KENSINGTON GORE.
Laurence Renton’s state of mind when he left the Manor immediately after
his father’s death was very different from that of his brother Ben. He
was a different man altogether, as will be seen. He had that unconscious
natural generosity of temper and unselfishness of disposition which is
more a woman’s quality than a man’s. By instinct, he put himself, as it
were, on the secondary level, and considered matters in general rather
as they affected other people. It was no virtue in him, and he did not
even know it. Such a disposition could scarcely have existed with a
passionate or energetic mind; and Laurie was not energetic. He could no
more have absorbed himself in a foolish passion as Ben had done, than he
could have set to work with the practical sense of his younger brother.
He was lazy Laurence under all circumstances; fond of philosophising
over his mischances, taking most things very quietly; and he had a
faculty of contenting himself with what was pleasant in whatsoever
aspect it might come, which is the very death of ambition in every
shape and form. He had occupied some rooms at Kensington, with a pretty
studio attached to them, in his father’s lifetime, when money was
plentiful. No wonder Mrs. Westbury had mourned over him, and denounced
so luxurious a mode of bringing up. He was of course a younger son, and
had no pretensions to lead an idle life. Providence seemed indeed to
have indicated a public office, or some such moderate occupation, which
would have left him time for his favourite dilettantism and required no
particular activity or exercise of intellect. But Laurence had been a
perplexing subject to deal with all his life. He had been one of those
trying boys who have no particular bent one way or another. He was a
bright, intelligent, indolent, inaccurate lad, utterly incapable of
dates or facts in general, but full of social qualities,--good-natured,
tender-hearted, ready to do anything for anybody. And then he had
travelled a little, and drifted among an artist set, and from that day
hoped and imagined himself capable of art. He had always had a certain
facility in drawing, and everybody knows how easy it is to glide into
the busy dawdling, the thousand pleasant trifles of occupation which
fill the time of an amateur. It seemed to Laurie, as it has seemed to
many another, that a life made beautiful by that faculty of discovering
beauty which the humblest artist prides himself on possessing,--and the
privilege of claiming a kind of membership with a noble craft,--was
superior to the loftiest stool and the most dignified desk even in a
Foreign Office. He was proud to call himself, as he often did, ‘a poor
painter;’ and, alas! a poor painter in the literal sense of the words
Laurie was. He had no genius, poor fellow! only a tender, amiable,
pleasant, little talent, which would have led him into verses had his
turn been literary. His friends and relations would have been more
deeply shocked still had they known what a toss-up it was whether
Laurie’s amateurship had taken the literary or artistic turn,--but
fortunately it was the latter; and as he made pretty little sketches,
and had given them away with charming liberality, and harmed nobody, it
was only the high moralists, such as his Aunt Lydia, who found any fault
with what he was fond of calling his ‘trade.’ And there was this to be
said in his favour, that he had no expensive tastes, and that, given
this mode of idleness, which he called work, Laurie’s was about as
harmless a life as a young man could lead;--‘especially as he will never
need to maintain himself,’ people had been used to say.
All this, however, had changed for him as for his brother. Even Laurie’s
modest establishment could not be kept on two hundred a-year; and he had
been used to be liberal, and manage his money matters with an easy hand,
always ready to help a comrade in distress. So that it was absolutely
necessary for him now to work. He went into his Kensington rooms with
feelings not unlike those which moved Ben when he made his melancholy
inventory of his things at the Albany. There were accumulations of all
kinds in the place. Bits of old carpet, bits of ‘drapery,’ bits of still
life, a little china, a little of everything; and a north light, perfect
of its kind, in the studio. He had fitted it all up to suit himself,
with a hundred handy devices,--stands for his portfolios, velvet-covered
shelves, all sorts of nooks for the artistic trumpery which is supposed
to be necessary in a studio; and the tiny little sitting-room into which
the studio opened had a queer, little, round bow-window, looking into
the Park, which was something like a box at the opera without the music.
All the world streamed under Laurie’s bow-window coming and going, and
many a nod and pleasant smile reached the artist.--save the mark!--in
his velvet coat, as he came now and then from behind his fresh flowers
to look out upon the fashion and beauty, sometimes with a palette in his
hand or maul-stick, on which he leaned as he looked out. It gave him a
certain pleasure to pose in this professional way. Perhaps it was as
well for the consistency of Laurie’s philosophy that it was September
when he came back to Kensington Gore. He went and sat down in his
bow-window, and nobody passed,--nobody except the unknown people who
stream about London streets all day long, and of whom no one takes any
notice. No doubt there were human figures enough; but the trees were
very shabby in the Park, and the grass, as far as he could see, was
burnt to a pale yellow, and two nursemaids and one Guardsman had all the
expanse to themselves. In these circumstances, perhaps, it was easier to
take leave of his pleasant little hermitage. He sat in his window and
looked carelessly out, and mused on the change. A pot of China asters,
showy enough, yet betokening the winter which approached, replaced all
the roses and bright geraniums which generally filled the stand. The
season was over, and this kind of thing was over, and the first part of
life.
