III.
The sun was not more punctual to his hour of rising than was the visit of Mr. Mudge, the landlord, to the lodging of the artist.
“Well,” said he, abruptly, “have you got the rent ready? I can’t wait a day longer.”
“Nor will it be necessary,” said Mrs. Elliott, calmly. “Here is the money.”
Mr. Mudge, notwithstanding his love of money, looked a little disappointed at this ready payment. His mind was essentially a vulgar one; and he felt an instinctive aversion to Mrs. Elliott, whose superiority to himself he could not help admitting. He had hoped to have the pleasure of turning them out.
“Well, they won’t always have ready money,” was his internal reflection; “and, the first good excuse I have, they shall go, bag and baggage.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Elliott was making progress on his painting.
“You deserve the prize, Arthur,” said his wife, after gazing admiringly upon her husband’s work,—“you deserve it; and I hope that you will be successful in obtaining it.”
“It has cost me many hours of hard labor,” said the artist, wearily, as he laid aside his pallet for a moment, and passed his hand across his brow. “I never felt so great an interest in a picture before; and now two days’ labor, I think, will complete it. It needs but a few touches.”
As he spoke, Mary saw an unnatural flush upon his cheek, and that his eye glowed with an unusual brilliancy. She was alarmed.
“Do, Arthur, for my sake, lie down and rest a while. You do not look well, and sleep will refresh you. You say two days will finish it, and you have a week before you.”
“I believe I will lie down for a few minutes,” said Arthur; “for my head aches strangely, and I feel weary.”
He laid down; but it did not refresh him. In a little while, he became feverish, so that he could not leave his bed. His wife went out to summon a physician. All her hopes centred in Arthur; and the thought that he was sick, that he was in danger, quickened her step. She saw nothing that was going on around her, so intent was she on her object, till suddenly some one touched her familiarly on the shoulder. She looked around, and saw by her side the companion whom she had encountered at the pawnbroker’s.
“I am happy to meet you once more,” said he; “but you seem in haste.”
“Yes,” said she, hurriedly; “my husband has been suddenly taken sick, and I am in pursuit of a physician.”
“Let me relieve you of that duty. If you will return to your husband, who doubtless needs your presence, I will summon a physician. I know your lodgings, and will return with medical assistance immediately.”
Mrs. Elliott gratefully accepted this proffer of service, for she had felt much solicitude. When she returned, she found her husband seized with a fit of delirium, in which he uttered incoherent sentences, all of which had some connection with his picture and the approaching exhibition.
In a few minutes, the stranger returned with a physician. To the anxious inquiries of Mrs. Elliott, the doctor replied,—
“Your husband is suffering from the excitement and fatigue consequent upon too severe mental exertion. This has thrown him into a fever, from which it will take time to recover.”
After leaving directions, he withdrew, promising to repeat his visit the next day.
“How much my poor husband will be disappointed!” Mrs. Elliott could not help exclaiming. “He must now abandon the hope of presenting his picture at the exhibition.”
“What!” said her visitor, with interest, “is your husband an artist?”
In reply, Mrs. Elliott led him to a corner of the room, and withdrew the screen that concealed the painting.
He gazed upon it with deep admiration for some minutes, and then said, with enthusiasm,—
“Ah! this is indeed beautiful!”
“It is nearly completed,” said the artist’s wife; “but that will be of no service to us now.” And she let fall the screen, and sighed heavily.
A sudden idea struck the visitor.
“Will you trust the painting to me for a few days?” he asked. “You shall not regret it.”
Mrs. Elliott, convinced that her husband would not recover in time to finish it, assented without difficulty. She never thought of distrusting one who had been of such essential service.
“Thank you,” said the visitor. “As you have reposed this confidence in me, I must acquaint you with my name and address, that you may know whom you have trusted.”
He handed her a card containing the following direction: “F. Sedley, 7, Covent Place.”
“I will send for it this afternoon,” said he, as he withdrew, “and will call in upon you again to-day or to-morrow. I shall be anxious to learn how your husband gets on.”
The delirium which attended the early stages of Mr. Elliott’s indisposition continued for some days. At length, consciousness returned.
“How long have I been sick?” he inquired.
He was told.
“And what day is it now?”
“Wednesday, the fourteenth.”
“And to-morrow the exhibition will take place. Oh that I could have held out but two days longer! I would have asked for no more. In that time I should have completed my painting, and it would have been entered in competition. Fate seems to be against me.”
He groaned, and covered his face with his hands.
“But,” said his wife, soothingly, “remember, dear Arthur, that, if Fate seems against us, God is always with us. He orders every thing in infinite wisdom.”
“But,” was the hardly reconciled answer, “his ways are very difficult of comprehension. The wisdom is hidden. I cannot see it.”
“Yet,” said his wife, full of hopeful confidence, “if we trust in him, we shall not be deceived.”
“But,” said Arthur, after a pause, “how shall we live in the mean time? I can do nothing now for our support; and much of your time is taken up in attendance upon me.”
“I am richer than you think,” said Mary, opening her purse, and displaying the sum she had received from her visitor, much of which was still untouched.
To his inquiries how she obtained it, she replied by unfolding the whole story, and indulged in the warmest encomiums on the generosity and kindness of Mr. Sedley, whose providential interposition had saved her from being imposed upon by the avaricious pawnbroker. Arthur was interested in the recital, and expressed a wish to become acquainted with him. After a pause, he inquired for the painting. “Let me look upon it once more,” said he. “Perhaps I shall be better able to judge of its merits after a lapse of time.”
Mary looked embarrassed. “Excuse me,” said she to her husband; “but Mr. Sedley expressed a wish to carry it home with him for a few days, and I could not refuse. Doubtless he wished to exhibit it to some of his friends; and in that way it may find a purchaser.”
Arthur acquiesced in this conclusion, and approved of the course which Mary had adopted.