THE 
 SCHOOL OF ART 
 
 PSEUDONYM LIBRARY 
 
THE 7 
 PSEUDONYM LIBRARY. 
 
 Paper, 1/6; cloth, 2]-. 
 
 zx MLLE. IXE. By Lanog 
 FALCONER. gthed. 
 
 2g, STORY OF ELEANOR 
 LAMBERT. By Maacpa- 
 LEN Brooke. 4th ed. 
 
 3. MYSTERY OF THE CAM- 
 PAGNA. By Von DEGEN 
 4th ed. 
 
 q THE SCHOOL OF ART, 
 By IsasEL Snow. 3rd ed. 
 
 AMARYLLIS. By 
 TEQPrFIOsS APOSINHS. 
 3rd ed. 
 
 THE HOTEL D’ANGLE- 
 TERRE, and Other Stories. 
 By Lanog Fatconer. 3rd ed. 
 
 7, A RUSSIAN PRIEST. By 
 H. TOTAIEHKO. 4th ed. 
 
 8 SOME EMOTIONS AND 
 A MORAL. By Joun OLI- 
 VER Hopses. end ed. 
 
 9 EUROPEAN RELA- 
 TIONS: A Tirolese 
 Sketch. By TatmacE DALIN. 
 and ed. 
 
 “so. JOHN SHERMAN, and 
 DHOYA, By GaANcoNAGH. 
 ard ed. 
 
 m 
 
 a 
 
ISABEL SNOW 
 
 THE ; 
 SCHOOL OF ART 
 
 “ 
 7] 
 ” 
 
 THIRD EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 T. FISHER UNWIN 
 
 PATERNOSTER SQUARE 
 
 M DCCC XCII 
 
fe 
 
' THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 I. 
 A LESSON IN PERSPECTIVE. 
 
 \S I have been saying— 
 taking this line from 
 the point of vision— 
 4) More attention, if you 
 < please!’ The scene 
 was a school of art— 
 the time, nine in the evening—the 
 speaker a careworn man drawing 
 lines of what would appear to the 
 uninitiated, hopeless confusion 
 and intricacy on a big slate. His 
 remarks were addressed to a 
 mixed assemblage of girls and 
 boys, each with their drawing- 
 2 
 
 {) 
 
 Ss 
 
2 THE SCHOOL OF ART, 
 
 board, compasses, and ruler 
 supposed to be taking a lesson 
 in perspective. I say supposed, 
 because though undoubtedly 
 some of the girls in the front, 
 and one or two of the boys at’ 
 the back, were gazing at the 
 slate with knit brows and ask- 
 ing each other, in perplexed 
 whispers, ‘‘ Does that line van- 
 ish?” the great majority were 
 very differently occupied. Girls 
 were giggling and exchanging 
 confidences ; boys were nudging 
 each other and even indulging 
 in a few sly fisticuffs: so no 
 wonder that the master requested 
 with some irritability, ‘‘ More 
 attention !”’ ) 
 
 The problem finished, he 
 turned to one board after another, 
 pointing out mistakes with oc- 
 casional exclamations of wonder 
 and indignation such as— 
 ‘“Pshaw! Where did you think 
 that line vanished to?” but on 
 the whole with a resignation born 
 of long habit. Then the pupils 
 were left to correct whilst he 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART, 3 
 
 went to inspect the model class 
 upstairs. Just a few set to work 
 with their indiarubbers. One 
 girl only had nothing to correct, 
 and occupied herself in helping 
 her neighbours on each side. She 
 - was a square-built girl with a 
 square jaw, and fair curly hair 
 cropped close to her head, like 
 a boy’s. She reminded one 
 altogether of a boy, without being 
 masculine. It was not quite 
 a pretty face, but a singularly 
 attractive one—one that once 
 seen you never could forget; it 
 had such an expressionof strength 
 and quiet humour. 
 
 “When the cat’s away the 
 mice will play,” and now the 
 tittering and whispering broke 
 out into loud laughing and talk- 
 ing. The cudgelling became 
 fighting in good earnest, and 
 finally a regular battle began in 
 the back benches. Missiles flew 
 about, and one—a sharp stone— 
 hit the girl who had done her 
 problem right, onthe head. She 
 did not even move, but there was 
 
4 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 a hubbub of indignation amongst 
 the girls, and awed silence 
 amongst the boys. ‘It’s really 
 a shame! Too bad! Time we 
 told, and we w#/ tell now!” 
 were the indignant murmurs in’ 
 the forward benches; whilst 
 ‘‘Very sorry, I'm’ sure; > Miss 
 Harris—meant it for Smith,” was 
 heard from the boys’ quarter. 
 
 ‘We won’t tell this time,” 
 said Miss Harris, turning round; 
 ‘‘but your conduct for some les- 
 sons past, bobys—and girls too— 
 has been disgraceful, and I give © 
 you all-fair warning that, if it 
 goes on, a complaint shall be 
 made.” 
 
