CHAPTER XXI.

WHAT THEY THOUGHT OF IT IN THE SQUARE.

Forrester went back very full of his discovery, and there was a certain

solemnity in his manner which made it evident to his master that he had

something to tell. When he had delivered Laurie’s message about the

dinner on Saturday, he paused with a look of meaning. ‘And glad he’ll be

of a good dinner, too, sir,’ the old man said, solemnly, ‘before all is

done.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Forrester,’ said Mr. Welby. ‘He must have been

extravagant: for, after all, though it’s a change to him, a man need not

starve on two hundred a-year.’

‘It’s not now as I’m meaning, sir,’ said Forrester, with a sigh. ‘He’s

been and started in a bad way. For aught I can tell he’s as well off as

you and me now; but I know what it all comes to, Mr. Welby, when a young

man sets hisself agoing, and won’t hear no advice,--in that way.’

‘God bless me! you don’t mean to say the young fellow has got married?’

said Mr. Welby, with agitation; for his interest in Laurie was great.

‘No, sir,’ said Forrester, ‘worse nor that. Marrying’s a lottery, but

sometimes a wife’s a help. You may shake your head, sir; but sometimes

she’s a help. It’s more nor that; but I won’t keep you no longer in

misery. That young gentleman, sir, as you take an interest in, and I

take an interest in, and the good lady up-stairs, though he’s been

well-instructed and had all our advice, and ain’t an idiot, not to speak

of, in other things, he’s been and took up the Saxon line. I see, with

my own eyes, a sketch of that ere blessed Hedith as is always a seeking

somebody’s body. He’s got it stuck up on a big canvas six by ten, sir;

you take my word; and you know what that comes to as well as me.’

‘Bless my soul!’ said Mr. Welby; and though his emotion took a different

form, it was quite as genuine as Forrester’s outspoken despair. He took

a few turns through his studio, repeating this disclosure to himself.

‘The Saxon line!’ he said with horror. ‘Infatuated boy! When a young man

is thus bent on destroying himself, what can any one do?’ ‘You are sure

you are making no mistake?’ said the R.A.; ‘it was not some other

fellow’s canvas that had been left in his place? And what did you say to

him? After all the trouble we’ve taken! I will never interest myself in

any young man again,’ said Mr. Welby, with effusion, ‘not if I should

live a hundred years!’

‘What did I say, sir?’ said Forrester. ‘I told him plain where he was

going to; to destruction. I gave him a piece of my mind, sir. I spoke to

him that clear as he couldn’t make no mistake. I told him the times and

times I’ve seen it done, and what followed. I counted ’em over to

him,--Mr. Suffolk, and young Mr. Warleigh, and----’

‘Then you behaved like an ass,’ cried the R.A., with indignation.

‘Suffolk! the cleverest painter he knows. Why, there’s not a man among

us can hold the candle to Suffolk for some things! Why didn’t you tell

him of Baxter, and Robinson, and Simpson, and half-a-dozen other young

fools like himself? Suffolk! A man of genius! I thought you had more

sense.’

‘He may be a bit of a genius,’ said Forrester, standing his ground; ‘but

he don’t sell his pictures, and Mr. Renton knows it. He was struck all

of a heap, sir, when he’d heard all I’d got to say. I don’t approve of

the subject, nor I don’t approve of the size; but as far as I could

judge of the chalk, it wasn’t badly put on. I wouldn’t say he’s a

genius, but he’s got a way, has Mr. Renton; and always a nice-spoken,

civil gentleman, even when he’s put out a bit, as he might have been

to-day.’

‘Pshaw!’ said the master; ‘that means, I suppose, that he did not kick

you down-stairs. Foolish boy! after all I said to him. I daresay some of

the women have put it into his head to go and distinguish himself. Go up

and give my compliments to Mrs. Severn, and I’d like to speak to her if

she is not busy; and mind you don’t say a word of this. Don’t speak of

it anywhere. I hope what you’ve said to him, and what I shall say to

him, will bring him to his senses. Don’t say a word about it to any

soul.’

‘I’ve been trusted with greater secrets,’ said Forrester, with dignity.

‘He’ll tell her, sir, as fast as look at her; and he’ll build more on

her advice, though she don’t know half nor a quarter. I’m a going, sir.

He thinks a deal more of what she says than of either you or me.’

‘Insufferable old bore!’ Mr. Welby said to himself. ‘Outrageous young

ass! It must be those silly women that have bidden him go and

distinguish himself. And what have I got to do with it, I’d like to

know?’ The truth was the Academician had begun to take a greater

interest in Laurie than was consistent with his principles; and he

wanted to blame somebody for his favourite’s rebellion. He put down his

palette, for he was at work at the moment, and washed his hands, and

prepared for the interview he had asked. Perhaps Mr. Welby was doubly

ceremonious as a kind of protest against the ease with which other

members of the profession penetrated into the padrona’s studio.

‘A lady is a lady, however she may be occupied,’ the old man said. And,

in accordance with this principle, Forrester’s mien and voice were very

solemn when he made his appearance up-stairs. ‘Master’s compliments,

ma’am, and if you’re not busy he’d like to speak to you,’ he said,

standing ceremoniously at the door.

‘Mr. Welby, Forrester?’ said the padrona. ‘Oh, surely; I shall be glad

to see him. I hope there’s nothing the matter. Come in and tell me what

you think of this. I hope there’s nothing wrong.’

‘No, ma’am; not as I knows of,’ said Forrester, with profound gravity.

‘I don’t know what else could be thought of it, but that it’s a sweet

little bit of colour, ma’am. You never done nothing finer nor that

flesh. It’s breathing, that is. Miss Alice called me in to have a look

at it before you came down.’

‘Miss Alice is always an early bird,’ said the padrona, pleased. ‘I’m

glad you like it, Forrester; but I don’t think I’ve got the light quite

right here. Tell Mr. Welby I shall be glad to see him; but you look

horribly grave, all the same, as if something had gone wrong.’

‘No, ma’am, nothing,’ said Forrester, with a glance over his

shoulder;--‘only about Mr. Renton, as we’re afraid is in a bad way.’

‘Good heavens! Laurie! What is the matter with him?’ cried Mrs. Severn.

The old man shook his head in the most tragical and desponding way.

‘Master will tell you himself, ma’am,’ Forrester said, withdrawing

suddenly out of temptation and closing the door behind him. The padrona

did not know what to think. Laurie had not been visible for a week at

least in the Square; but even a young man, with all the proclivities

towards mischief common to that animal, cannot go very far wrong in a

week. She too prepared for the impending interview, as Mr. Welby was

doing. She put away all her working materials, and set the big Louis

Quinze fauteuil near the fire for her visitor. She even went so far as

to put a sketching-block on the table, and sat down before it with a

pencil in her hand, posing half consciously, as an amateur might have

posed. The padrona, though she was not timid in general, was a little

afraid of her tenant. If she left her picture on the easel it was

because there was no time to get it comfortably smuggled away, and some

inarticulate beginning placed in its stead. She turned the Louis Quinze,

however, with its back to the easel by way of security. A word of

approbation from old Welby was worth gold; but yet the risk of obtaining

it was one Mrs. Severn did not care to run.

A few minutes after he tapped at the door, and came in, taking off the

velvet cap which,--as he knew very well,--had such a picturesque effect

on his white hair. The moment he entered the room the padrona saw how

vain had been her precaution in turning the Louis Quinze chair. He

glanced round him with the quick artist-eye which sees everything, and

went up to the easel of course as politeness required, and delivered

his little speech of courteous applause, under which Mrs. Severn

discovered not a word of criticism, such as her usual visitors threw

about so lightly. ‘I don’t think I have got the light quite here,’ she

said, as she had said to Forrester,--but with alarm in her face.

‘Indeed, I don’t see what there is to find fault with,’ Mr. Welby

answered, with his old-fashioned bow. Nothing could be more sweet or

more unsatisfactory. The padrona almost forgot poor Laurie, as with a

flush of vexation on her face she indicated to her visitor the Louis

Quinze chair.

‘I hope you are not over-exerting yourself, my dear madam,’ the old

painter said. ‘I am struck dumb by your energy. Where I produce one

little picture you exhibit half-a-dozen. I admire, but I fear; and, if

you will let an old man say so, you must take care not to overwork your

brain.’

Tears sprang to the padrona’s eyes; but she kept them fixed steadily on

her block, so that the old cynic, who, no doubt, knew all the

commonplaces about women’s tears, should not see them. She said, with

all the composure she was mistress of, ‘You and I are very different,

Mr. Welby. Your one picture, of course, is more than worth my

half-dozen; but one must do what one can.’

‘No one knows better than I what Mrs. Severn can do,’ said the R. A.,

with one of those smiles for which the padrona could have strangled him.

‘I was but taking the privilege of my age to warn you against

overwork,--which is the grand disease of these times, and kills more

people than cholera does. Pardon me. I want to speak to you about young

Renton, in whom I know you take an interest. I advised him,’ Mr. Welby

said, slowly, ‘to give up all idea of producing anything for the moment,

and to devote himself to preparatory work,--hard work.’

‘So he told me,’ said the padrona, with a little spirit; for there was

no mistaking the implied blame in old Welby’s tone. ‘And so I told him,

too.’

‘Then somebody has been undermining us, my dear madam,’ said the R. A.

‘Somebody has been egging up the foolish boy to make a name for himself,

and win fame, and so forth. Forrester brings me word that he has begun a

great picture. High art, life-size, Edith finding the body of Harold.

The young fellow must be mad.’

‘Edith finding the body of Harold!’ repeated Mrs. Severn,

bewildered;--and then, what with her personal agitation, what with the

curious anti-climax of this announcement after her fears about Laurie,

the padrona, we are obliged to confess, burst into a sudden fit of

nervous laughter. She laughed till the tears came into her eyes; and, to

be sure, old Welby had no way of knowing how near to the surface were

those tears before.

‘I confess I do not see the joke,’ he said, slowly. ‘Of course I have

nothing to do with the boy. If he goes and makes a fool of himself, like

so many others, it is nothing to me. Indeed, I don’t know who advised

him to come here, where one can’t help seeing what he’s about. He would

have been a great deal better, and out of one’s way, had he stayed at

Kensington Gore.’

‘He was paying four guineas a-week for his rooms at Kensington Gore,’

said the padrona, meekly. ‘It was I who advised him to come to Charlotte

Street. A man cannot live on nothing. If he had given all his income for

rent----’

‘When I was like him I lived on nothing,’ said the R.A.; ‘but young men

now-a-days must have their clubs and their luxuries. Why, what education

has he had that he should begin to paint pictures? A few lines scratched

on a bit of paper, or dabs of paint on a canvas do well enough for an

amateur; but, good heavens, a painter! You don’t see it, ma’am; you

don’t see it! Women never do. You think it’s all genius, and nonsense.

You will tell me it’s genius that makes a Michael Angelo, I suppose;

but, I tell you, it’s hard work.’

‘I do see it,’ said the padrona. ‘Sit down, please, and don’t be angry

with me. I see it very well; but I can’t help laughing all the same. It

is Laurie’s way. He will never be a Michael Angelo. It is so like him to

go and set up a great picture to surprise us. One of these days, if you

take no notice, he will come like Innocence itself, and invite us to go

and look at it. I was afraid something was wrong with him; but this

quite explains why he stayed away.’

‘And that is all a woman cares for!’ said Mr. Welby. ‘The boy’s quite

well, and his absence accounted for; and what does it matter if he makes

an ass of himself?’ Here the painter rose, and made a little _giro_

round the room, pausing at the easel with a certain vindictiveness. ‘I

wouldn’t give much for that baby’s chances of life,’ he said. ‘The

creature will be a cripple if it grows up. It has no joints to its legs;

and that little girl’s got her shoulder out. There’s where the elbow

should come,’ he went on, making an imaginary line in the air. It was

the same picture he had made a pretty speech about when he came into the

room, from which it may be perceived that Mrs. Severn’s terror of her

lodger’s visit was not without cause.

