HOW YES BECAME NO.
Herbert Coleman had finished his scanty and unsatisfying breakfast, and
was seated before his easel, on which was an unfinished picture. He
gazed at it mournfully, for the conviction was deepening in his mind
that he must bid farewell to art. Chosen mistress of his affections, she
had treated him but coldly. She had admitted him to the threshold of her
domain. He was permitted to view the glories in which he must not share.
A career was opened before him, which it would have been his highest
happiness to follow,—in which he could see others making their way
successfully; but Necessity, with stern and forbidding countenance,
waved him back as with a sword.
Yes, he must bid farewell to art. At the age of twenty-one, he felt that
the happiness of his life was over. Henceforth, he must cherish in his
heart aspirations which he would never be able to realize. He must
descend from the clouds, and plod on in the prosaic way in which his
uncle, with more common tastes, had found happiness and prosperity. But
the transition from art to groceries was indeed great. Yet there seemed
no alternation. If it were possible to find employment for a part of the
day, sufficient to defray expenses reduced to the lowest amount
compatible with health, that would be preferable. But this was
uncertain, and, meanwhile, his purse was almost empty.
“I might as well accept my uncle’s offer, at once,” he said, to himself,
despondently. “Nothing is likely to turn up in twenty-four hours to
affect my decision. Come, I will write the letter now, and not mail it
till to-morrow.”
Feeling that his mind would be relieved by taking a decisive step, he
opened his desk, and, taking out a sheet of note-paper, had got as far
as “Dear Uncle,” when there was a little tap at his door. He rose, and,
opening it, discovered Helen and Mr. Sharp.
“Good morning, Helen,” he said, cheered, he knew not why, by her
expression; “I am glad to see you.”
“Herbert, you have heard me speak of Mr. Sharp, papa’s friend. He
desires to make your acquaintance.”
“I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Sharp,” said the young artist, looking
a little curiously at the perpetual white hat, whose general appearance
age had, by no means, improved.
“Thank you, Mr. Herbert,” said the lawyer, nodding pleasantly. “Excuse
my familiar use of your name, but Miss Helen has not mentioned any
other.”
“Mr. Coleman, excuse me,” said Helen, blushing a little. “How stupid I
am!”
“By no means, my dear young lady. But, Mr. Coleman, Miss Helen has told
me that you were an artist, and her commendations of one of your
pictures have excited my interest; and I have come to ask, as a favor,
that you will allow me to look at it.”
“Certainly, sir. I am afraid, however, that you will find Miss Helen’s
friendship has dulled her critical powers. This is probably the painting
to which you refer.”
In a moment of despondency, he had turned his painting of the “Country
Farm-house” to the wall. The high hopes which he had formed of its
success, and their signal failure, produced a revulsion of feeling,
which made it unpleasant for him to look at it.
“This is indeed beautiful!” exclaimed Mr. Sharp, admiringly. (In this
case he was sincere, though, had it been the merest daub, he would have
expressed equal admiration.) “Mr. Coleman, I congratulate you. There are
touches in that painting which indicate genius of a high order. I
predict that you will, ere many years, achieve a high place in the roll
of our native artists.”
Herbert smiled sadly, and glanced significantly at Helen. This praise,
coming at a time when he had resolved to cut adrift from the profession
of his love, was a source of pain rather than pleasure. He felt the more
that it would be a fatal mistake, but, nevertheless, one that seemed
inevitable.
Helen’s expression perplexed him. It was one of quiet happiness. Yet she
must know the necessity that was upon him.
“I like this painting,” continued the lawyer, “chiefly because of its
truth to nature. The highest praise I can give it is that I have seen
precisely such a farm-house. The scene is one familiar to those who know
anything of country-life. May I inquire, Mr. Coleman, whether this
painting is for sale?”
“Yes, sir,” said Herbert, brightening up a little, though he hardly
judged, from Mr. Sharp’s appearance, that he was likely to become a
patron of art. “Young artists cannot afford to keep their works on hand.
I may add, frankly, that my circumstances are such that I shall be very
glad to find a purchaser.”
“I don’t ask in my own behalf,” said Mr. Sharp. “Though I am
passionately fond of fine paintings, my means are restricted, and my
professional income will not permit me to indulge in such luxuries. But
I am authorized by one of my clients, to purchase him a painting. He
confides implicitly to my taste. May I inquire what price you set upon
this painting?”
The young artist’s face brightened up with new-born hope. Perhaps he
might be able to send a negative answer to his uncle, after all.