Well! he said to himself,--and no particular harm either. Life was not
Kensington Gore. Many admirable artists had lived and died in Fitzroy
Square; and there was Turner in Queen Anne Street,--not that one would
choose to be like Turner. After all, it was but for half the year that
Kensington Gore was desirable. When people were out of town, what did it
matter? And then a smile crossed his face as it occurred to him that
henceforward he was not likely to be one of those who go out of town.
Looking down, his vacant eye caught the succession of figures passing
along the pavement; many very well-dressed, well-looking people, not
having the least appearance of being outcasts of society. And yet such
they must be, or else they would scarcely be there in such numbers in
September. Then he went on to reflect what heaps of people he himself
knew who lived in London all the year round, with the exception of a
month or two, or a week or two, somewhere for health’s sake. Most
painters were of this class. It was but identifying himself more
entirely with the art he had chosen; and in that point of view it would
be good for him. An amateur is never good for anything, thought Laurie;
but a man who has to devote himself to his work without any vain
interruptions has a chance to make something of it. Then a gleam of
pleasant and conscious vanity, for which he smiled at himself, flitted
over his meditations. He could almost see the people pausing before a
picture in the Academy,--or two or three pictures for that matter,--why
not?--when he had nothing else to do,--and telling each other how the
painter had been maltreated by fortune, and how this was the result of
it,--hard work and success, and substantial pudding and sweetest
praise;--ay, and a reputation very different from that of the dilettante
who strolled from his studio to the bow-window, and looked out in his
professional costume to receive the salutations of the ladies. ‘There is
poor Laurie Renton, who has been so foolish as to take to art and
nonsense; but, fortunately, he will never need to be dependent on it.’
That was what the ladies used to say as they passed. How different it
would be when they stood before the great picture in the Academy, and
read the name in the catalogue. He saw the expression on certain faces
as they read that name. ‘What, Laurie Renton! who would have thought he
could ever have been good for anything?’ This was what Laurie called
thinking over his changed affairs.
There was one drop of bitterness, however, in his cup which had not been
in Ben’s. We have said that when Mrs. Westbury visited Laurie in his
room on the night of his father’s funeral, there were some little notes
lying on his table, over which he was making himself miserable, with his
face hidden in his hands. It is not necessary to mention her name, as
she has, unfortunately, nothing to do with this story; but the fact was
that there had been somebody whose little notes made Laurie’s heart
beat. They had been the simplest kind of letters:--‘Dear Mr.
Renton,--Mamma bids me say that she will be very glad if you will come
to dinner on Thursday;’--nothing more: and yet he had tied them up very
carefully together and preserved them,--the foolish fellow,--as if they
were pearls and diamonds.
It was one of those might-have-beens, which are in every life. She had
very good blood, and very sweet looks, and that perfect homely training
of an English girl which people try to persuade us has vanished from the
world,--had we not eyes of our own to see otherwise. She knew no Latin
nor Greek, but she was more brightly intelligent than her brother, for
instance, who was a fellow of All Souls. And she had not a penny; and
if Laurie Renton had come in, as seemed likely, to as much money as
would have produced him 1500_l._ or even 1000_l._ a-year----!
Alas! that is how things happen in this life. Laurie was not the kind of
man, like Ben, to dare the impossible and keep his love at all hazards.
He knew well enough it would not do. Years must pass before he painted
that picture at which his friends should stare in the Academy; and in
the interval no doubt some one would come in who could give her
everything she ought to have, and for whom her sweet face would
brighten, and not for him. This had been the first thought that had
occurred to Laurie when his father’s will was read. He had seen her
standing in her bridal veil beside some one else, five minutes after the
sound of the lawyer’s voice had died on his ear. It had wrung his heart,
but he had said, ‘God bless her!’ all the same. Never word of love had
passed between them. When the returning season brought her back to the
little house in Mayfair, she would wonder, perhaps sigh, perhaps ask
what had become of Mr. Renton? But by that time Laurie knew his little
boat would have been so long gone down under the sea that there would
not be even a circle left on the smooth, treacherous water. It might
cost her a little gentle expectation or disappointment,--a wistful look
here and there for the face that was not to be seen again. Unselfish as
he was, Laurie hoped it would cost her as much as that; but it would not
cost her more. And long before the seven years were out or his great
picture exhibited in the Academy--to which, perhaps, her friends would
object as much as to his poverty--she would be some one else’s wife. And
it would be better for her. She had always been too good for Laurie.
Some one who could give her rank, wealth, whatever heart could
desire----! Poor Laurie’s heart contracted with a sudden pang, and
forced the moisture to his eyes. He was only four-and-twenty, poor
fellow! But it was to be so. Not his the force or the passion to resist
fate. It was one of the might-have-beens which gave so strange, so
shadowy a character to this existence. Strange to stand amid the
unalterable laws of nature and see what caprice moves the fate of the
chief of nature’s works. If Aunt Lydia had held her peace! If Mr. Renton
had not changed his mind! We are such stuff as dreams are made of!
Laurie said to himself as he turned from the scentless China asters in
his window and the empty Park, and this concluded phase of life.
