see whether he is respectable?"

The young lady, who was shortsighted, placed a pair of glasses on her salient nose, lifted her chin, and deliberately examined the person on the bench. He was a short, thick-chested young man, in an old creased frock coat, with a worn-out hat and no linen visible. His skin, pitted by smallpox, seemed grained with black, as though he had been lately in a coal mine, and had not yet succeeded in toweling the coal-dust from his pores. He sat with his arms folded, staring at the ground before him. One hand was concealed under his arm: the other displayed itself, thick in the palm, with short fingers, and nails bitten to the quick. He was clean shaven, and had a rugged, resolute mouth, a short nose, marked nostrils, dark eyes, and black hair, which curled over his low, broad forehead.

"He is certainly not a handsome man," said the lady; "but he will do us no harm, I suppose?"

"Of course not," said the younger gentleman seriously. "But I can get some chairs, if you prefer them."

"Nonsense! I was only joking." As she spoke, the man on the bench looked up at her; and the moment she saw his eyes, she began to stand in some awe of him. His vague stare changed to a keen scrutiny, which she returned hardily. Then he looked for a moment at her dress; glanced at her companions; and relapsed into his former attitude.

The bench accommodated four persons easily. The old gentleman sat at the unoccupied end, next his daughter. Their friend placed himself between her and the man, at whom she presently stole another look. His attention was again aroused: this time he was looking at a child who was eating an apple near him. His expression gave the lady an uncomfortable sensation. The child, too, caught sight of him, and stopped eating to regard him mistrustfully. He smiled with grim good humor, and turned his eyes to the gravel once more.

"It is certainly a magnificent piece of work, Herbert," said the old gentleman. "To you, as an artist, it must be a treat indeed. I don't know enough about art to appreciate it properly. Bless us! And are all those knobs made of precious stones?"

"More or less precious: yes, I believe so, Mr. Sutherland," said Herbert, smiling.

"I must come and look at it again," said Mr. Sutherland, turning from the memorial, and putting his spectacles on the bench beside him. "It is quite a study. I wish I had this business of Charlie's off my mind."

"You will find a tutor for him without any difficulty," said Herbert. "There are hundreds to choose from in London."

"Yes; but if there were a thousand, Charlie would find a new objection to every one of them. You see the difficulty is the music."

Herbert, incommoded by a sudden movement of the strange man, got a little nearer to Mary, and replied, "I do not think the music ought to present much difficulty. Many young men qualifying for holy orders are very glad to obtain private tutorships; and nowadays a clergyman is expected to have some knowledge of music."

"Yes." said the lady; "but what is the use of that when Charlie expressly objects to clergymen? I sympathize with him there, for once. Divinity students are too narrow and dogmatic to be comfortable to live with."

"There!" exclaimed Mr. Sutherland, suddenly indignant: "you are beginning to make objections. Do you expect to get an angel from heaven to teach Charlie?"

"No, papa; but I doubt if anything less will satisfy him."

"I will speak to some of my friends about it," said Herbert. "There is no hurry for a week or two, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, none whatever," said Mr. Sutherland, ostentatiously serene after his outbreak: "there is no hurry certainly. But Charlie must not be allowed to contract habits of idleness; and if the matter cannot be settled to his liking, I shall exert my authority, and select a tutor myself. I cannot understand his objection to the man we saw at Archdeacon Downes's. Can you, Mary?"

"I can understand that Charlie is too lazy to work," said Mary. Then, as if tired of the subject, she turned to Herbert, and said, "You have not yet told us when we may come to your studio and see The Lady of Shalott. I am very anxious to see it. I shall not mind its being unfinished."

"But I shall," said Herbert, suddenly becoming self-conscious and nervous. "I fear the picture will disappoint you in any case; but at least I wish it to be as good as I can make it, before you see it. I must ask you to wait until Thursday."

"Certainly, if you like," said Mary earnestly. She was about to add something, when Mr. Sutherland, who had become somewhat restive when the conversation turned upon pictures, declared that he had sat long enough. So they rose to go; and Mary turned to get a last glimpse of the man. He was looking at them with a troubled expression; and his lips were white. She thought he was about to speak, and involuntarily retreated a step. But he said nothing: only she was struck, as he composed himself in his old attitude, by his extreme dejection.

"Did you notice that man sitting next you?" she whispered to Herbert, when they had gone a little distance.

"Not particularly."

Do you think he is very poor?"

"He certainly does not appear to be very rich," said Herbert, looking back.

"I saw a very odd look in his eyes. I hope he is not hungry."

They stopped. Then Herbert walked slowly on. "I should think not so bad as that," he said. "I don't think his appearance would justify me in offering him —"

"Oh, dear, dear me!" said Mr Sutherland. "I am very stupid."

"What is the matter now, papa?"

"I have lost my glasses. I must have left them on that seat. Just wait one moment whilst I go back for them. No, no, Herbert: I will go back myself. I recollect exactly where I laid them down. I shall be back in a moment. "

"Papa always takes the most exact notes of the places in which he puts things; and he always leaves them behind him after all," said Mary. "There is that man in precisely the same position as when we first saw him."