‘I shall be so glad if you tell me what you see wrong,’ the padrona

said, with, I fear, more submission than she felt.

‘Wrong, ma’am,--it’s all wrong!’ cried the R.A.; ‘there’s not a line

that could not be mended, nor a limb that is quite in its right

place;--but I couldn’t paint such a picture for my life,’ Mr. Welby

continued, with a sudden melting in his voice; ‘nor anybody else but

yourself. The body’s out of drawing, but the soul’s divine.

Light!--nonsense,--the light’s all as it ought to be; the light’s in

that woman’s face. I don’t know how to better it. But this is not what

we were talking of,’ he continued, suddenly turning his back on the

picture. ‘We were talking of Laurie Renton. What is to be done about

this ridiculous boy?’

The padrona was a little disturbed. She was overwhelmed by the praise,

feeling all the sweetness of it; and she was pricked, and stung to

smarting by the blame. It cost her a considerable effort to master

herself, and to bring back her thoughts even to Laurie Renton. ‘You must

not be too hard upon him,’ she said, with her voice a little tremulous.

‘A mind that has any energy in it must work in its own way.’ This was

said half on Laurie’s account, no doubt, but also half on her own, after

the assault she had sustained. ‘I think it would be best not to say too

much about his big picture. He will read your disapproval in your eye.’

Mr. Welby shrugged his shoulders. ‘I doubt if a young fellow would take

much interest in reading my eye. But he may read yours, perhaps,’ said

the cynic, with a questioning glance, which Mrs. Severn was too much

occupied to perceive, much less understand. And this was about the end

of the consultation. They might admire and warn, and hold up beacons

before the unwary youth, but there is no Act of Parliament forbidding a

young painter to purchase for himself canvases six feet by ten, and to

paint, or attempt to paint, heroic pictures thereupon. His advisers

might regret and might do their best to turn him to wiser ways, but that

was all; and the question was not urgent enough to demand the sacrifice

of the very best hours of a November day,--which, heaven knows! are

short enough for a painter’s requirements, in a district so rapidly

reached by the rising fog from the city as Fitzroy Square.

It was the evening of the next day before Laurie carried out his

resolution. With a little impatience he waited till it was dark, or

nearly so, and then, with his sketch under his arm, went round the

corner to the Square. To carry a portfolio or a picture under your arm

is nothing wonderful in these regions; and I think it was something of a

foppery on Laurie’s part to wait till the twilight; but, on the whole,

it was rather Mr. Welby and old Forrester he was afraid of than the

general public. The padrona was,--as he knew she would be,--in her

dining room, sitting in the fire-light, with a heap of little scorched,

shining faces about her, when he went in. One good thing of these short

winter days was, that the woman-painter had a special hour in which it

was impossible to do anything, and a perfectly legitimate indulgence to

play with the little ones to her heart’s content. They were all upon

her,--little Edie seated upon her mother’s lap, with her arms closely

clasped round her neck, and the boys on either side embracing her

shoulders. ‘She is my mamma,’ said little Edie; ‘go away, you boys.’

‘She is my mamma as well,’ said Frank and Harry, with one voice. They

could not see Laurie as he came in softly into the ruddy, warm, homelike

darkness, nor hear the voice of the maid who opened the door for him;

and Laurie, soft-hearted as he was, lingered over this little glimpse of

those most intimate delights with which neither he nor any other

stranger could intermeddle. When he saw the mother with her

children,--who were all hers, and in whom no one else had any

share,--the helpless, hopeful, joyous creatures, encircled by the

woman’s soft, strong arms, which were all the protection, all the

shelter they had in this world,--his heart melted within him, the

foolish fellow! Alice sat at her piano in the drawing-room, playing the

soft dream-music which was natural to the hour; and to her, had he been

like other young men, Laurie’s thoughts and steps would naturally have

turned; instead of which he stood gazing at her mother, who at that

moment no more remembered him than if there had been no such being in

existence. Laurie’s heart melted so that he could have gone and sat down

on the hearth-rug at her feet, as one of the boys did, had he dared, and

asked her to let him help her and stand by her. Help her in what? Laurie

gave no answer to his own question; and, to be sure, he could not stand

in the dark for more than a minute spying upon the fireside hour. He put

down his sketch on a side-table with a little noise, which made the

padrona start.

‘I am not a ghost,’ said Laurie, coming into the warmer circle of the

firelight.

‘Then you should not behave as such,’ Mrs. Severn said, holding out her

hand to him with a smile: and then the mere accident of the moment

brought him beside little Frank on the hearth-rug, as he had thought,

with a little sentimental impulse, of placing himself. He sat down on

the child’s stool, and held out his hands to the fire, and looked up at

the padrona’s face, which shone out in glimpses by the cheerful

firelight. Sometimes little Edith, with her wreath of hair, would come

between him and her mother like a little golden, rose-tinted, cloud;

sometimes the fitful blaze would decline for a moment, and throw the

whole scene into darkness. But Mrs. Severn did not change her attitude,

or put down the child from her lap, or ring for the lamp, on Laurie’s

arrival. He came in without breaking the spell,--without disturbing the

calm of the moment. And after an absence of more than a week, and some

days’ work and seclusion, it is not wonderful if he felt as if he had

suddenly come home.

‘This would not be a bad time to lecture you, as I am going to do,’ said

the padrona. ‘He has been very naughty, children; he ought to be put in

the corner. Let us make up our minds what we will do to him, now we have

him here.’

‘Give him some bad sums to do, mamma,’ said little Harry, whose life was

made a burden to him in that way; ‘or make him write out fifty lines;

and don’t tell him any stories. What have you done, Mr. Renton? I want

to know.’

‘Give him a bad mark in the pantomime book,’ said Frank. Now, the

pantomime-book was a ledger of the severest penalties; the bad marks

disabled a sinner altogether from the enjoyment of the highest of

pleasures, and was as good as a pantomime lost. The savage suggestion

awoke the sympathy of little Edie on her mother’s knee.

‘What has he done?’ said Edie. ‘Poor Laurie! But mamma won’t listen to

these cruel boys. Mamma listens to me. I am the little princess in the

new picture. Mamma, I love Laurie. Make him go down on his knees and beg

pardon, and I know he will never do it any more.’

‘I will never do it any more,’ said Laurie, with one knee upon the

hearth-rug. There was something in the soft, genial warmth, and kindly,

flickering light, the touches of the children, and their sweet, ringing

tones,--the face of their mother now and then shining upon him, and her

voice coming out of the shadow,--which captivated him in some

unintelligible way. There was no romance in the matter, certainly. She

was years older than he was, and thought of him as a grandmother might

have thought. But Laurie Renton was that kind of man. His heart was full

of tenderness and sympathy, and a certain sense of the pathos of the

situation which did not strike the chief actors in it. Mrs. Severn

thought herself a happy woman,--notwithstanding all that had befallen

her,--when she sat down by her fire, and felt the soft pressure of those

soft, baby arms; but to Laurie there was a pathos in it which brought

the tears to his eyes. ‘I will never do it any more,’ he said; ‘I will

do whatever mamma tells me. I will be her servant if she will let me.’

Perhaps it was well for Laurie that the children immediately burst into

a chorus of laughter and jubilation over his proposal. ‘He will be our

Forrester, and do everything we tell him,’ cried the boys; and the

padrona, carried away by their delight, thought nothing of the bended

knee nor the unnecessary fervour of submission. I doubt even if she

heard very clearly what he said, or was the least aware of his attitude;

but probably instinct warned her that there was enough of this. She rang

the bell, which was close to her hand, without saying anything. After

all, the firelight and the hearth-rug was only for the children and

herself. And I think Laurie even was a little ashamed of his temporary

intoxication when the lamp came in, carried by the maid, bringing back

the light of common evening,--the clear outlines of prose and

matter-of-fact.

It was not till after tea that he brought his sketch to exhibit it. The

children had gone up-stairs, and Miss Hadley had returned home, and no

evening visitor had as yet arrived. When Laurie was left alone with the

padrona, she laid down her needlework and lifted up her eyes to him,

beaming with a kindly light. ‘I have something serious to say to you

now,’ she said. ‘I have been hearing dreadful things about you. You have

not taken our advice.’

‘Our advice! I don’t know what that means,’ said Laurie. ‘There is but

one padrona in the world, and her advice I always take.’

‘Do not be hypocritical,’ said Mrs. Severn. ‘You promised to paint no

pictures, but to be busy and study and do your work; and here you have

set up an Edith as big as Reginald Suffolk’s, and you call that taking

my advice.’

‘Here she is,’ said Laurie, producing his sketch. He placed it on the

table, propped up against the open workbox, and took the lamp in his

hand that the light might fall on it as it ought. He did not defend

himself. ‘I kept away as long as I could, meaning not to tell you yet;

but that did not answer,’ said Laurie; ‘and here she is.’

The padrona put away her work out of her hands, and gave all her

attention to the new object thus placed before her; and whatever might

be the qualities of Edith, the group thus formed was pictorial

enough;--the room all brightness and warmth, centering in the pure light

of the lamp which Laurie held up in his hand; the fair, ample, seated

figure gazing earnestly at the little picture, with her own face

partially in the shade,--behind her the open doors of the larger room,

dark, but warm, with a redness in it of the fire, and a pale gleam from

the curtained windows. But the actors in this still interior were

unconscious of its effect. She was looking intently at the sketch, and

he, pausing to hear what she should say of it, holding his breath.

‘Put down the lamp,’ said the padrona after a pause, ‘it is too heavy to

hold, and I can see. And sit down here till I speak to you. You have not

taken our advice.’

‘I understand,’ said Laurie, and his lip quivered a little, poor fellow!

‘That means I may take away the rubbish. You need not say any more, for

it will pain you. I understand.’

‘You don’t understand anything about it,’ said Mrs. Severn, putting out

her hand to retain the sketch where it was. ‘Let me say out my say. I

don’t want to like it. I wish I could say it was very bad. If it had

been atrocious it would have been better for you, you rash boy! But I

must not tell any fibs. I like the sketch; there is something in it. I

can’t tell how you should know about that woman, expecting every moment

to see---- Yes, put her away, Laurie, for a little; her eyes have gone

to my heart.’

Laurie put down his creation upon the table with a face all glowing with

pride and delight. ‘I hoped you would like it,’ he said; ‘but that it

should move you,----’ and in his gratitude he would have kissed the

hand of the friend to whose counsel he owed so much. As for the padrona,

she withdrew her hand quickly, with a momentary look of surprise.

‘But I have more to say,’ she went on. ‘You must wait till you have

heard me out. Don’t be vexed or disappointed. I doubt if you will ever

make any more of her. Now don’t speak. I will say to you what I have

never said to any one. How many sketches like that have I seen in my

life, full of talent, full of meaning! It is not a sketch;--it is all

the picture you will paint of that subject. I know what I am saying. She

who is so real in that, with her awful expectations, will be staring

like a woman on the stage in the big picture. I know it, Laurie. I have

seen such things, over and over again.’

Laurie said nothing. He saw her eyes, which were still fixed on his

sketch, suddenly brim over, quite silently, in two big drops, which fell

at Edith’s feet. Mortification, disappointment, and, at the same time, a

kind of consolatory feeling, took possession of him. The downfall was

great from the first flush of joy in her approbation; but yet----

Clearly it was of poor Severn she was thinking. Poor Severn, of whom it

was certainly the fact that he never did anything good except in

sketches. Laurie’s heart rose magnanimous at this thought. If that was

all, how soon he could prove to her that he was a different man from

poor Severn! ‘It is not worth a tear,’ he said; ‘never mind it. I ought

to have known that it would bring things to your mind----’

‘It is not that,’ said the padrona, recovering herself; ‘it is because I

am anxious you should not waste your strength. Put it up again where it

can be seen, or, rather, bring it into the other room, where there is a

better place. Take the lamp, and I will take the picture. I like it,’

she said, as she followed him into the larger drawing-room. ‘Let it

stand here, where it can be seen. And I will send for Mr. Welby if he is

at home. I like it very much;--but I don’t want you to paint the big

picture all the same.’