But still things might have been worse. This overthrow might have
happened a year ago, at the moment when Laurie had pledged all his
credit, and given all his money to Geoffrey Sutton,--poor old
fellow!--after the brigands sacked his little villa up on Lake Nemi,
and took everything he had in the world. When old Geoff was going about,
wild and penniless, girt round with pistols, to revenge his loss,
without thinking that his life might go instead of Masaccio’s, and that
nobody would be left to pay his friends at home! What a business it
would have been had this happened then! But in the meantime Geoff’s old
uncle had been so obliging as to die, and all was right again. Or had it
occurred that time when Laurie took his last twenty pounds out of the
bank to send Harry Wood to Rome to nurse his lungs and pursue his
studies! Fortunately at this moment there was nothing in hand to make
matters worse than they were by nature, which Laurie reflected was the
greatest good luck,--a chance which he scarcely deserved, imprudent as
he was. So that on the whole, except for the necessity of leaving
Kensington Gore, it would not make much difference. That he should feel
a little, of course;--everything was so handy, so nice, so bright, and
Mrs. Brown understood his ways. But after all, what did it matter where
a man lived? A good light to paint by, any sort of a clean room to sleep
in, and a friendly face now and then to look in upon his work. Of that
last particular he was always certain. Indeed, Laurie was fully aware
that among his artist friends he was likely to be rather more than less
popular when he ceased to be a ‘swell’ and amateur.
Such were the young man’s thoughts when he began to feel the ground
under his feet again after his overthrow. Poor Ben! how hard it would be
upon him! but after all for himself it was no such terrible business.
Art is long; and so, for that matter, is life too, at four-and-twenty,
or at least appears so, which comes to much the same thing. Laurie for
his part would have been very glad to have stood by his brother and
given him all the succour that brotherly sympathy can give, had the
elder been so inclined; but, to tell the truth, Ben had been morose when
they parted, and had requested to be left alone, and that no attempt
should be made to condole with or help him until he himself took the
initiative. Laurie went and made a sketch of the three fairy princes
setting out on their travels, to solace himself when he had ‘thought
over’ as above for a sufficiently long period. Such little sketches were
the best things he ever did, his friends said. There was young Frank
marching in advance on a noble steed, with the sun shining on his helmet
and all his gorgeous apparel; and Laurie himself following after with
his easel on his shoulder, his portfolios, half-finished canvases,
palettes, colour-boxes, and accompanying trumpery hung about his person.
Ben came last, with his coat buttoned, and his face set against the
wind. Poor Ben! it was more difficult to make out how he would take it
than how it would affect the others. Thus Laurie, even in the first
shock, made light of his own share. There were three beautifully
distinct paths on which the three were setting out. In Frank’s case the
road was continuous, and led through sundry stormy indications of
battle, and fantastic,--supposed,--Indian towers, to where a coronet
hung in mid air,--the infallible reward, as everybody knows, of
energetic young soldiers who leave the Guards for the line. In Laurie’s
own path, the glorious cupolas of the National Gallery, with laughing
little imps fondly embracing each pepper-pot, closed the vista. These
were easy of execution; but what was to be the end of Ben’s painful way?
It lay up hill in his brother’s sketch, a perfect alp of ascent. But on
the height, though so austere, stood Renton Manor in full sunshine, at
one side; while on the other appeared a stately Tudor interior, full of
gentlemen in their hats, where some one with the features of the
pedestrian below was addressing the interested audience. ‘For of course
that is how it will end,’ Laurie said to himself; and yet his heart
melted, poor foolish fellow, over the rocks and glaciers in his
brother’s way.
‘And I wonder which of them will meet the White Cat,’ Laurie said to
himself, hanging over his drawing-block with his pencil in hand, giving
here and there a touch; ‘Frank, perhaps, as becomes a soldier; but I
wish it might be Ben.’ And then he bent over his own part of the sketch,
and did something to the imps on the National Gallery and sighed. With
that soft ache in his heart, poor fellow! enchanted primrose-paths were
not for him. So the next thing he did was to plant a lovely little ideal
figure on the rocks through which his elder brother was to make his way,
beckoning to Ben and cheering him on. That was how it should be. He
spent a great deal of time over his drawing, and took pleasure in the
comic burdens which were suspended from his own person,--brushes
dangling at his heels, a lay figure suspended over his shoulder, and a
little dog barking in amaze at the wonderful apparition. He laughed over
it just as he had sighed. Fate was good to Laurie, who could find some
way of extracting a little pleasure, a little amusement, out of
everything. It was quite late in the afternoon when he put his
drawing-block aside, placing it on the mantel-piece, where the drawing
might catch his eye whenever he returned, and took his hat and went out.
He was going to ask advice of old Welby, an old R.A. of his
acquaintance, as to what course of study he should adopt, and what would
be best for him in general, in the way of art. ‘And there’s the padrona
as well, who understands a fellow better than Welby,’ he added to
himself as he went out; and perhaps that was why he put one of Mrs.
Brown’s monthly roses,--for lack of a better,--in his button-hole as he
passed. For he was a young fellow who was fond of the society of women,
and liked to appear well in their eyes, notwithstanding that ache in his
heart.