"No. He is saying something to your father, begging, I am afraid, or he would not stand up and lift his hat"

"How dreadful!"

Herbert laughed. "If, as you suspected, he is hungry, there is nothing very dreadful in it, poor fellow. It is natural enough."

"I did not mean that. I meant that it was dreadful to think of his being forced to beg. Papa has not given him anything— I wish he would. He evidently wants to get rid of him, and, of course, does not know how to do it. Let us go back."

"If you wish," said Herbert, reluctantly. "But I warn you that London is full of begging impostors."

Meanwhile Mr Sutherland, finding his spectacles where he had left them, took them up; wiped them with his handkerchief; and was turning away, when he found himself confronted by the strange man, who had risen.

"Sir," said the man, raising his shabby hat, and speaking in a subdued voice of remarkable power: "I have been a tutor; and I am a musician. I can convince you that I am an honest and respectable man. I am in need of employment. Something I overheard just now leads me to hope that you can assist me. I will—" Here the man, though apparently self-possessed, stopped as if his breath had failed him.

Mr. Sutherland's first impulse was to tell the stranger stiffly that he had no occasion for his services. But as there were no bystanders, and the man's gaze was impressive, he became nervous, and said hastily, "Oh, thank you: I have not decided what I shall do as yet." And he attempted to pass on.

The man immediately stepped aside, saying, "If you will favor me with your address, sir, I can send you testimonials which will prove that I have a right to seek such a place as you describe. If they do not satisfy you, I shall trouble you no further. Or if you will be so good as to accept my card, you can consider at your leisure whether to communicate with me or not."

"Certainly, I will take your card," said Mr. Sutherland, flurried and conciliatory. "Thank you. I can write to you, you, know, if I—"

"I am much obliged to you." Here he produced an ordinary visiting card, with the name "Mr. Owen Jack" engraved, and an address at Church Street, Kensington, written in a crabbed but distinct hand in the corner. Whilst Mr. Sutherland was pretending to read it, his daughter came up, purse in hand, hurrying before Herbert, whose charity she wished to forestall. Mr. Owen Jack looked at her; and she hid her purse quickly. "I am sorry to have delayed you, sir," he said. "Good morning." He raised his hat again, and walked away.

"Good morning, sir," said Mr Sutherland. "Lord bless me! that's a cool fellow," he added, recovering himself, and beginning to feel ashamed of having been so courteous to a poorly dressed stranger.

"What did he want, papa?"

"Indeed, my dear, he has shown me that we cannot be too careful of how we talk before strangers in London. By the purest accident—,the merest chance, I happened, whilst we were sitting here five minutes ago, to mention that we wanted a tutor for Charlie. This man was listening to us; and now he has offered himself for the place. Just fancy the quickness of that. Here is his card."

"Owen Jack!" said Mary. "What a name!"

"Did he overhear anything about the musical difficulty?" said Herbert. "Nature does not seem to have formed Mr Jack for the pursuit of a fine art."

"Yes: he caught up even that. According to his own account, he understands music—, in fact he can do everything."

Mary looked thoughtful. "After all," she said slowly, "he might suit us. He is certainly not handsome; but he does not seem stupid; and he would probably not want a large salary. I think Archdeacon Downes's man's terms are perfectly ridiculous."

"I am afraid it would be rather a dangerous experiment to give a responsible post to an individual whom we have chanced upon in a public park." said Herbert.

"Oh! out of the question," said Mr Sutherland. "I only took his card as the shortest way of getting rid of him. Perhaps I was wrong to do even that."

"Of course we should have to make inquiries," said Mary. "Somehow, I cannot get it out of my head that he is in very bad circumstances. He might be a gentleman. He does not look common."

"I agree with you so far," said Herbert. "And I am not sorry that such models are scarce. But of course you are quite right in desiring to assist this man, if he is unfortunate."

"Engaging a tutor is a very commonplace affair," said Mary; "but we may as well do some good by it if we can. Archdeacon Downes's man is in no immediate want of a situation: he has dozens of offers to choose from. Why not give the place to whoever is in the greatest need of it?"

"Very well," cried Mr. Sutherland. "Send after him and bring him home at once in a carriage and pair, since you have made up your mind not to hear to reason on the subject."

"After all," interposed Herbert, "it will do no harm to make a few inquiries. If you will allow me, I will take the matter in hand, so as to prevent all possibility of his calling on or disturbing you. Give me his card. I will write to him for his testimonials and references, and so forth; and if anything comes of it, I can then hand him over to you."

Mary locked gratefully at him, and said, "Do, papa. Let Mr Herbert write. It cannot possibly do any harm; and it will be no trouble to you."

"I do not object to the trouble" said Mr Sutherland. "I have taken the trouble of coming up to London, all the way from Windsor, solely for Charlie's sake. However, Herbert, perhaps you could manage the affair better than I. In fact, I should prefer to remain in the background. But then your time is valuable —"

"It will cost me only a few minutes to write the necessary letters— minutes that would be no better spent in any case. I assure you it will be practically no trouble to me."

"There, papa. Now we have settled that point, let us go on to the National Gallery. I wish we were going to your studio instead."