‘If you like it, that is reason enough why I should paint the big

picture,’ said Laurie. If the padrona discerned the touch of tender

enthusiasm in his tone, she took no notice whatever of it, but busied

herself placing the sketch in the most favourable light.

‘Mr. Welby came up-stairs, and insulted me, all on your account,’ she

said with a laugh. ‘Oh, don’t look furious. I don’t want any one to

fight my battles. But it is cruel of him, all the same. He congratulated

me on my energy, and on sending six pictures to the Exhibitions where he

sent one. It was very ill-natured of him,--a man who has had a whole

long life to perfect himself, and nothing to hurry him on. Does not he

think, I wonder, that even I would like to take time and spare no

labour, and paint something that would last and live?’ Mrs. Severn said,

with a flush coming over her face.

‘And so you do, and so they will,’ said Laurie, carried away by his

feelings. The padrona shook her head.

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t deceive myself. I get money for my pictures,

and that is about what they are worth. But don’t you think, Laurie,--you

who understand things that are not spoken,--don’t you think it sometimes

makes my heart sick, to feel that, if I could but wait, if I could but

take time, I might do work that would be worth doing,--real work,--one

picture, say, that would have a whole soul in it? But I can’t take time:

there are the children, and daily bread; and--he taunts me that I paint

six pictures for his one!’

‘Padrona mia, nothing that could be painted would be half so good as you

are,’ cried Laurie, not knowing in the thrill and pain of sympathy what

he said.

‘I should like to paint something that would be better than me,’ said

the padrona, ‘but I cannot. I have to work for their bread,--and you

feel for me when I tell you this. And don’t you see,--don’t you see why

I bid you work?’ cried the artful woman, suddenly turning upon him,

standing on her own heart, as it were, to reach him. ‘There is nothing

to urge you into execution, to compel you to exhibit and sell and get

money. Why don’t you take the good of your blessed leisure, you foolish

boy? Never think of the Academy, nor of what you will paint, nor of

what people think. Make yourself a painter, Laurie, now that you have

your life in your hands, and heaps of time, and nothing to urge you on.

But, good heavens! here are people coming,’ cried Mrs. Severn,--‘to find

me flushed and half crying over all this, I declare. Talk to them till I

come back, and I will send down the child to help you; and don’t forget

what I’ve been saying,’ she said, as she rushed out of the room.

This assault had been so sudden, so trenchant, so effective;--he had

been led so artfully to the softness of real feeling, in order to have

the thrust made at his most unguarded moment, that Laurie stood confused

when his Mentor left him, not quite sure where he was, or what had

happened. Had it been any stranger who had appeared, Mrs. Severn’s young

friend would have made a poor impression upon her visitor; but, happily,

it was Alice who came in,--Alice with her curls,--harmonious spirit,

setting the house to music, as her mother said. This was all poor Laurie

made by his honesty in carrying his Edith, in her earliest conception,

for the approval of the Square.

THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

LONDON:

STRANGEWAYS AND WALDEN, PRINTERS,

28 Castle St. Leicester Sq.

* * * * *

THE THREE BROTHERS.

BY

MRS. OLIPHANT,

AUTHOR OF

‘CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,’

‘SALEM CHAPEL,’ ‘THE MINISTER’S WIFE,’

ETC. ETC.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,

13 GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1870.

_The Right of Translation is Reserved._

LONDON:

STRANGEWAYS AND WALDEN, PRINTERS,

Castle St., Leicester Sq.

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

PAGE

I. PLAY 1

II. WHAT CAME OF IT 20

III. A PATRON OF ART 42

IV. SUCCESS 64

V. A DISCOVERY 79

VI. LAURIE’S FATE 96

VII. A FULL STOP 113

VIII. YOUNG FRANK 133

IX. NELLY RICH 152

X. BROTHERLY ADVICE 174

XI. THE MUSIC-ROOM 186

XII. A PRISONER 198

XIII. SUNDAY 210

XIV. FRANK’S PERPLEXITIES 234

XV. PROGRESS 256

XVI. MRS. RENTON’S CALL 271

XVII. A STEP THE WRONG WAY 286

XVIII. WAVERING 306

THE THREE BROTHERS.

CHAPTER I.

PLAY.

It must be admitted that the counsel thus bestowed upon Laurie in

respect to his work had rather a discouraging than a stimulating effect

upon him. It disgusted him, no doubt, with Edith and his big canvas, but

it did not fill him, as it was intended to do, with enthusiasm for

Clipstone Street, and his other opportunities of legitimate work. He

made it an excuse for doing nothing, which was unfortunate, after so

much trouble had been taken about him. Perhaps, on the whole, it would

have been better to have let him have his way. The padrona herself

thought so, though she had not been able to refrain from interfering

when she had the opportunity. The Square, and the adjacent regions, had

pronounced almost unanimously that the sketch was a very clever sketch;

but, notwithstanding, deprecated with one voice the big canvas, and the

ambitious work. ‘I did it, and you see I have not made much of it,’ said

Suffolk. ‘If I thought I could make as much of it as you have done, I

should go in for it to-morrow,’ cried Laurie, with an enthusiasm for

which the painter’s wife could have hugged him. ‘But, dear Mr. Renton,

if you would but advise him to take simpler subjects!’ Mrs. Suffolk

said, with her pathetic voice. Suffolk was a man of genius, as even old

Welby admitted, and slowly, by degrees, the profession itself was

beginning to be awake to his merits; but as for the British public, it

knew nothing of the painter, except that up to this moment he had been

hung down on the floor, or up at the roof, in the Academy’s exhibition,

and sneered at in the ‘Sword.’ This was what came of high art.

Mr. Welby paid Laurie a visit in his rooms, to enforce the lesson upon

him. ‘If we had room and space for that sort of thing, it would be all

very well, sir,’ said the R.A., ‘but in a private collection what can

you do with it? The best thing Suffolk could hope for would be to have

his picture hung in some Manchester man’s dining-room;--best patrons we

have now-a-days. But it would fill up the whole wall, and naturally the

Manchester man would rather have two or three Maclises, and a Mulready,

and a Webster, and even a Welby, my dear fellow,--not to speak of

Millais, and the young ones. There’s how it is. A dozen pictures are

better than one in our patrons’ eyes,--more use, and more variety, and

by far more valuable if anything should happen to the mills. Though it’s

a work of genius, Renton,--I don’t deny it’s a work of genius,--whereas

this----’

‘Is nothing but a beginner’s attempt, I know,’ said poor Laurie. ‘That

is all settled and understood. Let us talk of something else.’

Mr. Welby, without heeding the young man, got up, and gazed upon the

white canvas, which still stood on the easel like a ghost, with the

white outlines growing fainter. Laurie had not had the heart to touch it

since that evening in the Square. ‘I don’t understand how you young men

can be so rash,’ he said; ‘for my part, I think there is no picture that

ever was painted equal to the sublimity of that blank canvas. Why, sir,

it might be anything! Buonarotti or Leonardo never equalled what it

might be. It is a thing that strikes me with awe; I feel like a wretch

when I put the first daub of vulgar colour on it. Colour brings it down

to reality,--to our feeble efforts after expression,--but in itself it

is the inexpressible. I don’t mind your chalk so much. It’s a

desecration, but not sacrilege,--a white shadow on the white blank,--and

it might turn out anything, sir! Whereas, if you put another touch on

it, you would bring it down to your own level. The wonder to me always

is how a man who is a true painter ever paints a line!’

‘It is well for the world that you have not always been of that

opinion,’ said Laurie, forcing out a little compliment in spite of

himself.

‘But I have always been of that opinion,’ said Mr. Welby.

‘Unfortunately, man is a complex being, my dear fellow, and whatever

your convictions and higher sentiments may be, the other part of you

will force itself into expression. But the thing is to keep it down as

long as possible, and subdue and train it like any other slave. That is

always my advice to you young men. Never draw two lines when you can do

with one. Don’t spoil an inch more of that lovely white canvas than your

idea will fill. Keep within your idea, my dear Laurie. You should no

more tell it all out than a woman should tell out how fond she is of

you. Art is coy, and loves a secret,’ said the old man, warming into a

kind of enthusiasm.

These were the kind of addresses which were made to Laurie in this his

first attempt to stumble out of his pleasant amateur ways into

professional work and its habits. He could not but ask himself, with a

tragi-comic wonder, whether it was anxiety for his good alone which

wound up his friends into eloquence, or whether there had ever been a

novice so overwhelmed by good advice before. He had done what he liked

in the old days, when what he liked was of little consequence; but it

was clear that he was not to be permitted to do what he liked now. He

was affronted, disgusted, amused, and discouraged, all in a breath. Work

in cold blood for work’s sake, to lead to no immediate end, was

something of which Laurie was incapable. It seemed to him that the way

to become a painter was by painting pictures, and he did not give the

weight they deserved to his friends’ counsels when they adjured him to

work at smaller matters, and to postpone the great. ‘I shall never

satisfy them,’ he said to himself; and accordingly the spur being thus

removed, his natural habit of mind returned upon him. He had no tendency

to extravagance, being simple in all his tastes, and it seemed to him

that he could get on very well on his two hundred a-year. ‘I shall never

marry,’ Laurie said to himself, with a sigh, ‘nor think of marrying.

That sort of thing is all over; and there is enough to keep me alive, I

suppose. And why should I go worrying everybody about pictures which I

don’t suppose I am fit to paint? But I may be of use to my friends,’ he

added in his self-communion. So he took to play instead of work, which

he found to be more congenial to his ancient habits, and he fell back

into it as naturally as possible. It would have been better for him, so

far as his profession was concerned, had they let him have his own way.

But if he could not be a great painter himself, it was possible enough

that he might be of use to those who were so. Though he had been

momentarily absorbed by his abortive project, and momentarily thrown off

his balance by all the opposition it met, yet he had not forgotten his

promise to Mrs. Suffolk. If there was anything he could do to open the

eyes of the British public, and show it what a blunder it was making,

that would always be so much rescued from the blank of existence.

Laurie’s Edith, even had she come to the first development which he once

hoped for her, could never be,--or at least it was not probable that she

would ever be,--equal to that scene in the Forum, which hung neglected

on the wall of Suffolk’s studio. To bring the one into the light of day

was perhaps a better work than to paint the other. It was the first

thought that roused Laurie out of his own mortification. He bore no

malice. He was too sweet-hearted, too easy and forgiving, for that.

Indeed, on the contrary, he was very grateful to one at least of his

hardest critics. The padrona had uncovered her heart to him by way of

pointing her objection. He had seen into her mind and spirit as perhaps

no one else had ever done. He was sorry for the pain it must have given

her to speak to him,--even more sorry than for himself; but Laurie could

not, though Mrs. Severn would have wondered, speak what people call ‘a

good word’ on her behalf when he got Slasher in his power. The words

would have choked him. Ask any man in ordinary Art-jargon and common

print to applaud the woman to whom his own heart began to give a kind of

wordless, half-unconscious worship! Ask for praise, public praise, for

his padrona. He would as soon have thought of leading her upon the stage

to have garlands thrown at her feet like a prima donna. Here was a

disability of woman which nobody had ever thought of before. It did not

matter much, from Laurie’s point of view, whether they blamed her or

praised her. To name her at all was a presumption unpardonable, the mere

thought of which made his cheek burn. And yet it would have done Mrs.

Severn a great deal of good had the ‘Sword’ taken an enthusiasm for her.

