I.
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.