It was the morning of the exhibition,—a clear, bright morning in
September, which seemed to combine all the balmy softness of summer with
a freedom from its excessive heat. The sun shone down upon the numberless
roofs of the great city, and found its way into the lanes and alleys,
lighting them up, for the hour, with a brightness not their own. Through
the little window—the only one—by which light was admitted into the room
where the Elliotts lodged, the golden rays streamed in, and lent their
glory to the face of the sleeping artist, who had not yet awakened from
the night’s slumber.
There was a knock at the door. Mary opened it; and Mr. Sedley made his
appearance.
“To-day,” said he, “is the day of the exhibition. Will you accompany me?
I have a free pass.”
“But my husband?” said she, doubtfully. “I cannot leave him.”
“I have provided for that. I have brought a nurse with me, who will
take your place, and remain here with your husband. She is skilful and
experienced, and you can safely trust him in her hands.”
Here the sleeper awoke, and Mary introduced Mr. Sedley to her husband.
The latter thanked him warmly for the interest he had manifested in their
welfare, and insisted on Mary’s accompanying him to the exhibition.
“Though I shall have no part in it,” he said, “I still wish to hear all
about it.”
Mary could no longer refuse, but, dressing herself as neatly as her
limited wardrobe would admit, prepared to accompany Mr. Sedley. To
her surprise, she found a private carriage waiting, with the usual
accompaniments of a coachman and a footman; the latter of whom very
deferentially opened the door of the carriage, and waited for her to
enter.
She began to entertain new ideas of her companion’s consequence. The
carriage dashed boldly through the narrow streets, until it emerged from
them into the more fashionable and crowded thoroughfares.
Mary found sufficient to amuse her in the splendid carriages, many of
them surmounted with a coronet, all hastening in the same direction with
themselves. There was an unusual number in the streets,—a circumstance
which was easily explained by the interest and curiosity which had been
awakened by the exhibition.
At length, they reached the magnificent hall in which it was to be held.
The porter bowed deferentially to Mr. Sedley as he made way for him to
pass.
And now they are in the room. What a magnificent collection! It
represented the combined genius of the British artists, nearly all of
whom had contributed to it. Mary, who, though no artist, had caught
something of the spirit from her husband, looked about her in speechless
admiration.
“This is indeed grand!” said she, at last. “It surpasses my highest
expectations.”
“It is indeed,” said Mr. Sedley. “England has good cause to be proud of
her artists. But see! do you not recognize an old acquaintance?”
Mary looked, and, to her unbounded surprise, beheld “The Transfiguration
of Christ”—her husband’s painting—suspended against the wall. Mr. Sedley
hastened to explain.
“I thought it a pity,” he said, “that so fine a picture should be lost
to the exhibition. I accordingly hired an artist to give it the last
touches, and had it brought here.”
Mary thanked him with a glance full of gratitude. She looked again, and
beheld her husband’s picture surrounded by eager admirers. Among them
were the titled and noble; and it was with an emotion of pride that she
heard the expressions of admiration which it elicited, and the eager
questionings as to the author’s name.
“I do not know,” she heard one say: “I believe it is some _protégé_ of
Sir Francis Sedley. At all events, he presented it.”
“Sir Francis Sedley?” she inquired, pausing, and looking in her
companion’s face.
“I cannot deny it,” said he, smiling. “But come: let us draw nearer to
the head of the hall: the prizes are to be announced.”
They pressed forward; and the chairman of the committee arose, and after
a few preliminary remarks, in which he commented on the difficulty they
had experienced in making the award, and congratulated himself on the
splendid collection which had that day been brought together, announced
that the first prize, of five hundred pounds, was awarded to Arthur
Elliott for his painting entitled “The Transfiguration.”
Loud shouts rang through the hall.
Mary was oppressed by the fulness of her joy.
“Let me go out into the air,—I shall feel relieved,” she said.
Sir Francis kindly accompanied her.
“Oh, sir!” said she, “it is to you that we are indebted for this great
joy. Poor Arthur! how he will be delighted!”
“Will you not return to him and communicate it?” asked Sir Francis.
A hackney coach was called, and Mrs. Elliott soon arrived at her lodgings.
“Oh, Arthur!” said she. “The prize! the prize!” It was all that she could
utter.
“Who has got it?” asked the sick man, eagerly, as he rose in his bed.
“It is yours! They have awarded it to you!”
A proud flush passed over the faint cheek of the artist. “I am
satisfied,—I am happy,” said he.
The joy occasioned by his success operated most beneficially on the
sunken energies of the artist. Before many weeks, he recovered fully, so
as to resume his art. His prize painting was sold for a great sum to an
English nobleman, who was bent on adding it to his collection.
* * * * *
At present, there is a beautiful cottage situated a few miles out of
London, in the suburbs. There is a pleasant garden connected with it,
and it seems the abode of peace and happiness. This is the residence of
the eminent artist, Arthur Elliott, and his happy wife. There are few
households to whom it has fallen to enjoy such unalloyed happiness as
theirs. They have not forgotten the author of their prosperity. In the
library of Sir Francis Sedley there hangs a beautiful picture,—a perfect
gem of art,—on the back of which is traced, in delicate characters,—
“Arthur Elliott to his Benefactor.”