It was a small attic chamber in an obscure part of London. The light that
entered at the open window revealed two figures,—Arthur Elliott and his
young wife.
“Dear Arthur,” said the latter, as she brushed back the heavy chestnut
locks from his pale brow, “you must not—indeed you must not—labor so
incessantly. You will injure your health,—perhaps ruin it entirely,—and
then what will be left to me?”
“Mary,” said the young painter, caressingly, “you are alarming yourself
to no purpose. I am not weary. Besides, what were a little weariness
in comparison with the great purpose I have in view? You know the
exhibition will open in a fortnight; and my picture is still unfinished.
Oh!” continued he, with enthusiasm, while a faint flush overspread
his pale cheek, “if it could be my fortune to gain the great prize of
five hundred pounds which has been offered for the best painting on
exhibition, I believe I could die content!”
“Arthur!” said his wife, reproachfully.
“But better still,” said the young painter, caressingly, “to live and
enjoy it with you, my sweet wife! With such a start, what might I not
hope for? Fame, fortune, friends, all would be mine. But it is growing
late; and I have still much to do before I retire. But do not wait for
me, dear Mary: I shall work the faster, if I know that you are reposing.”
Arthur Elliott was the son of a clergyman in one of the midland counties
of England. At the age of seventeen, he had entered the office of his
uncle, an attorney in London,—a hard, worldly man, wholly engrossed
in business. Young Arthur, who was a boy of a sensitive and highly
imaginative temperament, found little sympathy with his peculiar tastes
in the musty folios over which he was expected to pore day after day, or
in the deeds and legal instruments which he was called upon to engross.
He devoted his leisure time to obtaining some knowledge of painting from
a teacher of that art. He made so great proficiency in this department as
to surprise his teacher, who exclaimed, with enthusiasm, that he was born
to be an artist.
“And why should I not be?” thought Arthur to himself. “With law I am
completely disgusted: I shall never make a figure at it. Why, then,
should I not abandon what I so utterly detest, and pursue that which
offers so much stronger attraction?”
Full of this resolution, he went to his uncle, and requested his
permission to adopt it. But the scheme appeared absurd and chimerical to
the man of business; and he utterly forbade Arthur’s cherishing any such
plans in future. This, to one of his nephew’s high spirit, was more than
he could bear. His place in his uncle’s office was vacant the next day,
and remained so. Arthur had collected his little articles of personal
property, and fled to the house of his instructor, where, undetected, he
pursued his studies with the utmost assiduity. His master had a daughter,
a beautiful girl, whose disposition and manners were as amiable as her
features were faultless. What wonder that Arthur fell in love, and that
the two, with her father’s consent, exchanged vows of fidelity, though
both were as yet too young to think of marriage?
This, however, was hastened by an event which plunged them both in
affliction. Mary’s father died. She was left alone in the world, with no
one but Arthur to depend upon. Arthur was just on the verge of twenty;
Mary, but sixteen. Under the circumstances, however, it was thought best
that they should marry. Mary’s fortune was but small, her father having
left nothing behind him but the materials of his art.
At first, Arthur resolved to follow in the steps of his father-in-law,
but, as is too often the case, found that genius unknown is
unappreciated. His income became very scanty,—hardly sufficient to supply
himself and Mary with the bare necessaries of life.
It was at this stage in their fortunes that it was announced, that,
at the annual exhibition of paintings, the prize already alluded to
would be awarded to the most meritorious production of art. This offer
fired Arthur’s ambition. Why should not he, filled as he was with the
inspiration of genius,—why should not he gain it? It was not impossible.
He would at least try.
He selected as his subject “The Transfiguration of the Saviour.” Without
entering into the details of the painting, which could only be done
properly by an artist, it is sufficient to say that the conception was a
grand one, and the execution of a high character.
But, in the mean time, how were they to live? The painting on which
Arthur was now engaged was a work of time; and it was a considerable
period before he could hope to derive any pecuniary profit from it. Thus
far, Mary had assisted her husband, as far as she was able, by obtaining
work from the slop-shops, which amounted to a mere pittance. But they had
learned to live frugally under that sternest of teachers,—Necessity.