ARTHUR PHILLIPS AT WORK.
He sat near the trunk of an oak-tree, and a brook made murmuring music
amongst the gnarled and grey and knotty old roots. There were big
burdock-leaves at his feet, trailing brambles full of luscious fruit,
and thick brown and yellow grasses.
Beneath the branches of the tree, on one side, there was a peep of
distant tender hills, with a foreground of foliage just tinted with
autumnal touches of red and yellow. He sat in the shadow of a clump of
grand old Severnshire elms, and on his right at some distance a number
of farm labourers were stacking wheat.
It was a bright, sunny afternoon in the latter part of August, and
the sun played amongst the leaves of the old oak-tree, keeping the
artist’s eye and hand rapidly at work. And never had Arthur Phillips
watched the sunny gleams with more intense interest. A tramp with his
slovenly wife, wandering out of the footpath to find a cool shelter
for rest, stood to look at the artist for a moment; and a couple of
school-boys, who had been fishing for minnows in the adjacent brook,
sat down quietly in the grass, and lazily watched the glowing canvas.
It would have made a pretty picture this, of the artist and his
spectators. But Phillips was soon alone again; he was too severe and
earnest for the school-boys. A squirrel ventured to peep at him from
a branch in the oak-tree, and a couple of mice whisked by him, and
squeaked beneath the leaves of the broad burdock. A stupid moth lit
upon the wet stump of his painted tree and spoiled its pretty wings.
How quiet, how peaceful it was, how thoroughly the country! By-and-by
Arthur leaned back on his camp-stool and thought so; and his heart
was grateful for the running brook, the whispering trees, the broad
expanse of distant hills and meadows, and above all for the sympathy
which he possessed in his own nature for the beautiful and sublime. The
sun disappeared behind a cloud for a few minutes, leaving the oak-tree
almost in its own natural colour, and showing the artist’s successful
touches. However far short of the reality, the canvas held some
wonderful sunny effects: the leaves of the grand old tree were fairly
illuminated, as if gleams of sunshine had gone through them, indicating
almost the fibres of the lower branches.
No man knew how far art is below nature; no painter felt more the
inferiority of a picture when compared with the ever-changing and
always beautiful reality: but Arthur Phillips knew when he had achieved
something beyond the ordinary work, and he was pleased that his labour
on this occasion had been successful; for Arthur was now actually
painting for money. He had long since ceased to accept commissions,
except for subjects of his own selection, and had painted more for
the love of his art than for what his art would bring. The drudgery of
painting had been got over long ago: the years of patient industry and
unrewarded toil; the pictures returned from the Academy unhung; the
adverse criticism when at last they were hung: all this had long since
been at an end, and Arthur Phillips left to select his subjects and
name his own price for his pictures.
But on this bright day in August the artist sat once more hard at work,
painting for money, painting for subsistence. For not only had he
been induced to invest largely in Overton, Baker, & Co., but he had a
deposit account at their local branch in his native city of Severntown,
and the branch had succumbed to the same monetary pressure which had
swamped the head concern. And Arthur Phillips was nearly penniless.
There were many others in Severntown almost in the same condition, and
from the same cause. So Arthur, instead of making himself wretched and
miserable, packed up his box of colours, and went out to finish that
bit of local study upon which we find him engaged, prior to locking
himself up in his study for months of hard work.
“I thought I should find you at last, old boy,” said Mr. Hammerton,
putting his hand familiarly on Arthur’s shoulders. “By the aid of your
man, that faithful old grinder of colours and cleaner of pallettes, I
traced you to the cross-roads; there I was at fault, and almost gave
you up. I believe my old mare scented you out at last.”
“Then give my best thanks to the old mare, for I am glad to see you,”
said Arthur.
“By Jove, that’s pretty! what a glorious bit of colour! Have you
finished?”
“Yes; I think so.”
“Then pack up--here, I’ll help you--and let us have a quiet chat. Your
man said he was to meet you here in about an hour, to carry the things
home.”
“Yes,” said Arthur; “but I have finished. I was just thinking of
smoking a quiet pipe whilst the sun goes down.”
“Bravo! we’ll mingle our smoke together, friend Arthur,” said
Hammerton; adding, a little more seriously, “and our tears, too, by
Jove! It’s the last time we shall see each other for a long time, I
guess.”
“Indeed! Why?” said Arthur, turning the key in his colour-box.
“I’m off to foreign lands, Arthur--
‘Anywhere, anywhere, out of the world.’”
“Are you serious, Lionel?”
“I was never more so. I have had a few angry words with my brother; and
though he’s a good fellow, and is sorry for what he has said, I must go
away for a time.”
Arthur looked up inquiringly.
“The fact is, I have been a great fool; I have lost a lot of money
lately. I don’t know how it was, but through young Tallant I was
induced to visit the Ashford Club. You have not heard, then, of the row
at that quiet, but now notorious, institution?”
“No; I never heard of the Ashford before.”
“Why, it was in all the papers, man,--about a fellow cheating, and
being put out into the street. My name was mentioned. You shall see
the paper. Well, all that naturally annoyed my brother; but, to clinch
matters, I was advised to buy a lot of Overton and Baker’s shares, to
put myself right, and I have gone all to the bad. Overton and Baker’s
have failed, and I not only lose the value of the shares, but there
is a liability, and a large one, besides. I suppose you heard of the
failure?”
“Yes. I had a large deposit with them at Severntown,” said Arthur.
“You had? By Jove! I’m sorry for that. And you are hit then, too; much,
Arthur?”
“Yes, considerably. I must work hard, and make it up again.”
“I’m awfully sorry. But there, cheer up, old boy; there is no good in
worrying about it, I suppose.”