"You must not ask for that yet," said Herbert earnestly. "I promise you a special private view of The Lady of Shalott on Thursday next at latest."

II

On Thursday afternoon Herbert stood before his easel, watching the light changing on his picture as the clouds shifted in the wind. At moments when the effect on the color pleased him, he wished that Mary would enter and see it so at her first glance. But as the afternoon wore it became duller; and when she at last arrived, he felt sorry he had not appointed one o'clock instead of three. She was accompanied by a tall lad of sixteen, with light blue eyes, fair hair, and an expression of irreverent good humor.

"How do you do" said Herbert. "Take care of those sketches, Charlie, old fellow. They are wet."

"Papa felt very tired: he thought it best to lie down for a little," said Mary, throwing off her cloak and appearing in a handsome dress of marmalade-colored silk. "He left the arrangements with Mr Jack to you. I suspect the dread of having to confront that mysterious stranger again had something to do with his fatigue. Is the Lady of Shalott ready to be seen?"

"The light is bad, I am sorry to say," said Herbert, lingering whilst Mary made a movement towards the easel.

"Don't push into the room like that, Mary," said Charlie. "Artists always have models in their studios. Give the young lady time to dress herself."

"There is a gleam of sunshine now," said Herbert, gravely, ignoring the lad. "Better have your first look at it while it lasts."

Mary placed herself before the easel, and gazed earnestly at it, finding that expression the easiest mask for a pang of disappointment which followed her first glance at the canvas. Herbert did not interrupt her for some moments. Then he said in a low voice: "You understand her action, do you not?"

"Yes. She has just seen the reflexion of Lancelot's figure in the mirror; and she is turning round to look at the reality."

"She has a deuce of a scraggy collar-bone," said Charlie.

"Oh, hush, Charlie," cried Mary, dreading that her brother might roughly express her own thoughts. "It seems quite right to me."

"The action of turning to look over her shoulder brings out the clavicle," said Herbert, smiling. "It is less prominent in the picture than it would be in nature: I had to soften it a little."

"Why didn't you paint her in some other attitude?" said Charlie.

"Because I happened to be aiming at the seizure of a poetic moment, and not at the representation of a pretty bust, my critical young friend," said Herbert quietly. "I think you are a little too close to the canvas, Miss Sutherland. Remember: the picture is not quite finished."

"She can't see anything unless she is close to it," said Charlie. "In fact, she never can get close enough, because her nose is longer than her sight. I don't understand that window up there above the woman's head. In reality there would be nothing to see through it except the sky. But there is a river, and flowers, and a man from the Lord Mayor's show. Are they up on a mountain?"

"Charlie, please stop. How can you be so rude?"

"Oh, I am accustomed to criticism," said Herbert. "You are a born critic, Charlie, since you cannot distinguish a mirror from a window. Have you never read your Tennyson?"

"Read Tennyson! I should think not. What sensible man would wade through the adventures of King Arthur and his knights? I one would think that Don Quixote had put a stop to that style of nonsense. Who was the Lady of Shalott? One of Sir Lancelot's, or Sir Galahad's, or Sir Somebody else's young women, I suppose."

"Do not mind him, Mr Herbert. It is pure affectation, He knows perfectly well."

"I don't," said Charlie; "and what's more, I don't believe you know either."

"The Lady of Shalott," said Herbert, "had a task to perform; and whilst she was at work upon it, she was, on pain of a curse, only to see the outer world as it was reflected by a mirror which hung above her head. One day, Sir Lancelot rode by; and when she saw his image she forgot the curse and turned to look at him."

"Very interesting and sensible," said Charlie.

"Why mightn't she as well have looked at the world Straight off out of the window, as seen it left handed in a mirror? The notion of a woman spending her life making a Turkey carpet is considered poetic, I sup- pose. What happened when she looked round?"

"Ah, I see you are interested. Nothing happened, except that the mirror broke and the lady died."

"Yes, and then got into a boat; rowed herself down to Hampton Court into the middle of a water party; and arranged her corpse in an attitude for the benefit of Lancelot. I've seen a picture of that.

"I see you do know something about Tennyson. Now, Miss Sutherland, what is your honest opinion?"

"I think it is beautiful. The coloring seemed rather dull to me at first, because I had been thinking of the river bank, the golden grain, the dazzling sun, the gorgeous loom, the armor of Sir Lancelot, instead of the Lady herself. But now that I have grasped your idea, there is a certain sadness and weakness about her that is very pathetic."

"Do you think the figure is weak?" said Herbert dubiously.

"Not really weak," replied Mary hastily. "I mean that the weakness proper to her story is very touchingly expressed."

"She means that it is too sober and respectable for her," said Charlie. "She likes screaming colors. If you had dressed the lady in red and gold; painted the Turkey carpet in full bloom; and made Lancelot like a sugar stick, she would have liked it better. That armor, by the bye, would be the better for a rub of emery paper."

"Armor is hard to manage, particularly in distance," said Herbert. "Here I had to contend with the additional difficulty of not making the reflexion in the mirror seem too real."

"You seem to have got over that pretty successfully," said Charlie.