And Laurie had no objection to her work. He knew that he could not have

done it for her had he tried his hardest. Her independence, and her

labours, and her artist life, were all part of herself. He could not

realise her otherwise. But to have her talked of in the papers! Laurie’s

private feeling was, that instead of influencing Slasher in her favour,

he would like to knock down the fellow who should dare to have the

presumption to think that she could be the better for his praise!

But Suffolk was a totally different matter. And Laurie, having turned

his back upon the studio, and turned himself loose, so to speak, upon

the world again, set to work at the club and elsewhere, to cultivate

Slasher with devotion. Slasher was understood to be the special

art-critic of the ‘Sword;’ and he had qualified himself for such a

post, as most men do, by an unsuccessful beginning as a painter, which

had, however, happened so long ago that some people had forgotten, and

some even were not aware of the fact. Though he was not ill-natured, it

must be admitted that Laurie commended himself to the critic by the want

of success which the young fellow did not attempt to disguise. ‘My

friends are a great deal too good to me,’ Laurie said, with comic

simpleness; ‘they have all fallen upon my picture so, that I have given

it up. What is the use of trying to paint with every man’s opinion

against you? I have not stuff enough in me for that!’

‘Poor Laurie!’ Slasher said, with a laugh which was not unkind. ‘If you

had persevered, probably I, too, should have been compelled, in the

interests of art, to let loose my opinion. So it is as well for me you

stopped in time.’

‘But I want you to let loose your opinion, and do a service to the

nation,’ said Laurie. ‘I want you to come to my place and meet a friend

of mine,--the cleverest fellow I know. All he wants is, that you should

speak a good word for him in the “Sword.”’

‘Ah!’ said the critic, with a groan of disgust; ‘I am tired of speaking

good words. I don’t mind walking into anybody to do you a favour, my

dear fellow. There’s always some justice in anything you like to say

against a picture,--or a man either. But if you knew the sickening stuff

one has to pour forth for one’s own friends, or one’s editor’s friends!

I am never asked to give a good notice in the ‘Sword’ but I feel that

it’s for an ass. Instinct, Laurie! I dare say your friend is everything

that’s delightful, but if his pictures were worth twopence you would

never come to me for a good word.’

‘I should not ask you to praise him, certainly, if I did not think he

deserved it,’ said Laurie, with a little offence.

‘Ah! if you were as well used to that sort of thing as I am,’ said

Slasher, with a sigh. ‘I don’t mind cutting ’em all up in little pieces

to please the public. A slashing article is the easiest writing going.

You have only to seize upon a man’s weak point,--and every man has a

weak point,--and go at it without fear or favour; but when Crowther

comes and lays his hand on my shoulder in his confounded condescending

way, “My dear fellow,” he says, “here’s a poor devil who is always

pestering me. He is a cousin of my wife’s;” or, “He’s a friend of my

brother-in-law’s;” or, “He was at school with my boy,” as the case may

be. “I suppose his picture’s as weak as water; but, hang it! say a good

word for him. It may do him good, and it can’t do us any harm.” That’s

what I’ve got to do, till it makes me sick, I tell you. I’ll pitch into

your aversions, my dear Laurie, and welcome; but don’t ask me to say

good words for your friends.’

‘But my friend is a man of genius,’ said Laurie. ‘I don’t want you to

speak up for him because he is my friend; but because his pictures are

as fine as anything you ever saw.’

Slasher shook his head mournfully. ‘I don’t know anything about his

pictures,’ he said; ‘but that’s how criticism gets done now-a-days. A

man speaks well of his friend, and ill of the fellows he don’t like.

And, as for justice, you know, and appreciation of merit, and so

forth,--except, perhaps, once in a way, in the case of a new name, that

nobody knows,--you might as well look for snow in July. And it’s just

the same in literature. I said to Crowther the other day: “That’s a nice

book, I suppose, as you praised it so.” “No,” he says, “it’s not a very

nice book; but the man that wrote it is a nice fellow, which comes to

the same thing.” No, Laurie, my boy, I’m sick of praising people that

don’t deserve it. That’s why I go in for cynicism and abuse, and all

that. It may be hard upon a poor fellow now and then, but at all events,

it isn’t d----d lies.’

‘I don’t want you to tell lies,’ said Laurie, half-affronted, half

laughing. ‘Come with me on Thursday to the Hydrographic. It’s Suffolk’s

night for exhibition, and you shall see him, and see his work----’

‘Suffolk!’ said Slasher. ‘That fellow! By Jove! I like your modesty,

Laurie Renton, to come here calmly and ask me to praise a man’s pictures

whom I have cut up a score of times at least.’

‘But I don’t suppose you ever saw them’, said Laurie, standing his

ground.

‘I’ve seen them as well as anybody could see them’, said Slasher. ‘I

remember there was one in the North Room down on the floor one year, and

one over the doorway. My dear fellow, I’ve seen the kind of

thing,--that’s enough. Heroic figures, with big bones, and queer

garments--red hair, that never was combed in its life--and big blue

saucer eyes, glaring out of the canvas. I know;--there are two or three

fellows that do that sort of thing. But it will never take, you may be

sure. The British public likes respectable young women with their

clothes put properly on them; in nice velvet and satin, that they can

guess at how much it cost a yard.’

‘The British public ought to be ashamed of itself,’ said Laurie; ‘but

you may come with me on Thursday all the same.’

‘I don’t mind if I do for once,’ said the critic. And so the matter was

settled. Laurie was a very busy man until Thursday came. He was as busy

as he had been when his mind was full of Edith, but, on the whole, in a

more agreeable way. After all, to shut yourself up all day long in a

first floor in Charlotte Street, with a terrible litter about you,--for

when there is nobody to keep you neat but a maid-of-all-work, and you

have no time for ‘tidying’ yourself, litter is the inevitable

consequence,--your windows shut up, and the light coming in over your

head, as in a prison, is not a seductive occupation. Now that Edith was

pushed aside out of the way and the windows were open, the room was more

bearable. And why a man should make himself wretched by pursuing high

art in direct opposition to all his friends? But Laurie betook himself,

without entering into any explanations, to Suffolk’s house, and devoted

himself to the task of collecting together his friend’s loose drawings.

They had grown intimate by their frequent meetings in the Square. And

Suffolk, who was in danger, as his wife feared, of getting ‘soured,’ and

who was busy, and did not care to exhibit himself at the Hydrographic,

gave in to Laurie with a half-sullen acquiescence. ‘What’s the good?’ he

said. ‘But, Reginald dear, it may be a great deal of good,’ his wife

said, turning wistful eyes upon him. And Laurie went and came, bringing

his spick-and-span new portfolios to receive the drawings, which were

huddled up in all sorts of dusty, battered, travel-worn receptacles. In

such matters amateurs are safe to have the advantage over the brethren

in the profession. He mounted, and trimmed, and arranged all day long,

with his mouth full of dust, and his heart full of hope; and confided

his anticipations to the padrona in the evening, having established a

right to the _entrée_ at that moment of moments which she spent with her

children over the fire. It came to look natural that Laurie should take

his place on the hearth, in the firelight, along with little Frank and

Harry. ‘A curious taste,’ the padrona said, and laughed; but not without

a little wonder rising in her mind as to how this fancy was to be

accounted for. ‘The boy likes to feel as if he were one of the family, I

suppose,’ she said to Miss Hadley, who looked on sometimes, with her

knitting, and did not approve;--‘for he is only a boy.’

‘He is boy enough to be fond of women a dozen years older than himself,’

said Miss Hadley, with a significant nod. To which Mrs. Severn, with her

eyes fixed on the fire, made no immediate reply.

‘After all, it is quite natural,’ the padrona continued, after a pause;

‘he is separated from his own family by this strange business;--and such

an affectionate, soft-hearted fellow!’

‘Well, I think it is chiefly affectionateness,’ Miss Hadley admitted:

and she added after a moment: ‘It cannot be for Alice, as I thought!’

‘The child!’ cried Mrs. Severn, in alarm. ‘She is but a child. Don’t

talk as if it were possible any one should dream of stealing her from

me. What should we do without Alice?’ cried the mother, with a sudden

pang. ‘Jane, I hope you will not do anything to put such ideas in any

one’s mind.’

‘Such ideas come of themselves,’ said Miss Hadley. ‘She will be sixteen

in summer. She is of more use than many a woman of six-and-twenty. She

must marry some time or other. Why, what else could you look for when

you refused to bring her up to do anything? A girl who has no fortune in

this world must either marry, or work, or starve; and I don’t know,’

said the strong-minded woman, with energy, ‘which is the worst.’

‘Hush,’ said the padrona, with a smile, ‘infidel! and here is the child

going to her music. Alice, come and look me in the face.’

‘Have I been naughty, mamma?’ said Alice, bending over her mother. For a

moment the two looked into each other’s eyes, with the perfect love, and

trust, and understanding which belongs to that dearest of relationships.

If it gave a pang to the heart of the woman looking on, who had no

child, I cannot tell. The mother lifted her face, still warm with all

the vigour, and softness, and beauty of life, and kissed the lovely,

soft cheek, in its perfection of youth. ‘It would be no wonder if any

one loved her,’ she said softly, when the child had disappeared into the

soft darkness in the next room, her heart wrung with a premonitory pang

of tender anguish. That was the night on which Laurie brought his

brother Frank,--splendid young Guardsman, who had run up to town to

endeavour to arrange the exchange he wanted into a regiment going to

India,--to introduce him to his friends in the Square.

But on the Thursday he rushed in breathless for five minutes only in

the gloaming, to keep the padrona _au courant_ of affairs. ‘We have

placed the picture, and it shows splendidly!’ he cried. ‘The only thing

I fear is that Suffolk will be sulky, and not show as well as the

picture. Could not you send for him before he goes, and put him in a

good humour? If he were out of temper it might spoil all.’

‘I will send for them,’ said the padrona, ‘and keep his wife with me

till you come back. It is very good of you to take all this trouble. I

wish you had a picture to show splendidly too.’

‘How inconsistent some people are,’ said Laurie. ‘After making an end of

my poor picture! No, padrona, that is all over. Let us now be of some

use to our friends.’

‘But it is not all over,’ said Mrs. Severn. And then she paused, seeing,

perhaps, some signs of impatience in him. ‘Heaps of people can paint

pictures,’ she said; ‘but it is not everybody who can serve their

friends,--like this.’

‘If it but succeed it will be something gained,’ said Laurie, with a

sigh of anxiety; ‘and you will think me, after all, not useless in the

world?’ he went on, holding out his hand. Miss Hadley was looking on,

with very sharp eyes; and she saw that the young man stood holding the

padrona’s hand much longer than was necessary for the formality of

leave-taking. ‘Slasher is to dine with me at the club,’ he continued.

‘He will be in good humour at least. And you will think of us, and wish

us good speed.’

‘Surely,’ the padrona said, withdrawing her hand; and Miss Hadley sat

glancing out of the darkness with her keen eyes; knitting for ever, and

looking on. When the young man was gone a certain embarrassment stole

over Mrs. Severn,--she could not tell why. ‘He is as eager and excited

as if his own fate were to be decided to-night,’ she said. ‘What a good

fellow he is!’ Miss Hadley made no reply. No sound but that of the

knitting-needles clicking against each other with a certain fierceness

came out of the twilight in the corner. In this silence there was a

certain disapproval, which made the padrona uncomfortable in spite of

herself. ‘I am afraid you have changed your opinion of poor Laurie,’ she

said, after a pause. ‘I thought you used to like him?’ The children had

not yet come down from their game of romps in the nursery up-stairs, and

the two were alone.

‘I like him very well,’ said Miss Hadley. ‘I like him so well that I

can’t bear to see him making a fool of himself.’

‘How is he making a fool of himself?’ said Mrs. Severn, quickly.

‘Or to see other people making a fool of him,’ said Miss Hadley. ‘There,

I have said my say! I don’t know if it be his fault or yours; but the

young fellow is losing his head, my dear, and you must see it as well

as I do.’