“No,” said Arthur, quietly. “And where are you going, Lionel?”
“To join my regiment at Bombay; I am to be gazetted next week. I’m not
going in bad disgrace, Arthur--don’t think that; but my brother, the
Earl, twitted me with my folly and my expenditure, you know, and, no
doubt, he was right. I have been a fool. A few years in the army will
do a fellow good. There is no chance of war; that’s unfortunate.”
They chatted and smoked until Arthur’s man came and carried the
artist’s picture and materials away, and then they strolled together
towards a farm where Lionel had put up his horse, and where Arthur had
arranged to sleep.
In the farmer’s clean-sanded parlour, Lionel told Arthur the story of
his losses, not forgetting the incident of his interview with Paul
Somerton. This, it seemed, had annoyed Lionel as much as anything
in the whole of the unfortunate affair. He was satisfied that Miss
Somerton had set her brother to watch him.
“I could never have supposed that a girl could have behaved so
absurdly. You may rely upon it, Arthur, that pretty bailiff’s daughter
had set her mind on marrying me, and she was anxious that I should not
get through my patrimony without her assistance, I suppose. Imagine the
absurdity of the thing! The girl fancies I am in love with her.”
“You have paid her great attention,” said Arthur.
“Who doesn’t pay a pretty girl great attention, whoever she may be?”
said Lionel.
“You were in raptures with her picture--not out of compliment to the
artist, but to the pretty face--the aristocratic head,” said Arthur,
significantly.
“Ah, you have anticipated me: I shall want that picture,” said Lionel,
with assumed indifference; “but imagine a bailiff’s daughter setting
her heart upon the next heir to the earldom of Verner, and making her
brother a spy upon him lest he should lose too much money at cards. By
Jove, Arthur, it was an impudent thing to do.”
“Did she do it?”
“Did she? Of course she did. Why, the impudent young blackguard told me
who he was, as if he had some claim upon me.”
“And so he had, if he was warning you against conspirators.”
“Look at it in that light, perhaps he had; but what about the other
view?”
“She is a fine, handsome girl, Miss Somerton, and accomplished; she’s
fit for the wife of a prince,” said Arthur, in his quiet, emphatic
manner.
“Why, what radicalism you are talking! Marry a bailiff’s daughter to a
prince?”
“A prince might be proud of such a wife as Amy Somerton. You have
not seen so much of her as I have, and you may rely upon it you have
wronged her.”
“She’s an impudent, meddling baggage, Arthur--a presumptuous, designing
woman,” said Lionel, with an angry flash of the eye.
“I don’t think so, indeed,” said Arthur.
“I am sure; therefore we will not discuss the point further. Miss
Tallant would be a better theme.”
But Arthur Phillips would not talk about Phœbe: and so at last they
parted, Lionel shaking Arthur by the hand, and telling him that
whatever might come to pass, he should never forget the many happy
hours they had passed together, and that he should always treasure his
friendship. Arthur was not behindhand in reciprocating Lionel’s kind
feelings and expressions, and he stood at the farmer’s gate and watched
his aristocratic friend until he had ridden out of sight.
“Now came still evening on, and twilight grey
Had in her sober livery all things clad.”
With all his love of nature, with all his courage, Arthur Phillips
felt sadly lonely now, as he stood listening to the last sound of the
clatter of Lionel’s horse’s hoofs on the white, hard road.
It seemed as if all things that he loved faded out, or were
unattainable. He had formed a warm attachment for Lionel Hammerton,
and he would miss his cheery voice in the cathedral close at
Severntown. Arthur, indeed, had no other familiar friend. He had
followed his art with such singleness of purpose, that his life had
been comparatively solitary, and he knew little or nothing of the world
and its doings; hence his likes and dislikes were intensified.
For the last two or three years his love for Phœbe Tallant had grown up
into a passion which he could not control, and it was only this which
disturbed the peaceful course of his life. He had never thought of
disclosing his feelings to her. It had been a great relief to him to
tell Lionel Hammerton, and more particularly when he had for a moment
feared that he had a rival in his friend. Not that Arthur, perhaps,
ought to have looked upon any one as a rival, when marriage could
hardly be said to have entered his thoughts. To be near his love, to
see her often, to speak to her, to dwell on her kind words, that was
enough for Arthur. His ambition so far had soared no higher. How
could he, a poor, ill-shaped little fellow, with his solitary life,
ask a fair, bright thing like Phœbe Tallant to throw in her lot with
his--with his, the paid tutor?
No, poor Arthur! he had never arrived at such a daring pitch of passion
and presumption, even when he had a large balance at his bankers,
with which to meet, in some fashion, the monetary consideration of
the wealthy father. If he had known more of the world he might have
ventured to make this last cast of the die; but a quiet, retiring,
modest, susceptible nature like Arthur’s, wont to brood over all
sorts of imaginary nothings, wont to dream and set his thoughts upon
the quiet river, to be wafted out far away beyond the world, it was
impossible for him to tell Mr. Tallant that he had fallen in love with
his daughter.
Once or twice he had thought there was something mean in his position
at Barton Hall; that he had taken a mean advantage of his position as
tutor to fall in love with his pupil. This idea had taken such fast
possession of him at one time that he had almost determined to leave
the country; but his will was not strong enough to shut out Phœbe from
his sight. He was a prisoner to her charms, and content to remain so.
How his excitement had blurted out his captivity to Lionel Hammerton
was something that he could hardly understand himself; but he was glad
that he had no longer to carry the secret about alone: it was like a
divided responsibility now that Lionel knew it.
“And so I am to begin again,” he thought. “Well so be it; maybe this
is but a kind act of mercy to give me more to think about. I have been
lazy; I will paint a grand picture.”