"Yes," said Mary. "There is a certain unreality about the landscape and the figure in armor that I hardly understood at first. The more I strive to exercise my judgment upon art, the more I feel my ignorance. I wish you would always tell me when make foolish comments. There is someone knocking, I think."

"It is only the housekeeper," said Herbert, opening the door.

"Mr Jack, sir," said the housekeeper.

"Dear me! we must have been very late," said Mary. "It is four o'clock. Now Charlie, pray behave like a gentleman."

"I suppose he had better come in here," said Herbert. "Or would you rather not meet him?"

"Oh, I must meet him. Papa told me particularly to speak to him myself."

Mr Jack was accordingly shewn in by the housekeeper. this time, he displayed linen—a clean collar; and he carried a new hat. He made a formal bow, and looked at the artist and his guests, who became a little nervous.

"Good evening, Mr Jack," said Herbert. "I see you got my letter."

"You are Mr Herbert?" said Jack, in his resonant voice which, in the lofty studio, had a bright, close quality like the middle notes of a trumpet. Herbert nodded. "You are not the gentleman to whom I spoke on Saturday?"

"No. Mr Sutherland is not well; and I am acting for him. This is the young gentleman whom I mentioned to you."

Charlie blushed, and grinned. Then, seeing a humorous wrinkling in the stranger's face, he stepped forward and offered him his hand. Jack shook it heartily. "I shall get on very well with you," he said, "if you think you will like me as a tutor."

"Charlie never works," said Mary: "that is his great failing, Mr Jack."

"You have no right to say that," said Charlie, reddening. "How do you know whether I work or not? I can make a start with Mr Jack without being handicapped by your amiable recommendations."

"This is Miss Sutherland," said Herbert, interposing quickly. "She is the mistress of Mr Sutherland's household; and she will explain to you how you will be circumstanced as regards your residence with the family."

Jack bowed again. "I should like to know, first, at what studies this young gentleman requires my assistance."

"I want to learn something about music—about the theory of music, you know," said Charlie; "and I can grind at anything else you like."

"His general education must not be sacrificed to the music," said Mary anxiously.

"Oh! don't you be afraid of my getting off too easily," said Charlie. "I dare say Mr Jack knows his business without being told it by you."

"Pray don't interrupt me, Charlie. I wish you would go into the next room and look at the sketches. I shall have to arrange matters with Mr Jack which do not concern you."

"Very well," said Charlie, sulkily. "I don't want to interfere with your arrangements; but don't you interfere with mine. Let Mr Jack form his own opinion of me; and keep yours to yourself." Then he left the studio.

"If there is to be any serious study of music— I understood from Mr. Herbert that your young brother desires to make it his profession—other matters must give place to it," said Jack bluntly. "A little experience will shew us the best course to take with him. "

"Yes," said Mary. After hesitating a moment she added timidly, "Then you are willing to undertake his instruction?"

"I am willing, so far," said Jack.

Mary looked nervously at Herbert, who smiled, and said, "Since we are satisfied on that point, the only remaining question, I presume, is one of terms."

"Sir," said Jack abruptly, "I hate business and know nothing about it. Therefore excuse me if I put my terms in my own way. If I am to live with Mr Sutherland at Windsor, I shall want, besides food and lodging, a reasonable time to myself every day, with permission to use Miss Sutherland's piano when I can do so without disturbing anybody, and money enough to keep me decently clothed, and not absolutely penniless. I will say thirty-five pounds a year."

"Thirty-five pounds a year" repeated Herbert. "To confess the truth, I am not a man of business myself; but that seems quite reasonable."

"Oh, quite," said Mary. "I think papa would not mind giving more."

"It is enough for me," said Jack, with something like a suppressed chuckle at Mary's simplicity. "Or, I will take a church organ in the neighborhood, if you can procure it for me, in lieu of salary."

"I think we had better adhere to the usual arrangement," said Herbert. Jack nodded, and said, "I have no further conditions to make."

"Do you wish to say anything?" said Herbert, looking inquiringly at Mary.

"No, I—I think not. I thought Mr. Jack would like to know something of our domestic arrangements."

"Thank you," said Jack curtly, "I need not trouble you. If your house does not suit me, I can complain, or leave it." He paused, and then added more courteously, "You may reassure yourself as to my personal comfort, Miss Sutherland. I am well used to greater privation than I am likely to suffer with you."

Mary had nothing more to say. Herbert coughed and turned his ring round a few times upon his finger. Jack stood motionless, and looked very ugly.

"Although Mr. Sutherland has left this matter altogether in my hands," said Herbert at last, "I hardly like to conclude it myself. He is staying close by, in Onslow Gardens. Would you mind calling on him now? If you will allow me, I will give you a note to the effect that our interview has been a satisfactory one." Jack bowed. "Excuse me for one moment. My writing materials are in the next room. I will say a word or two to Charlie, and send him in to you."

There was a mirror in the room, which Herbert had used as a model. It was so placed that Mary could see the image of the new tutor's face, as, being now alone with her, he looked for the first time at the picture. A sudden setting of his mouth and derisive twinkle in his eye shewed that he found something half ludicrous, half contemptible, in the work; and she, observing this, felt hurt, and began to repent having engaged him. Then the expression softened to one of compassion; he sighed as he turned away from the easel. Before she could speak Charlie entered, saying:

"I am to go back with you to Onslow Gardens, Mr Jack, if you don't mind."