‘I see nothing of the kind,’ said the padrona, with dignity. ‘I am

surely old enough to be safe from such nonsense; and you are too old to

talk like a school-girl. You are as jealous as a man,’ she added, after

a pause, relapsing into easier tones. ‘Would you like me to forbid the

poor boy the house?’

‘It might be best,’ said Miss Hadley, stiffly;--‘certainly for him. I

don’t know about you.’

‘What folly!’ cried the padrona, with momentary anger; but the children

rushed in at the moment, sweeping away all other thoughts. Mrs. Severn,

however, was more silent than usual as she sat in the firelight with

Edie’s soft arms clasped round her neck. She told but one story all the

evening, and that an old one. Her mind was pre-occupied. The governess

sitting in the corner grew bitter as she gazed at her. ‘A woman with

every blessing of life,--a woman with all those children,’ Miss Hadley

said to herself; ‘yet a young man’s silly love is enough to draw her

mind away from them,--at her age! What fools we are!’ Thus another

little drama sprang into life in a corner, with actors, and accessories,

and spectators, all complete. There was Alice in the great dim

drawing-room, as usual, playing softly, till the very air seemed to

dream and murmur with the wistfulness of her music. ‘This romance should

have come to the child,’ Miss Hadley mused, with anger; ‘with the child

it would have been natural. With the mother----’ She could not trust

herself to realise what she thought about the mother. She had held so

different an opinion of her at all former times; the padrona had shown

herself so entirely unmoved by such vanities! And now, good heavens, at

her age! Such were Miss Hadley’s thoughts as she sat in the twilight,

while her friend played with her children. She forgot her sister, who

was waiting for her, and all the comforts of the little parlour in

Charlotte Street. She would have liked to stay there all night, to keep

at her post without intermission, to save the padrona from herself. ‘She

cannot realise what she is doing,’ Miss Hadley said in her

self-communion. And probably Mrs. Severn was aware of her friend’s

inquisition. She had a little flush on her cheeks when she received the

Suffolks, for whom she had sent. She went into all the arrangements of

the Hydrographic for that evening with an interest which was a little

nervous and overstrained. ‘I trust some illustrious stranger may be

there to be of use to you,’ she said, with a smile; and took no notice

of Miss Hadley, who kept immovably in the background. And when Suffolk,

in his best humour and his evening coat, went out to the Hydrographic,

where his pictures were being exhibited, the two women, whom he left

behind, talked a great deal about Laurie. Poor Laurie! He was very

happy, and excited, and in earnest at that moment, believing himself in

the fair way of serving his friend. And they both liked him with

tenderness, such as women feel for such men. But yet they said ‘Poor

Laurie!’ even in their commendation and gratitude; and did not well know

why.

CHAPTER II.

WHAT CAME OF IT.

When Laurie left the Hydrographic in company with his friend Slasher, he

had still a hope of being able to present himself for a few moments in

the Square to report how he had sped. But his companion, as it turned

out, had no such idea. The Hydrographic held its meetings in the

artists’ quarter,--in that region which, but for art, no man of fashion

would think of visiting. But being in it, for once in a way, Slasher,

who considered himself a man of fashion, had made up his mind to make

the best of it. He went with Laurie to his rooms, talking all the way of

Suffolk’s pictures. That the critic had been shaken by the sight of

them, there could be no doubt. He had been moved by the admiration of so

many men who knew better than he did. The mere fact that the painter had

been invited to make such an exhibition showed that he was becoming

known to his own profession, and had been owned by it. There was light,

and space, and leisure to look at the pictures. There was the

comfortable sensation,--in Slasher’s case,--of a good dinner and

pleasant company, and just such an amount of deference to himself as

soothed and glorified his self-esteem. He insisted on going with Laurie

to finish the evening, letting his tongue loose as they walked along.

‘There is something in it, I don’t deny,’ he said. ‘The contrast between

that fair group of children and the dark Romans is very well done, and

the monk’s figure is full of expression. Let us see what you have

yourself, Laurie. I, for one, am more interested in that. Welby is such

a friend of yours, he might have found a place for something of your own

to-night. It is not a bad room for showing a picture,--and all sorts of

men go to the Hydrographic. It would be as good a thing as you could do

to make Welby exhibit you there next time he has a chance. Yes, I don’t

deny there’s a good deal that’s fine about that picture. The light is

very well managed. It sets one thinking of Rome, you know, and how the

air all smiles and glows about you on a spring morning. It’s not a bad

picture. Is this where you live? It is not so nice as Kensington Gore.’

‘No,’ said Laurie, ‘it’s not so nice; but it’s better for work;’ and he

ushered his companion into his room, where the contents of his

portfolios, which he had carried off for Suffolk’s sketches, lay about,

all mingled with books and studies in oil and a great deal of litter.

The big canvas, thrust back into a corner, a pale shadow of what might

have been, presided over the confusion. It was not so nice as Kensington

Gore; but to Slasher, who liked to feel himself a man of fashion and

superior to professional persons, the disorder of the place was not

disagreeable. Laurie Renton had once been ‘a cut above him,’ and it was

not unpleasant to feel that Laurie Renton was now in circumstances to

appeal to his patronage. They sat down together over the fire, and

lighted their cigars; and what with the smoke, and what with the liquids

that accompanied it, and the witching hour of night which makes men

confidential, and the old associations, Slasher’s lips were opened, and

he unfolded to Laurie many particulars of his life. ‘You would not think

it, but I began the world in much such a place as this,’ said the

critic. Laurie, of course, knew all about the manner in which his

companion had begun the world; for everybody does know all about

everybody else, especially in respect to those circumstances of which

everybody else is the least proud. The listener in this case had the

embarrassing privilege of contrasting autobiography with history, which

is always a curious process. But, notwithstanding this difficulty,

Laurie was, as always, a good listener,--not from policy, which seldom

deceives any one, but because he preserved that tender politeness of the

heart and regard for other people’s feelings which make it impossible

for a man to contradict, or doubt, or sneer at his neighbour. ‘I suppose

he thinks it all happened so,’ Laurie said to himself; and Slasher was

grateful to him for the good faith,--a little puzzled certainly, but

genuine,--with which he listened. In the breaks of his story he would

get up and saunter about the room, turning over Laurie’s sketches, and

now and then he would interject some remark upon the special subject of

the evening.

‘Some of those studies of your friend’s were fine,’ he said, suddenly.

‘I hope they’ll do him justice next year at the Academy. I’ll speak to

Sir Peter, if you like; and if the picture he is doing now is as good as

the one we saw to-night----’

‘One bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,’ said Laurie,

oracularly. ‘And half a loaf is better than no bread.’

‘Hang it, what can a fellow do?’ cried Slasher. ‘You are the most

pertinacious little beggar I ever came across. Do you think a man can go

and eat his own words and stultify himself? Look here, I’ll tell you

what I’ll do. You shall write a notice of the Hydrographic for the

“Sword.” Blow the fellow’s trumpet up to the skies, if you like; say

there’s never been anything like him since Titian. And I’ll take it to

Crowther. Now I don’t see what more a man can do.’

‘I write the notice for the “Sword!”’ cried Laurie, laughing,--‘that is

a little too strong. I never put a sentence together in my life.’

‘As if that had anything to do with it!’ said the critic. ‘Why that’s

the only good thing I can see in this blessed trade of literature. You

can go at it off-hand. Put a sentence together! Why I’ve heard you put

twenty. It’s nothing but talking, my dear fellow. A practical writer

like myself, you know, goes off at the nail, and talks of fifty other

subjects before he touches the right one; but I can fancy that the

public, by way of a change, might prefer to hear what you wanted to say

at once. Of course you can do it; and I’ll take it to Crowther. A man

cannot make a fairer offer than that.’

‘It is awfully good of you,’ said Laurie, in a ferment. The proposal

went tingling through his veins like wine. It had seemed supremely

ridiculous to him when old Welby had suggested that he should take to

writing, just as he might have suggested shoe-making or carpentry. But

from Slasher, to whom the doors of the ‘Sword’ were open,--and in

Suffolk’s interest,--the idea changed its aspect. Though there are no

labourers of any description who so systematically underrate their trade

as do professors of literature, yet it is astonishing how pleased every

outsider is who is invited to enter that magic circle. Laurie felt that

Slasher in his turn had paid him the most delicate compliment. Though he

might have laughed at the ‘Sword’ and the critic, and at newspapers and

critics in general, at another moment, no sooner was he asked to strike

in, in the _mêlée_, than the craft and all its adjuncts became splendid

to Laurie. What a power it was! How a word in the ‘Sword’ thrilled

through and through those regions where artists congregated, filling

some with boundless satisfaction and others with despair! When he cried

out, in modest delight and surprise, ‘I write a notice for the “Sword!”’

thinking it too grand to be true, he already felt himself ever so much

more important, so much cleverer and greater a person than he had been

five minutes before. Perhaps, it is true, the smoke and the beverage

that accompanied it, and the fact that it was two o’clock in the

morning, had something to do with Laurie’s pleasure in the proposal, as

it had with Mr. Slasher’s liberality in making it;--but still there it

was. Laurie Renton, whom everybody had snubbed, down to Forrester,--whom

everybody had interfered with and advised and ordered about ‘for his

good,’--might now become, all at once, an authority before whom they

would tremble in their turn,--who would dispense justice, or favour, or

vengeance, from his high-placed seat. It was when he looked at it from

this point of view, and not out of any disinterested love of literature,

that he jumped at the idea. Laurie leaned over the fire with his eyes

glowing, and revelled in the wonderful thought. He was a little

particular about his drawings in most cases, preferring to show them

himself, and give what elucidation he saw necessary; but this time he

permitted Slasher to make his own investigations undisturbed. All he had

hoped for in his most sanguine moments had been to extract from the

critic some grudging word of praise which should rouse public curiosity

about Suffolk’s picture. But to have the organ in his own hands, to say

what he would,--to secure in his own person that art should be spoken of

with understanding, commended without fear or favour, condemned with

impartiality,--this was something beyond his highest hopes. Such a

critic as he himself would be was the thing of all others wanted in the

world of art. How often had the painters round him,--how often had he

himself,--asked each other if such a thing were possible? And here was

the possibility placed within his reach,--thrust, as it were, into his

own hands!

Suffolk had gone home hours before, calling at the Square for his wife.

He gave the ladies the very scantiest account of what had happened, but

suffered the particulars to be drawn out of him, bit by bit, as he

walked home through the dimly-lighted streets. Though he was too proud

to make any demonstration of satisfaction before Mrs. Severn, yet his

wife read in the eyes, whose expression she knew so well, that for once

in his life the sense of general approbation had warmed him. ‘It is all

Laurie Renton’s doing,’ she said, in the candour of delight, with a

generosity which was not so easy to her husband. Suffolk himself had

never made any appeal to Laurie, and did not see it in the same light.

‘I don’t think Laurie Renton has so much in his power,’ he said, ‘though

he has taken a great deal of trouble. It was Welby’s affair chiefly, of

course; and then, after all, a man who has been labouring a dozen years

surely does not need to be grateful to anybody if he gets a bit of

recognition on his own merits at last.’

‘Of course it is on your own merits, Reginald,’ said his wife; but the

woman was more grateful than the man. She knew very well that it was not

her husband’s merits,--which, indeed, had met with but little

recognition hitherto,--but that wistful word she had once spoken to

Laurie, and his soft heart which had not forgotten it. Suffolk went on,

quite unconscious of her thoughts and of her interference, to set down

poor Laurie at his just value.

‘Renton was there with a friend of his,’ he continued;--‘Slasher,

Helen,--that confounded snob who has the impudence to give us all our

deserts in the “Sword,”--as shallow an ape as you ever saw. Laurie’s a

very good fellow, but he’s too general in his friendships. After feeling

really obliged to him for his handiness, to see him arm in arm with a

conceited ass like that----’

‘Did you speak to him?’ cried Mrs. Suffolk. ‘What did he look like?