“Should you consider fifty dollars too large?” he said, hesitatingly,
fearing lest it might exceed Mr. Sharp’s limit.
“Fifty dollars, Mr. Coleman! You surely cannot be in earnest.”
“I am a young artist,” stammered Herbert, “and, perhaps, may have set
too high a value upon my work. You shall have it at your own price.”
“You mistake me, my young friend, if you will permit me to call you so.
I was only surprised at the lowness of your price. My friend has
authorized me to pay two hundred dollars for such a work as my taste
approves. I shall not think of offering you less for this beautiful
painting.”
“Two hundred dollars!” exclaimed Herbert, in joyful excitement. “Are you
really in earnest?”
“Most unquestionably.”
“I am very grateful to you, sir; you can’t understand how great a
service you have rendered me,” said Herbert, grasping Mr. Sharp’s hand,
and wringing it with cordial energy. “Just as you came in I was on the
point of writing a letter, accepting a proposition which would cut me
off forever from my favorite work.”
“You won’t write it, now, Herbert?” said Helen, archly.
“I shall write a different letter, Helen. Once more, Mr. Sharp, let me
thank you.”
“I do not deserve your thanks. Some day I will introduce you to the real
purchaser of the painting. Meanwhile, I have a commission for you. I am
authorized, by my friend, to order another picture at the same price.
Will you undertake it?”
“Most willingly; most gratefully.”
“The subject shall be left to your own taste and judgment.”
“I hope to deserve this generous confidence.”
“Perhaps, Herbert, you would rather go into your uncle’s store,” said
Helen, smiling happily.
“I am afraid Uncle Zebina must look elsewhere for an assistant,” said
the young artist. “I must not forget, dear Helen, that my good fortune
comes through you.”
“You have been very kind to me, Herbert. I hope I shall be able to do
more for you hereafter.”
“I regret, Mr. Coleman,” said the lawyer, “that I am unable to pay you
this morning for your painting. I hope to be able to pay you next week.”
“That will be quite satisfactory, sir.”
“Meanwhile, as one who understands the world a little better than
yourself, to suggest that, if your painting could be on exhibition a few
days,—at Goupil’s, for instance,—with the name of the artist, and the
label, ‘Sold,’ it might be of assistance to you. It will give the
impression that your works are in demand.”
“A most excellent suggestion, for which I thank you. If your friend
would be willing?”
“I undertake to engage that there will be no objection. Depend upon it,
my young friend, there is nothing succeeds so well as success.”
“You may be sure, sir, that I appreciate your friendly feeling no less
than the liberal patronage I have received through you. You have
probably determined my future.”
“That will be a source of proud satisfaction to me, Mr. Coleman,” said
the lawyer. “Let me suggest that you lose no time in making an
arrangement to exhibit your painting, as proposed. It might do no harm
to affix the price for which it was sold.”
“Thank you, sir. It is well thought of. I shall certainly adopt your
suggestion.”
“I believe I must now bid you good morning,” said the lawyer. “I have
important business on hand, and have been beguiled already into
remaining here too long. Good morning, Miss Helen. I shall take a very
early opportunity to call again upon you and your worthy father. You
will hear from me before long, Mr. Coleman, in a way that will, I trust,
prove satisfactory to you.”
Mr. Sharp bowed his way down stairs, leaving two happy hearts behind
him. He, too, was in excellent spirits. As Mr. Ford’s man of business,
he would be liberally paid, and no longer be reduced to those shifts to
which, in times past, he had been compelled to resort, for the purpose
of “getting along.”
Helen lingered a moment after the lawyer departed.
“Now to finish Uncle Zebina’s letter,” said Herbert, briskly. “It will
be a letter different from what I anticipated.”
The letter ran as follows:—
“DEAR UNCLE ZEBINA: I thank you for your very kind offer, though I
shall be unable to accept it. I feel that I shall be happier as an
artist, than I could be in any other vocation. I am confident that
you will have no difficulty in securing an assistant who will suit
you better than I should do. Give my love to aunt Desire. Tell her
and all my friends that I hope to see them all at Thanksgiving.
“Your affectionate nephew,
“HERBERT COLEMAN.
“P. S. I have just sold a painting for two hundred dollars, and
have an order for another at the same price.”
This letter, it may be remarked, more especially the postscript, made
quite a sensation in Herbert’s country home; and Uncle Zebina allowed
that perhaps Herbert was doing better, after all, than if he had become
a house painter.