"Oh, no, Charlie: you must stay with me," said Mary.

"Don't be alarmed: Adrian is going on to the Museum with you directly; and the housekeeper is here to do propriety. I have no particular fancy for lounging about that South Kensington crockery shop with you; and, besides, Mr Jack does not know his way to Jermyn's. Here is Adrian."

Herbert came in, and handed a note to the tutor, who took it; nodded briefly to them; and went out with Charlie.

"That is certainly the ugliest man I ever saw," said Herbert. "I think he has got the better of us, too. We are a pretty pair to transact business."

"Yes," said Mary, laughing. "He said he was not a man of business; but I wonder what he thinks of us."

"As of two young children whom fate has delivered into his hand, doubtless, shall we start now for South Kensington?"

"Yes. But I don't want to disturb my impression of the Lady of Shalott by any more art to-day. It is so fine this afternoon that I think it would be more sensible for us to take a walk in the Park than to shut ourselves up in the Museum."

Herbert agreeing, they walked together to Hyde Park. "Now that we are here," said he, "where shall we go to? The Row?"

"Certainly not. It is the most vulgar place in London. If we could find a pleasant seat, I should like to rest."

"We had better try Kensington Gardens, then."

"No," said Mary, remembering Mr Jack. "I do not like Kensington Gardens."

"I have just thought of the very thing," exclaimed Herbert. "Let us take a boat. The Serpentine is not so pretty as the Thames at Windsor; but it will have the charm of novelty for you. Will you come?"

"I should like it of all things. But I rely upon you as to the propriety of my going with you."

Herbert hesitated. "I do not think there can be any harm."

"There: I was only joking. Do you think I allow myself to be influenced by such nonsense as that? Let us go."

So they went to the boat-house and embarked. Herbert sculled aimlessly about, enjoying the spring sunshine, until they found themselves in an unfrequented corner of the Serpentine, when he half shipped his sculls, and said, "Let us talk for a while now. I have worked enough, I think."

"By all means," said Mary. "May I begin?"

Herbert looked quickly at her, and seemed a little disconcerted. "Of course." said he.

"I want to make a confession," she said. "it concerns the Lady of Shalott, of which I have been busily thinking since we started."

"Have you reconsidered your good opinion of it?"

"No. Better and yet worse than that. I have reconsidered my bad impression of it—at least, I do not mean that—I never had a bad impression of it, but my vacant, stupid first idea. My confession is that I was disappointed at the first sight of it. Wait: let me finish. It was different from what I imagined, as it ought to have been; for I am not an artist, and therefore do not imagine things properly. But it has grown upon me since; and now I like it better than if it had dazzled my ignorant eyes at first. I have been thinking that if it had the gaudy qualities I missed in it, I should not have respected you so much for painting it, nor should I have been forced to dwell on the poetry of the conception as I have been. I remember being secretly disappointed the first time we went to the National Gallery; and, as to my first opera, I suffered agonies of disenchantment. It is a comfort to me—a mean one, I fear—to know that Sir Joshua Reynolds was disappointed at his first glimpse of Raphael's frescoes in the Vatican, and that some of the great composers thought Beethoven's music hideous before they became familiar with it."

"You find that my picture improves on acquaintance?"

"Oh. yes! Very much. Or rather I improve."

"But are you sure youre not coaxing yourself into a false admiration of it for my—to avoid hurting me?"

"No, indeed," said Mary vehemently, trying by force of assertion to stifle this suspicion, which had come into her own mind before Herbert mentioned it.

"And do you still feel able to sympathize with my aims, and willing to encourage me, and to keep the highest aspects of my art before me, as you have done hitherto?"

"I feel willing, but not able. How often must I remind you that I owe all my feeling for art to you, and that I am only the faint reflexion of you in all matters concerning it?"

"Nevertheless without your help I should long ago have despaired. Are you quite sure—I beg you to answer me faithfully—that you do not despise me?"

"Mr. Herbert! How can you think such a thing of me? How can you think it of yourself?"

"I am afraid my constant self-mistrust is only too convincing a proof of my weakness. I sometimes despise myself."

"It is a proof of your artistic sensibility. You do not need to learn from me that all the great artists have left passages behind them proving that they have felt sometimes as you feel now. Take the oars again; and let us spin down to the bridge. The exercise will cure your fancies."

"Not yet. I have something else to say. Has it occurred to you that if by any accident—by the forming of a new tie, for instance—your sympathies came to be diverted from me, I should lose the only person whose belief in me has helped me to believe in myself? How utterly desolate I should be!"

"Desolate! Nonsense. Some day you will exhaust the variety of the sympathy you compliment me so highly upon. You will find it growing shallow and monotonous; and then you will not be sorry to be rid of it."

"I am quite serious. Mary: I have felt for some time past that it is neither honest nor wise in me to trifle any longer with my only chance of happiness. Will you become engaged to me? You may meet many better and stronger men than I, but none who will value you more highly—perhaps none to whose life you can be so indispensable."