Reginald, of course it is natural that you should be affronted; but if

you consider how much influence the “Sword” has----’

‘Oh, I was civil; don’t be frightened,’ said Suffolk. ‘Deadly civil we

both were; and he had something complimentary to say, like the rest.

Trust those fellows to see which way the wind’s blowing. But what

disgusts one is to find Laurie Renton,--a fellow one likes,--hand in

glove with a snob like that.’

‘He does not mean it, Reginald, I am sure,’ said Mrs. Suffolk, driven to

her wits’ end, and feeling at once disposed to assault her husband for

his stupidity, and to cry over poor Laurie, thus cruelly belied.

‘Oh, no, he doesn’t mean it,’ said the painter; ‘it’s only that

confounded friendliness of his that likes to please everybody. If he had

more stamina and less good nature----’ said his critic, severely.

But he never knew how near his wife was to shaking him as she clung to

his arm. And Mrs. Suffolk said no more on the subject,--reflecting,

first, that when a man takes a ridiculous idea into his head, it is of

no use reasoning with him; and, secondly, that Laurie should never know

how little gratitude had attended his efforts. That at least she would

take into her own hands. If Reginald did not know what his friend had

done for him, she at least did. And so did the padrona; and the chances

were that their thanks would be more congenial to Laurie than any gruff

acknowledgments that might be made from another quarter. Thus the pair

walked on, excited by the faint prospect of better days, through the

glimmering, silent streets, when most people were in bed--the husband

making his report in snatches, the wife drawing it forth bit after bit,

and piecing the fragments together with an art familiar to women. She

knew about as well what had passed as he did by the time they reached

their own narrow, dingy door. And after one peep at the children,

sleeping up on the fourth floor at the top of the house, Mrs. Suffolk

joined her husband in his studio,--where he had gone to smoke his final

pipe,--and drew forth further his bits from him, and added her words of

assent or advice to the deliberations he fell into, standing with a

candle in his hand before his half-finished picture. ‘Please God, you

shall have your comforts like the rest, if this comes to anything, my

good little wife,’ he said at last. ‘Oh, Reginald, it is for you I wish

it most,’ she cried, with tears in her pretty eyes. That gleam of a

possible brightening in their lot went to their hearts. Ah, hard, happy,

chequered life!--so hard to bear while it is present, so sweet to look

back upon when it is past!

But everything was hushed and asleep in the house of the Suffolks when

Laurie shook hands with the critic, and stood at his door in the raw,

chilly air of the winter morning to see him go. Laurie had not been

keeping late hours for some time past, and the excitement had roused him

out of all inclination for sleep. He went back to his fire and pushed

away the _impedimenta_ from his table, and with his nerves all

thrilling, and his brain in a feverish commotion, began to write.

Perhaps the soda-water had affected him slightly too--and the hours of

talk, and the novelty of what he had in hand, had undoubtedly affected

him. He sat till his fire burned out and his lamp ran down, making his

first essay at composition. It seemed to him very easy in his

excitement. ‘If this is all they make so much fuss about!’ he said,

feeling himself not only capable of the ‘Sword,’ but of greater things.

The street was beginning to wake to the first sounds of the morning when

he threw himself on his bed, chilled and exhausted, yet full of content.

Surely, after all, this rapid art, which could be caught up without any

study, and the effect of which was immediate, was more to the purpose

than the labour of months upon one piece of canvas, which might affect

nobody, not even the Hanging Committee. New prospects seemed opening

before him also,--prospects more vast and boundless than those which

flickered before the eyes of Suffolk and his wife. What if this were now

that tide in the affairs of men, which it behoved him to take in its

flow! He left his sketches lying about,--paper, and chalk, and canvas,

all muddled together,--to be dealt with, in the absence of the

portfolios, by the maid-of-all work; but he took his little

writing-desk, with his new production in it, to his bedroom with him,

where it might be in safety; and fell asleep when the milkman was going

his rounds, feeling himself, as it were, on the edge of an altogether

new career.

His composition, however, did not look so hopeful when he got up a few

hours later, and read it over in the calm of noon as he ate his

breakfast. Miss Hadley over the way had seen that his room was vacant

all this time, the windows open, and papers fluttering about in the

chilly air. She could not understand why he lost so many hours on such a

bright morning, or what had become of him. It was nearly one o’clock

before he had done dawdling over his tea, reading and re-reading his

criticism. After all, it was not quite so easy. He made a great many

emendations, and then took to doubting whether they were emendations;

and grew querulous over it, and sadly disturbed in his confidence. Then

he folded it up and put it in his pocket, and, snatching up his hat,

rushed down-stairs. ‘He is going to the Square,’ Miss Hadley said, as

she saw him dart round the corner; and she stood for a long time at her

window pondering whether Jane could be right about that matter. ‘She

will never be so silly, and he will never be such a fool,’ said the old

lady; and sat down again, with her mind quite excited, to watch when he

should come back.

The padrona, for her part, was standing at her easel, troubled with many

uncomfortable thoughts. She had looked at herself in the glass that

morning longer than usual, and had decided that there were a great many

lines in her face which she had not thought of noticing. ‘I am getting

old,’ the padrona said to herself, and laughed; and then, perhaps,

sighed a little. She laughed because she felt as young as ever, and age

seemed a joke as it entered her thoughts; and she sighed because----

who can follow those subtle shades of fancy? And then she began to

think. Laurie Renton was but a boy,--not more than four-and-twenty at

the outside, she calculated, reckoning as mothers do. ‘Harry was

beginning to walk when I saw him first, and Harry will be eight in

March,’ said the padrona; ‘and Laurie was but a schoolboy then, not more

than seventeen.’ Four-and-twenty! He could not be more,--nothing but a

boy. And Jane Hadley is an old fool;--that was the easiest solution of

the difficulty. Mrs. Severn liked Laurie, she said frankly to herself.

It was pleasant to have him running in and out, with all his

difficulties and all his wants. He was such a good fellow,--so frank, so

natural, so willing to help everybody, so transparent about his own

affairs, so----affectionate. Yes, that was the word;--he was

affectionate. Half banished as it were from his own family, he had

linked himself on to hers, and she was pleased it should be so. And as

for any folly that might enter any one’s head! ‘These old maids!’ Mrs.

Severn said to herself,--though it was not like her to say it; and thus

she tried to dismiss the subject. If he came too often, she might

perhaps suggest to him that it would do him a great deal of good to go

and study in Italy for the winter. ‘And I should miss the boy,’ the

padrona said to herself with candour. But in the meantime there was

nothing she could say or do. It was simply ridiculous to think of

taking any other step. At her age! and such a boy!

She was still working at the picture which Mr. Welby had commended. It

was a commission from her patrons, the Riches of Richmont, and was to be

hung in a spot chosen by herself in the bright country-house, full of

light, and air, and flowers, and everything sweet, to which they

sometimes invited her. Edith’s little ‘wooden sister’ was standing to

her at the moment, draped in great folds of white. She was working hard

at the folds of the dress, and studying with puzzled anxiety the

position of the limbs, which, Mr. Welby had declared, had no joints in

them. And she was anything but grateful to Jane Hadley for throwing,

just at this moment, an additional embarrassment into her mind. It was

while she was thus occupied that Laurie rushed in breathless with his

tale of last night’s proceedings and his paper to read to her. Any

prudential thoughts that might have entered her mind as to the propriety

of keeping him at a distance vanished at the sight of him. It was all so

perfectly natural. Whom else should he go to, poor fellow, to tell his

doings, to communicate all his difficulties and his hopes? Mrs. Severn

blushed to think that she could have allowed herself for one moment to

be swayed from her natural course by such absurdity. Jane Hadley must

have lost her senses. Should the boy go to old Welby and tell him?

Should he confide in his landlady? Who was there that he could come to

in his difficulties but herself?

‘I have brought it to read to you,’ said Laurie, ‘if you can take the

trouble to listen. I am afraid it is dreadful trash. The truth is, I was

a little excited about it last night; and now, this morning----’ He was

abashed, poor fellow, and explanatory, and very anxious to impress upon

her all the excuses there were for its imperfection. Somehow, everything

had a different aspect in the morning! He went on, playing with the

paper; and then, making a dash at it, began to read. It was not very

good, to tell the truth. There was an attempt to be funny in it, which

was not very successful, and there was an effort after that airy style

which so many young writers attempt unsuccessfully; and then there was a

rather grand conclusion, full of big words, which Laurie had risen into

just as he heard the first cry of the milkman, and felt that it was

necessary to come to an effective close. The padrona went on painting

very steadily at her easel. She had the notion, which women so often

entertain, that a young man, with all those advantages which a man has

over her own sex, could do anything he chose to do,--and especially

Laurie, her own _protégé_; and yet here, it was evident, was something

he could not do. The writing in the ‘Sword,’ though it was said to be

nothing remarkable, was not like Laurie’s writing. Poor Laurie’s

narrative, instead of the sober little history it ought to have been,

read like a bad joke. He might have been sneering at Suffolk for

anything the reader could have made out, and patronising him

oppressively at the same moment. Never woman was in a more uncomfortable

position than was Mrs. Severn standing at her easel. Laurie himself was

so conscious of its weakness and flatness that he attempted, by dramatic

tricks with his voice, to give it effect. ‘Good heavens! Suffolk will go

mad,’ the padrona said to herself; and then there was a word or two

about Mr. Welby. And the author sat breathless, trembling, yet with a

smile of complacency on his face, to hear her opinion. Poor Laurie! whom

she had already driven to the utmost bounds of patience in respect to

his picture! She shivered as she stopped to arrange the drapery on the

little lay figure. Certainly, to be Laurie’s adviser-in-chief was a post

which had its difficulties as well as its pleasures.

‘Is that all?’ she said, when an awful pause of a minute in duration

warned her that the moment to deliver her judgment had come.

‘All!’ said Laurie, flattered by the question, and beginning to take

courage. ‘I should have thought you had found it quite long enough.’

‘Well, perhaps it is long enough,’ said the trembling critic; ‘but still

I think there might be another paragraph. You have not said anything

about the German sketches, for instance, which were so clever; and you

know, if I am to be a critic, you must let me find fault. There are one

or two turns of expression. What is that you say about Mr. Suffolk

having lived out of the world?’

‘“This young artist has little acquaintance with the ways of the

world,”’ read Laurie. ‘“He loves nature, which is open to high and low.

Instead of conciliating the critics and picture-dealers, he has

satisfied himself with the models on the steps at the Trinita di Monte.

Perhaps we ought to warn him that this is not the best way to please the

British public.”’

‘Mr. Suffolk will not like that,’ said the padrona. ‘It looks as if you

meant something against his character. It looks like a sort of

accusation----’

‘Why, it is a joke!’ cried Laurie; ‘every one must see that at a

glance.’

‘But people are stupid,’ said his critic, taking courage. ‘I think you

should change it. And then about Mr. Welby. Don’t you say he has almost

given up painting? There is nothing he hates to hear said like that.’

‘“Our veteran master in the art,”’ read Laurie, ‘“feeling his own

strength decay, has called upon a younger brother to fill his place,--a

substitution at which artists will rejoice.” I mean, of course, that

everybody will be pleased to find he is spared the trouble.’

‘But he will not like it,’ said the padrona. ‘I think I would say,

instead of that about the Trinita di Monte, that he has spent a great

deal of his time in Rome, and has caught the warmth of the atmosphere

and brilliancy of the colour, and so on; and Mr. Welby,--I would say how

graceful it was on his part to lend his aid to a younger man, and how

ready he is to appreciate excellence. You told me to say what I think.

And don’t you think if you were to begin just plainly by saying Mr.

Suffolk’s works were exhibited at the Hydrographic, instead of that

about the gem that is born to blush unseen----?’

