She was saved the trouble of inquiring, for the young artist finally spoke himself. It was on the evening of the same day that Margaret was taken sick.
“My little sister,” said Herbert, “you have perhaps observed a change in me within a few days.”
“Yes, Herbert; I have been afraid that you were sick or in trouble, and I wanted to ask you what it was.”
“I am sick, Helen, sick at heart; I believe disappointment is harder to bear than physical pain, especially when, as in my case, it is the disappointment of a long-cherished hope. You know how often I have talked to you about art, and how I longed to achieve name and fame as an artist.”
“Yes, Herbert, you surely have not changed your mind.”
“Never!” said the young man, fervently. “Never has art appeared to me so divinely beautiful as now, when I fear I must renounce it. Never has my longing to attain its coveted rewards been stronger. And to think I must give it all up after the brief dream of enjoyment in which I have indulged,—this is, indeed, hard.”
“But why,” said Helen, puzzled; “why, if you still love it as much as ever, do you renounce it?”
“My little sister,” said the artist, sadly, “it is money that rules the world. Before its sway we must all bow, willing or unwilling. It is the want of money that drives me to abandon that which is the chief joy of my life.”
“But, Herbert, can’t you sell your pictures?”
“In art it is a crime to be a young man. If I were only well known! But I look too much like a boy. Don’t think,” he added, hastily, “that I consider this the only impediment to my success. I have doubtless much, very much, to learn. There is great room for improvement, and if I could I should be content to work on for years without selling a picture, striving only to improve myself, not achieving, but learning to achieve. Yet I have seen paintings sold for generous sums, on account of the artist’s name, no better than mine.”