There was a pause, Mary being too full of the responsibility she felt placed upon her to reply at once. Of the ordinary maidenly embarrassment she shewed not a trace.

"Why cannot we go on as we have been doing so happily?" she said, thoughtfully.

"Of course, if you wish it, we can. That is, if you do not know your own mind on the subject. But such happiness as there may be in our present indefinite relations will be all on your side."

"It seems so ungrateful to hesitate. It is doubt of myself that makes me do so. You have always immensely overrated me; and I should not like you to feel at some future day that you had made a mistake. When you are famous, you will be able to choose whom you please, and where you please."

"If that is the only consideration that hinders you, I claim your consent. Do you not think that I, too, do not feel how little worthy of your acceptance my offer is? But if we can love one another, what does all that matter? It is not as though we were strangers: we have proved one another. It is absurd that we two should say 'Mr Herbert' and 'Miss Sutherland, as if our friendship were an acquaintance of ceremony."

"I have often wished that you would call me Mary. At home we always speak of you as Adrian. But I could hardly have asked you to, could I?"

"I am sorry you did not. And now, will you give me a definite answer? Perhaps I have hardly made you a definite offer; but you know my position. I am too poor with my wretched £300 a year to give you a proper home at present. For that I must depend on my brush. You can fancy how I shall work when every exertion will bring my wedding day nearer; though, even at the most hopeful estimate, I fear I am condemning you to a long engagement. Are you afraid to venture on it?"

"Yes, I am afraid; but only lest you should find out the true worth of what you are waiting for. If you will risk that, I consent."

III

On one of the last days of July, Mary Sutherland was in her father's house at Windsor, copying a sketch signed A. H. The room had a French window opening on a little pleasure ground and shrubbery, far beyond which, through the swimming summer atmosphere, was the river threading the distant valley. But Mary did not look that way. With her attention concentrated on a stained scrap of paper, she might have passed for an æsthetic daughter of the Man with the Muck Rake. At last a shadow fell upon the drawing board. Then she turned, and saw a tall, handsome lady, a little past middle age, standing at the window.

"Mrs Herbert!" she exclaimed, throwing down her brush, and running to embrace the new-comer. "I thought you were in Scotland."

"So I was, until last week. The first person I saw in London was your Aunt Jane; and she has persuaded me to stay at Windsor with her for a fortnight How well you are looking! I saw your portrait in Adrian's studio; and it is not the least bit like you."

"I hope you did not tell him so. Besides, it must be like me. All Adrian's artistic friends admire it."

"Yes; and he admires their works in return. It is a well understood bargain. Poor Adrian! He did not know that I was coming back from Scotland; and I gave him a very disagreeable surprise by walking into his studio on Monday afternoon."

"Disagreeable! I am sure he was delighted."

"He did not even pretend to be pleased. His manners are really getting worse and worse. Who is the curious person that opened the shrubbery gate for me?—a sort of Cyclop with a voice of bronze."

"It is only Mr Jack, Charlie's tutor. He has nothing to do at present, as Charlie is spending a fortnight at Cambridge."

"Oh, indeed! Your Aunt Jane has a great deal to say about him. She does not like him; and his appearance rather confirms her, I must say, though he has good eyes. Whose whim was Mr Jack, pray?"

"Mine, they say; though I had no more to do with his being engaged than papa or Charlie had."

"I am glad Adrian had nothing to do with it. Well, Mary, have you any news for me? Has anything wonderful happened since I went to Scotland?"

"No. At least, I think not. You heard of papa's aunt Dorcas's death."

"That was in April, just before I went away. I heard that you left London early in the season. It is childish to bury yourself down here. You must get married, dear."

Mary blushed. "Did Adrian tell you of his new plans?" she said.

"Adrian never tells me anything. And indeed I do not care to hear of any plans of his until he has, once for all, given up his absurd notion of becoming a painter. Of course he will not hear of that: he has never forgiven me for suggesting it. All that his fine art has done for him as yet is to make him dislike his mother; and I hope it may never do worse."

"But, Mrs Herbert, you are mistaken: I assure you you are quite mistaken. He is a little sore, perhaps, because you do not appreciate his genius; but he loves you very dearly."

"Do not trouble yourself about my not appreciating his genius, as you call it, my dear. I am not one bit prejudiced against art; and if Adrian had the smallest chance of becoming a good painter, I would share my jointure with him and send him abroad to study. But he will never paint. I am not what is called an &ligae;sthete; and pictures that are generally understood to be the perfection of modern art invariably bore me, because I do not understand them. But I do understand Adrian's daubs; and I know that they are invariably weak and bad. All the Royal Academy could not persuade me to the contrary—though, indeed, they are not likely to try. I wish I could make you understand that anyone who dissuades Adrian from pursuing art will be his best friend. Don't you feel that yourself when you look at his pictures, Mary?"

"No," said Mary, fixing her glasses and looking boldly at her visitor, "I feel just the contrary."