‘In short,’ said Laurie, with a flush on his face, ‘you don’t like any

part of it,--beginning, or middle, or end.’

‘Yes, indeed I do,’ said the treacherous woman. ‘I think it is very

nice; but I am sure you could improve it. Don’t be offended. You could

not expect to turn out a Thackeray all at once.’

‘Nor a Michael Angelo,’ said Laurie, desponding; ‘nor anything. I shall

always be a poor pretender, good for little;--and this attempt is more

ridiculous than all the rest. Well, never mind. If it were not for poor

Suffolk’s sake----’

‘For Suffolk’s sake you are bound to do it,--and do it well,’ said Mrs.

Severn; ‘and for mine,--I mean for everybody’s who cares for you. To

begin at three o’clock in the morning, after a night of talk and smoke,

and then to be melancholy because you are not pleased with your work!

There are pens and paper on that table, Laurie, and I will not so much

as look at you. Go and try again.’

‘Do you mean to say you care?’ said Laurie; and he went and stood by

her, while she continued to work.

He thought it was a little hard that she never turned, never looked at

him, but went on painting faster than usual, making false lines in her

haste. He had no thought that she was afraid of him, and of any foolish

word or look which might change their position to each other. He stood

wistfully with his heart full of unspeakable things, yearning for he

knew not what, longing for a little more of her, if it were but a glance

from her eye, a touch of her hand. She had wounded and mortified him,

and then she had bidden him try again; but would not spare him a glance

to show that she cared,--would not stop painting, and going wrong. He

stood and looked on, watching her in a kind of fascination. She had been

hard upon him, and he had felt the sting, and forgiven her; and now he

might make reprisals if he would. He put out his hand suddenly and took

the brush from her hand. ‘I am not going to be trodden on for ever,’ he

said; ‘I am the worm that turns at last. I am going to put in that

elbow; you are doing it all wrong.’

The padrona never said a word. She gave the brush up to him, and stood

looking on while he carried out his threat,--looking at the canvas, not

at him. He did it, and then his heart failed him. He had not an idea how

much alarmed she was, and terrified for the next word. He had not made

any investigations like Miss Hadley’s into the state of his own

feelings. He did not want anything,--except to be near her, to have her

attention, her sympathy, and do whatever she wanted. Now he became

alarmed, in his turn, at his own boldness, and humbly laid the brush out

of his rash hand.

‘Padrona mia, I am a wretch, and you are angry with me!’ he said. Then

Mrs. Severn laughed, and broke the spell.

‘We are quits,’ she cried, with a nervousness in her voice which Laurie

could not account for. ‘You have given me the upper hand of you, Laurie.

Now go and sit down yonder, and write your paper all over again from the

beginning. I accept your elbow. You are bound to do what I tell you

now.’

‘As if I did not always do what you tell me!’ said Laurie, and he went

and sat down at the writing-table, eager to please her. As for the

padrona, she took up her brush with a little shudder, feeling she had

escaped for this time, but that it might not be safe to trust to chance

again. The foolish boy! And yet with all his folly there was so much to

like in him! Perhaps even the folly itself was not so despicable in

Mrs. Severn’s eyes as it was in those of Jane Hadley, who had never been

fluttered by alarms of this description, the good soul! But this sort of

thing, it was clear, must not be allowed to happen again.

The paper, however, was written, and much improved, and at last, toned

down by repeated corrections, was declared ready for the ‘Sword,’ and

worthy of that illustrious journal. By that time it was dusk, and there

was no choice but to let him stay to tea. The padrona sent her attendant

from her to listen to something new Alice was playing, with a genuine

horror of Jane Hadley’s comments, and annoyed consciousness of which she

could not divest herself. But the young man stayed only ten minutes by

Alice, fair though the child was, and sweet as was her music in the soft

wintry gloaming, and came straying back again to the little group on the

hearth-rug, to share Frank’s foot-stool. ‘He says he is to go to the

pantomime, mamma,’ said Frank, whose whole being was pervaded by the

sense that Christmas was coming. ‘And I say he is to go to the

pantomime. Mamma, I love Laurie,’ said little Edith. ‘But my pet, I am

not Laurie’s mamma to take him to the pantomime,’ cried the padrona

loud, so that Miss Hadley could hear. Alas! Miss Hadley did not take the

trouble to listen. She looked, and saw Laurie half on the stool,

half-kneeling, with the fire-light shining on his face, and that turned

upwards to Mrs. Severn who sat back in the shadow, with an expression,

as the governess thought, which nobody could mistake. Was it the

padrona’s fault?

CHAPTER III.

A PATRON OF ART.

Nothing could be more satisfactory in every way than the notice in the

‘Sword.’ It was not eloquent, nor too long, and Slasher was pleased. ‘By

Jove, Laurie, I was afraid you’d go in for fine writing, or for chaff,

which is as bad,’ he said, with an air of relief. And it was very clear

and distinct as to Suffolk’s merits. It made such a commotion through

the whole district round Fitzroy Square as has seldom been equalled,

except just at the opening of the Academy. The paper was lent about

almost from house to house. ‘Have you seen what the “Sword” says of

Suffolk’s picture?’ one would say to another. ‘I hear it was all through

Laurie Renton.’ It almost seemed to Laurie as if people looked at him

more respectfully in the streets. At all events, the fellows at

Clipstone Street showed a difference in their manner; and yet there were

some even there who shook their heads. ‘He would never have made much by

art,’ said Spyer, who went now and then, and drew for an hour or two, by

way of keeping himself up, ‘or I should have been sorry; the pen and

the pencil don’t agree. But it’s a good thing for Suffolk. The dealers

are beginning to look after him. It’s enough to make a man sick, by

Jove! years of work go for nothing, when a paltry half-dozen words in a

newspaper----! If I was a young fellow like the most of you, I’d do

something to put a stop to that.’

‘What can any one do put a stop to it?’ said one of the young men. ‘We

have no private patrons now-a-days. We have only got the public and the

press, to do our best with them. Laurie Renton draws very well for an

amateur; I hope he will not end in the “Sword.”’

‘Laurie Renton was born an amateur,’ said Spyer; ‘he never was anything

better, and couldn’t be. Let him take to writing. That’s what heaps of

people do after coquetting with art. He may make something of that; but

he never will paint a picture that has any chance to live.’

‘He draws very well, all the same,’ said Laurie’s defender. But on the

whole, though it gained him an amount of respect and importance among

them, his little attempt at literature did not raise Laurie’s

reputation. It looked like a defection to the painters round him. Though

it was but for once, and took up but two columns in the ‘Sword,’ he was

given up as having gone over to literature, which, in the opinion of the

Clipstone Street fellows, was a very easy and well-rewarded trade.

Suffolk himself did not quite know what to think. He lost not a moment

in going to see his critic, and thanking him for the good word he had

said for him. But yet he was a little unwilling to acknowledge that it

was Laurie’s paper which brought that picture-dealer to see him. The

very next week after, the ‘Looker-on’ had a notice of the Hydrographic,

and followed Laurie’s lead, praising the picture with still greater

effusion than he had allowed himself; and even Mrs. Suffolk, when she

saw this, was moved in her heart by a momentary feeling that Laurie had

been very measured and even cold, in his approbation. She was grateful,

and so was her husband,--but----. There was a degree of pleasure in

their satisfaction with the ‘Looker-on,’ which was wanting in their

gratitude to Laurie. Gratitude is a cumbrous thing to move about with.

And Laurie felt that even the padrona expected him, now he had begun, to

go on writing articles. One morsel of print implied to all these

innocent people an engagement on the ‘Sword’ at least, and ready entry

into literature in general. If he had gone on writing, and stood up like

a man for his friends, the society which surrounded him would have felt

that he had done his duty. But there seemed to all his comrades a

certain cowardice in contenting himself with one effort. That he should

have exerted himself on Suffolk’s account was quite comprehensible; but

to stop there, and do nothing further, and say no good word for anybody

else! It was that he did not choose to take the trouble, people

thought,--not even for the padrona;--for nobody suspected that Laurie

would have been torn by wild horses rather than have put her sacred name

into profane print. This was a refinement of sentiment which no man

could be expected to enter into. Mrs. Severn herself was perhaps a

little disappointed too. It would have been but natural that she, his

closest friend, to whom he came with all his troubles, should reap the

benefit of the pains she had taken in getting him to write; but never a

word in celebration of the padrona’s pictures came into the ‘Sword.’ ‘He

does not care for them, I suppose,’ she said to herself with a little

sigh, not taking it unkindly, but with a doubt which clouded her sunny

sky sometimes,--a secret suggestion in her mind that her pictures did

not deserve admiration. She sighed, poor soul, because she could not

make them better, not because it was not in her heart to conceive of

higher things. But then she could not afford to wait and think, and

collect her full strength, and do her very best. Sometimes she pulled at

the tether that bound her, with that impulse towards excellence which is

in every sensitive nature. But she could not stop long enough in her

ordinary work to achieve anything beyond it. She thought Laurie did not

consider her pictures worth talking about, and contented herself without

any bitterness. He was not doing what in the merest commonplace way he

might have done for her; but the padrona, who was fond of Laurie, did

for him what few painters are disposed to do for one another,--she

offered him a share in the one special piece of goods which no artist

likes to share;--she had the magnanimity to send him a note to Charlotte

Street, in the end of March, on one of those coldest of spring mornings,

to come and meet her patrons, the Riches of Richmont, at lunch.

The padrona was not given to the writing of notes, nor indeed had she

much occasion so far as Laurie was concerned, who seldom was absent from

the Square for an entire day. But he had felt, without knowing how, a

certain difference in his reception since the day on which he wrote his

paper at Mrs. Severn’s writing-table. Not that she was less kind or less

interested in him;--perhaps it was, though the young man did not think

of that, that there was always somebody there, and that the third

person, instead of keeping in the background, was brought into the

conversation, and spoiled it. Perhaps Mrs. Severn, too, thought the

interloper spoiled it. Talk is pleasant, a _quattr’ occhi_; but then the

interloper was needful. This depressed Laurie’s spirits in spite of

himself. There was not much that was exhilarating in his prospects

generally. Nothing more had come of his literary ambition after that one

paper, and his work as an artist went on by fits and starts, with no

particular aim in it to spur him on; and his friends, who were all in

the heat and fervour of their work for the exhibition, naturally felt

that a man who was not preparing for the Academy, who had no share in

their white heat of excitement as to the decision of the Hanging

Committee, was still something of an outsider. And a cloud had risen on

his intercourse with the Square. Laurie was low, and felt despondent

about affairs in general. And the chilly spring and the east winds

affected his--temper, he said. Probably it was something else besides

his temper that was affected. He had begun to say to himself that he was

a useless wretch, and not good for much, and that it was ridiculous to

hope that he could ever make any mark in the world; and would come home

from seeing his friends of nights, who were all so busy, with a certain

sensation of misery. The padrona’s pictures had been put into their

frames, though she was still working at that one for Mr. Rich, and her

studio was beginning to get freshened up and decorated in preparation

for the private view, which every painter affords to his or her friends

and patrons. Even old Welby had taken down the white canvas and the

Angelichino, and placed two of his own pictures to have the final

touches given to them and to be exhibited before they went to the

Academy. As for Suffolk, he was working with a kind of passion at the

big picture which had been so unsparingly criticised; the canvas was as

big as that one of Laurie’s, on which the chalk outlines still

lingered,--and there were but two figures in it. The maid in the low

arched doorway, in her white kirtle, was dismissing her lover with an

inexorable sweetness and sadness; the young man was resisting, and

refusing to be dismissed, his dark face glowing with love, and trouble,

and angry protest against fate. They were the representatives of two

races, hostile, yet fated to mingle; and there was in the picture,

moreover, a deeper issue,--that struggle of love and duty which it is

sometimes best for the world should not be decided on duty’s side.

Laurie would stand and look at it, and wonder why he could not have done

it as well. Sometimes a vision of the Edith of his imagination, with a

still deeper force of expression in her face, would flit across this

canvas; but he had discrimination enough to know that Suffolk, in his

place, would have painted that Edith had all the world been against him.

After all, it was his own fault, but that was no particular consolation;

and he felt himself left outside, out of their calculations, almost out

of their sympathy, at this particular crisis of fate, when everybody was

too much excited about his own luck, and his neighbour’s, to have

leisure to think of the rest of the world. The moment for sending in to

the Academy was like the eve of a great battle in Fitzroy Square and its

environs; and Laurie, who was not even a volunteer to come in the

_mêlée_, could not but find himself sometimes out of place among those

excited groups, with their one subject. He was interested in their

fate; but he was not himself putting his own to the touch--and he was a

little low in consequence, and heartily wished the crisis over, and

things going on again in their usual way. Let who would object, Laurie

said to himself, with a kind of desperate resolution, he would have

something to send next year.

It was while he was full of these melancholy thoughts that the padrona’s

little note came to him. He had been there the night before, and Miss

Hadley had been present,--even in the studio, to which, in former times,

she never dreamt of penetrating. To be sure, there was a kind of a

reason for that now in the renovation that everything was undergoing;

but still it was rather hard never to be able to say a word to one’s

friend, never to receive an expression of her opinion or of her

kindness, without Miss Hadley’s keen eyes upon one’s face. And Laurie

had grown almost angry at this perpetual intrusion. He was idling over

one of his school studies when Mrs. Severn’s note was brought to him. It

was the briefest little note,--but at least Miss Hadley had not

interfered with that.

‘Come,’ it said, ‘and lunch with us at two, and meet the Riches.

They have just sent me word they are coming to see my pictures.

They are my great patrons, and they may be of use to you. I will

tell them who you are,--a Grand Seigneur turned painter,--and they

will be immensely interested. Don’t laugh at them; they are such

good souls.

‘You were a little cross, do you know, the other day? and I cannot

have you cross. We are all so busy there is no time for talk.

‘M. S.’

This was the note, and there was not much in it. It was the padrona’s

soft heart which had made her add that last little coaxing,

half-apologetic sentence, and perhaps it was foolish of her. But then,

though it was certainly necessary that Laurie should be cured,--and that

without mercy,--of any foolish notions that might have stolen into his

foolish young head, still for one moment, once in a way, it was a

comfort to be free of Miss Hadley; and she had said nothing that his

mother might not have said. But perhaps Mrs. Severn would not have been

so sure of the perfect judiciousness of her words had she seen how

Laurie lighted up under them, and expanded into content. It was eleven

then, and his invitation was for two; but yet he decided it was best to

send a note in return. It is a species of communication which is very

attractive sometimes. Laurie jumped at it with an exhilaration for which

he did not attempt to account. It was a different thing altogether from

those other little notes conveying mamma’s messages, which he still

preserved somewhere; but not, it must be confessed, with such lively

feeling as he once did. Quite a different matter! It was his friend who

had written to him now,--only a dozen words, and yet herself was in

them,--herself, always full of kind thought, of that gracious interest

in him, wanting to help him on though he was so unsatisfactory, finding

fault with him in that soft, caressing way, which was sweeter than

praise. Laurie,--foolish fellow,--put away his work, and spent

half-an-hour of the short time that was to elapse before he should see

her in writing the following note. It could have been written in five

minutes; but there was, it cannot be denied, a certain pleasure in

lingering over it, and a certain skill was required to put a great deal

of meaning into few words. He did not think he had succeeded, after all,

when it was written. But here it is:--

‘I will never be cross any more, padrona mia. I have been thinking

you meant to cast me off. But you don’t? I will go and meet the

Riches or the Poors, or anybody else you like, and thank them for

the chance. You I never could thank,--not half or quarter enough.

So silence shall speak for me.

‘Yr---- ‘L. R.’

It is not to be supposed that Laurie wrote ‘your’ in plain letters. He

made a hieroglyphic of it. It might have been only ‘&c.;’ in short, it

was as like that as anything else. He was beguiled into the use of the

pronoun, he did not quite know how, as he hung over it with his pen in

his hand like a pencil, anxious to add just a touch somewhere, as might

have been done in the line of the lip or the droop of an eyelid, to

express what he was feeling. It was of purpose and intention that he

made it undecipherable. Perhaps she would find it out; and if not, still

at least he had expressed himself, which was always something. He was

not thinking of any result, or anything that might come of it, as Miss

Hadley did. At the present stage such an idea would have been simple

profanity. He did not think of it at all. He was her disciple, her

servant, her subject. That she should reverse the position and be his,

and subject to him, was an idea which had never entered Laurie’s mind.

It would indeed, as we have said, have appeared sheer profanity to him.

Such delicacies of feeling do not come within the range of the Miss

Hadleys of life. And so Laurie made his hieroglyphic, expressive of the

deepest devotion, and felt his heart and his face expand with a

delicious softness, and put on his hat, and himself gave the note to the

maid-servant in the Square. It was but a few steps round the corner; and

when he was out, he went a few steps farther and got himself a lily of

the valley to put in his coat. It was still early, and the flower cost

him as much as a meal; but when a young man’s heart gives a sudden jump

in his bosom, reasonably or unreasonably, it would be hard if he could

not give utterance to his satisfaction with himself and the universe in

general by so simple an expedient as a flower in his coat. And at the

same time he ordered some pots of the same lilies to be sent to the

Square, not for that day, but for to-morrow, on which Mrs. Severn was to

exhibit her pictures to her friends before sending them to the Academy.

This little matter occupied the morning until it was time to present

himself at the Square. A very fine carriage stood before No. 375 when he

reached the door, with a gorgeous coat-of-arms on the panel, and

liveries and hammer-cloth, which looked like a duke’s at least. The big

footman stared superciliously at Laurie as he went up the steps. He was

but ‘a poor hartis’ it was evident to that splendid apparition. The

patron had arrived with all the pomp which ought to attend such a

celestial visitor, and naturally the house from top to bottom bore

evidence of a certain excitement. Forrester, in his best coat, opened

the door to Laurie, his face beaming with cordiality and smiles. ‘I

can’t say as he knows much, Mr. Renton,’ said Forrester, ‘but he’s a

stunning one to buy; and I wouldn’t take no notice, sir, if I was you,

of his little ways,--nor the lady’s neither, sir,’ said the old man.

Laurie laughed and nodded in answer to this advice, without any distinct

idea what Mr. Rich’s little ways might be; and so walked into the great

drawing-room, which it was strange to see by daylight, full of the grey

spring atmosphere, out of which an east wind had taken all the colour.

The white curtains hung over the long windows; the fire burned with a

little cheerful noise; and the padrona, in her black dress, sat on a

sofa beside a rich, rustling, luxurious woman, fifteen or twenty years

older than herself. Mrs. Severn’s figure had filled out into the

gracious fulness of matronhood. She was not a sylph, like her child; but

she looked something like a sylph beside the vast form on the sofa. And

in front of her stood a little man, very plump and rosy, with a

double-eyeglass in his hand. The padrona looked a little flushed and a

little excited. Perhaps it is not in human nature to receive unmoved a

visit from a patron.

‘This is Mr. Renton,’ she said, as Laurie came in. ‘Mr. Laurence Renton,

Mrs. Rich;’ and, to Laurie’s great surprise, the large lady got up from

the sofa to shake hands with him, which was a great deal more than the

padrona did. Mrs. Rich was very large and very wealthy, and looked as if

she might be rather oppressive; but, nevertheless, she had been smiling

very benignly on the padrona, and Laurie consequently saw some good in

her face.

‘Mr. Renton, I ought to know you, for we are almost neighbours in the

country,’ said Mrs. Rich. ‘Don’t you know Richmont? Ah, I daresay you

have been a great deal from home, like so many young men. Mr. Rich, Mr.

Renton has not seen Richmont. It is only six months since we took

possession. Mr. Rich bought it for the situation, and gave I am ashamed

to say how much money for it; and then the house wanted everything done

to it,--new rooms built, and I can’t tell you all what. I believe your

mamma does not visit anywhere, Mr. Renton. She is a great invalid, I

hear; and of course, unless she was so kind as to signify a wish, I

could not call first. But I am sure if you are at Renton when we are

there, it will give us the greatest pleasure to see you at Richmont.’

‘Thanks,’ said Laurie, feeling rather aghast. He did not know what more

to say till a half-comic, appealing glance reached him from the

padrona’s eyes. Then he bestirred himself. ‘I have been a long time from

home,’ he said, ‘and at present my mother goes nowhere; but I don’t

know,--pardon me,--where Richmont is. I am so stupid about

localities,--I never know anything that is not close to my eye.’

‘It was called Beecham once,’ said the rich woman; ‘but we are not the

old family;--we are the new family, Mr. Renton; and Mr. Rich thinks it

only right, when he has bought it, to give it his own name. We are not

ashamed of being new people. I have just been talking to our friend here

about painting one of the rooms for us,--in panels, you know. She is so

clever. I never knew a woman so clever; but that is between you and me,’

said the patroness, patting the painter patronisingly on the arm. ‘She

does not hear a word we are saying. I never would tell her she was

anything out of the ordinary to her face.’ Such were the astounding

manners and customs of the new species of humanity to which Laurie had

been unexpectedly presented. It took him half-an-hour at least to

realise the unfamiliar being. No doubt there are patrons in England of

the type known in old days, when one monarch leaned on his painter’s

shoulder, and another picked up his painting-brush. But these are

chiefly patrons of the old masters, not of the new; and Mr. Rich and his

wife were the specimens best known in Fitzroy Square. When they went in

to luncheon the padrona looked more and more flushed, though Forrester

was present to wait, looking as solemn as any family butler, and

listening with a sore heart,--but no outward token,--to Mr. Rich’s views

about art. He had his views, too, as well as his wife, though he was not

so immediately audible. It was when he had swallowed some wine that he

found his tongue, and then Mrs. Rich was silenced by the more

influential stream.

‘Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Renton,’ he said. ‘We’d have been

very glad if your mother had come to see us. It would have done her no

harm, and it might have done Mrs. Rich a little good. We don’t pretend

to be above that sort of thing. But of course all this fuss about the

will must have been hard upon you. I’m told you’re one of the rising

young men of the time. Stick to that. You may buy houses and lands, but

you can’t buy talent. I’ll be very glad to go and see anything you may

have to show. If our friend Mrs. Severn is to be trusted,--and I’ve

always found her to be trusted, sir,--her eye is so true,--you’ve got

something that will suit me very well; and I hope we shall know each

other better before we part.’

‘I did not mean that Mr. Renton had anything to show this year,’ said

the padrona. Laurie had never seen her so embarrassed. Was it that the

people were overpowering?--or was it----? But there was no time to

cogitate possibilities in the midst of this stream of talk.

‘Mr. Renton must come and see us at Richmont?’ said Mrs. Rich. ‘He must

come with you, some day, Mrs. Severn. I have got some of her sweet

pictures hung in my morning room; and she has been so kind in her

suggestions about the furniture. It is such a thing to have an artist’s

eye; and such pretty eyes too,’ added the stout lady, in an audible

aside to Laurie, who was seated next to her. ‘Don’t you think so? To me

she is prettier than ever she was. She is like Alice’s sister. She looks

young,--and she is young,--and to think of all she has done!’

Laurie sat by her, and never said a word. He could not pay compliments

to the padrona as a mere indifferent spectator might have done,

entering into the fun of the situation. And Mrs. Severn sat at the head

of the table, with a flush of embarrassment on her cheek. But perhaps

even she was not so sensitive as Laurie; and they were patrons, and

brought her commissions,--and they were bread! These are mean

recommendations, no doubt, but they have a wonderful effect.