"Then you must be blind or infatuated. Take his portrait of you as an example! No one could recognize it. Even Adrian told me that he would have destroyed it, had you not forbidden him; though he was bursting with suppressed resentment because I did not pretend to admire it."

"I believe that Adrian will be a great man yet, and that you will acknowledge that you were mistaken in him."

"Well, my dear, you are young, and not very wise, for all your cleverness. Besides, you did not know Adrian's father."

"No; but I know Adrian—very well, I think. I have faith in the entire worthiness of his conceptions; and he has proved that he does not grudge the hard work which is all that is requisite to secure the power of executing what he conceives. You cannot expect him to be a great painter without long practice and study."

"I do not understand metaphysics, Mary. Conceptions and executions are Greek to me. But I know very well that Adrian will never be happy until he is married to some sensible woman. And married he never can be whilst he remains an artist."

"Why?"

"What a question! How can he marry with only three hundred a year? He would not accept an allowance from me, even if I could afford to make him one; for since we disagreed about this wretched art, he has withdrawn himself from me in every possible way, and with an ostentation, too, which—natural feeling apart—is in very bad taste. He will never add a penny to his income by painting: of that I am certain; and he has not enterprise enough to marry a woman with money. If he persists in his infatuation, you will find that he will drag out his life waiting for a success that will never come. And he has no social talents. If he were a genius, like Raphael, his crotchets would not matter. If he were a humbug, like his uncle John he would flourish as all humbugs do in this wicked world. But Adrian is neither: he is only a duffer, poor fellow."

Mary reddened, and said nothing.

"Have you any influence over him?" said Mrs. Herbert, watching her.

"If I had," replied Mary "I would not use it to discourage him."

"I am sorry for that. I had some hope that you would help me to save him from wasting his opportunities. Your Aunt Jane has been telling me that you are engaged to him; but that is such an old story now that I never pay any attention to it."

"Has Adrian not told you?"

"My dear, I have already said a dozen times that Adrian never tells me anything. The more important his affairs are, the more openly and purposely he excludes me from them. I hope you have not been so silly as to rely on his visions of fame for your future support."

"The truth is that we have been engaged since last April. I wanted Adrian to write to you; but he said he preferred to speak to you about it. I thought he would have done so the moment you returned. However, I am sure he had good reasons for leaving me to tell you; and I am quite content to wait until he reaps the reward of his labor. We must agree to differ about his genius. I have perfect faith in him."

"Well, Mary, I am very sorry for your sake. I am afraid, if you do not lose patience and desert him in time, you will live to see all your own money spent, and to try bringing up a family on three hundred a year. If you would only be advised, and turn him from his artistic conceit, you would be the best wife in England for him. You have such force of character— just what he wants."

Mary laughed. "You are so mistaken in everything concerning Adrian!" she said. "It is he who has all the force of character: I am only his pupil. He has imposed all his ideas on me, more, perhaps, by dint of their purity and truth than of his own assertiveness; for he is no dogmatist. I am always the follower: he the leader."

"All very fine, Mary; but my old-fashioned common sense is better than your clever modern nonsense. However, since Adrian has turned your head, there is nothing for it but to wait until you both come to your senses. That must be your Aunt Jane at the door. She promised to follow me within half an hour."

Mary frowned, and recovered her serenity with an effort as she rose to greet her aunt, Mrs. Beatty, an elderly lady, with features like Mr. Sutherland's but fat and imperious. She exclaimed, "I hope I've not come too soon, Mary. How surprised you must have been to see Mrs Herbert!"

"Yes. Mr Jack let her into the shrubbery; and she appeared to me at the window without a word of warning."

"Mr Jack is a nice person to have in a respectable house," said Mrs. Beatty scornfully. "Do you know where I saw him last?"

"No," said Mary impatiently; "and I do not want to know. I am tired of Mr Jack's misdemeanors."

"Misdemeanors! I call it scandal, Mary. A perfect disgrace!"

"Dear me! What has he done now?'

"You may well ask. He is at present shewing himself in the streets of Windsor in company with common soldiers, openly entering the taverns with them."

"O Aunt Jane! Are you sure?"

Perhaps you will allow me to believe my senses. I drove through the town on my way here— you know what a small town is, Mrs Herbert, and how everybody knows everybody else by sight in it, let alone such a remarkable looking person as this Mr Jack; and the very first person I saw was Private Charles, the worst character in my husband's regiment, conversing with my nephew's tutor at the door of the 'Green Man.' They went into the bar together before my eyes. Now, what do you think of your Mr Jack?"

"He may have had some special reason "

"Special reason! Fiddlestick! What right has any servant of my brother's to speak to a profligate soldier in broad daylight in the streets?* There can be no excuse for it. If Mr Jack, had a particle of self-respect he would maintain a proper distance between himself and even a full sergeant. But this Charles is such a drunkard that he spends half his time in cells. He would have been dismissed from the regiment long since, only he is a bandsman; and the bandmaster begs Colonel Beatty not to get rid of him, as he cannot be replaced."

"If he is a bandsman," said Mary, "that explains it. Mr Jack wanted musical information from him, I suppose."

"I declare, Mary, it is perfectly wicked to hear you defend such conduct. Is a public house the proper place for learning music? Why could not Mr Jack apply to your uncle? If he had addressed himself properly to me, Colonel Beatty could have ordered the man to give him whatever information was required of him."

"I must say, aunt, that you are the last person I should expect Mr Jack to ask a favor from, judging by your usual manner towards him."

"There!" said Mrs Beatty, turning indignantly to Mrs Herbert. "That is the way I am treated in this house to gratify Mr Jack. Last week I was told that I was in the habit of gossiping with servants, because Mrs Williams housemaid met him in the Park on Sunday—on Sunday, mind—whistling and singing and behaving like a madman. And now, when Mary's favorite is convicted in the very act of carousing with the lowest of the low, she turns it off by saying that I do not know how to behave myself before a tutor."

"I did not say so, aunt; and you know that very well. "

"Oh, well, of course if you are going to fly out at me—"

"I am not flying at you, aunt; but you are taking offence without the least reason; and you are making Mrs Herbert believe that I am Mr Jack's special champion—you called him my favorite. The truth is, Mrs Herbert, that nobody likes this Mr Jack; and we only keep him because Charlie makes some progress with him, and respects him. Aunt Jane took a violent dislike to him "

"I, Mary! What is Mr Jack to me that I should like or dislike him, pray?"

"—and she is always bringing me stories of his misdoings, as if they were my fault. Then, when I try to defend him from obvious injustice, I am accused of encouraging and shielding him."

"So you do," said Mrs Beatty.

"I say whatever I can for him," said Mary sharply, "because I dislike him too much to condescend to join in attacks made on him behind his back. And I am not afraid of him, though you are, and so is Papa."

"Oh, really you are too ridiculous," said Mrs Beatty. "Afraid!"

"I see," said Mrs Herbert smoothly, "that my acquaintance the Cyclop has made himself a bone of contention here. Since you all dislike him, why not dismiss him and get a more popular character in his place? He is really not an ornament to your establishment. Where is your father, Mary?"

"He has gone out to dine at Eton; and he will not be back until midnight. He will be so sorry to have missed you. But he will see you to-morrow, of course. "

"And you are alone here?"

"Yes. Alone with my work."

"Then what about our plan of taking you back with us and keeping you for the evening'"

"I think I would rather stay and finish my work."

"Nonsense, child," said Mrs Beatty. "You cannot be working always. Come out and enjoy yourself."

Mary yielded with a sigh, and went for her hat.

"I am sure that all this painting and poetry reading is not good for a young girl," said Mrs Beatty, whilst Mary was away. "It is very good of your Adrian to take such trouble to cultivate Mary's mind; but so much study cannot but hurt her brain. She is very self-willed and full of outlandish ideas. She is not under proper control. Poor Charles has no more resolution than a baby. And she will not listen to me, alth— "

"I am ready," said Mary, returning.

"You make me nervous—you do everything so quickly," said Mrs. Beatty, querulously. "I wish you would take shorter steps," she added, looking disparagingly at her niece's skirts as they went out through the shrubbery. "It is not nice to see a girl striding like a man. It gives you quite a bold appearance when you swing along, peering at people through your glasses."

"That is an old crime of mine, Mrs Herbert," said Mary. "I never go out with Aunt Jane without being lectured for not walking as if I had high heeled boots. Even the Colonel took me too task one evening here. He said a man should walk like a horse, and a woman like a cow. His complaint was that I walked like a horse; and he said that you, aunt, walked properly, like a cow. It is not worth any woman's while to gain such a compliment as that. It made Mr Jack laugh for the first and only time in our house."

Mrs Beatty reddened, and seemed about to make an angry reply, when the tutor came in at the shrubbery gate, and held it open for them to pass. Mrs Herbert thanked him. Mrs Beatty, following her, tried to look haughtily at him, but quailed, and made him a slight bow, in response to which he took off his hat.

"Mr Jack," said Mary, stopping: "if papa comes back before I am in, will you please tell him that I am at Colonel Beatty's. "

"At what hour do you expect him?"

"Not until eleven, at soonest. I am almost sure to be back first; but if by any chance I should not be—"

"I will tell him," said Jack. Mary passed on; and he watched them until Mrs Beatty's carriage disappeared. Then he hurried indoors, and brought a heap of manuscript music into the room the ladies had just left. He opened the pianoforte and sat down before it; but instead of playing he began to write, occasionally touching the keys to try the effect of a progression, or rising to walk up and down the room with puckered brows.

He labored in this fashion until seven o'clock, when, hearing someone whistling in the road, he went out into the shrubbery, and presently came back with a soldier, not perfectly sober, who carried a roll of music paper and a case containing three clarionets.

"Now let us hear what you can make of it," said Jack, seating himself at the piano.

"It's cruel quick, that allagrow part is," said the soldier, trying to make his sheet of music stand properly on Mary's table easel. "Just give us your B fat, will you. Mister." Jack struck the note; and the soldier blew. '"Them ladies' singin' pianos is always so damn low," he grumbled. "I've drorn the slide as far as it'll come. Just wait while I stick a washer in the bloomin' thing."

"It seems to me that you have been drinking instead of practising, since I saw you," said Jack.