 The speaker was one of the 
 oldest, if not the oldest there, 
 and her words produced effect. 
 The boys looked crest-fallen, but 
 the girls murmured in injured 
 tones—‘‘ We don’t fight or throw 
 stones.” 
 
 ‘““No, but you giggle and 
 chatter so that it hinders those 
 who want to work. You are 
 just as bad in your way as 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 5 
 
 the boys. What’s the use of 
 coming to the perspective class 
 at allif you don’t want to learn?” 
 
 She said this quite good- 
 humouredly, but with a certain 
 contemptuousness which was 
 more irritating perhaps than 
 anger. 
 
 The master returning, found 
 indiarubbers being plied more 
 vigorously, and recommendations 
 to attention were no more neces- 
 sary that evening. 
 
 The lesson over, the girls put 
 their drawing-boards away and 
 scampered (they were mostly 
 very young) into the cloak-room, 
 where the usual romping, joking, 
 laughing, and chattering, that 
 denotes the release of school- 
 girls from study, took place. 
 
 Miss Harris neither laughed 
 nor chattered nor romped, but 
 cloaked herself expeditiously, 
 whilst a group gathered round 
 her: ‘I say, did it hurt you? 
 Won’t you tell!” 
 
 ** No, it didn’t hurt much, and 
 I am not going to tell.” 
 
6 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 She hastened out into the 
 street and looked around, as if 
 expecting somebody. A young 
 man joined her, and with scarcely 
 a word of greeting they walked 
 on together. The man was the 
 first to speak. ‘‘ Any news, Em- 
 mie?” he asked, after they had 
 gone some way—not arm in arm, 
 for she was occupied in holding 
 her skirts well up out of the 
 sloppy streets. 
 
 “ Nothing—only the boys be- 
 haved worse than ever, and threw 
 a stone which hit me on the 
 head.” 
 
 “And that’s nothing, is it? 
 Upon my word, Emmie, you must 
 not go amongst that rabble any 
 more! These evening classes 
 are not fit for such as you. And 
 what is the great object of it? 
 Perspective is a science—it has 
 nothing to do with art.” 
 
 ‘‘T think art and science have 
 so much to do with one another. 
 There may be science without 
 art, but there can be no art 
 wit hout science.” | 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 1 
 
 ‘‘But your art is all science, 
 Emmie—accurate to a fault.” 
 
 ‘¢T don’t think accuracy ever 
 is a fault.” 3 
 
 *‘ Well, to perfection, if you 
 like it better; but the poetry— 
 the ideality—where is all that ?” 
 
 ‘‘] shall leave that to come 
 afterwards. If it isin me it will 
 come out, I suppose, but senti- 
 ment without accuracy always 
 makes me feel inclined to laugh.” 
 
 ‘‘Do my pictures make you feel 
 inclined to laugh?” he asked, 
 suspiciously. 
 
 ‘No,’ said Emmie, more 
 gravely, with a pained expression 
 1 apore .t0- cry. .<Lhere. is a+ 
 beauty in them——” 
 
 “Oh! you admit that. I don’t 
 pretend to your exactitude, be- 
 cause I look upon paintings as 
 the expression of the ideal, not as 
 so many mathematical problems.” 
 
 Emmie made no reply to this. 
 The young man relapsed into 
 what seemed like moody offence, 
 and they continued their walk 
 in silence. 
 
8 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 The most casual observer of 
 this pair would have noticed 
 the strength in the girl, the 
 weakness in the man. Yet the 
 man’s appearance was no more 
 feminine than the girl’s was mas- 
 culine. He was tall and large, — 
 loosely built, with a magnificent — 
 beard and large dreamy brown 
 eyes. 
 
 They were now at the garden 
 gate of a row of houses in the 
 suburbs of the town. 
 
 ‘‘ Are you coming in?” asked 
 Emmie. 
 
 ‘‘ No—that is—I think not.” 
 
 ‘¢ Good-night, then. It is late, 
 and mother will be expecting me. ~ 
 It is one of her bad days.” 
 
 She hastened up the garden 
 path. He leant meanwhile ir-- 
 resolutely on the gate, then 
 slowly followed herin. He had 
 to ring again, for she had closed 
 the door behind her. 
 
 It was opened by a boy of 
 about ten, who remarked uncere- 
 moniously— 
 
 ‘‘Emmie had better leave the 
 
THE SCHOOL Of ART. 9 
 a Le 
 door open another time, as you 
 always do come in, particularly 
 when you say you won't. I’m 
 tired of getting up from my grub 
 to come and open to you.” 
 
 ‘‘ Tf it wasn’t too much trouble 
 I’d lick you into shape, you 
 young cub!” said Herbert Leigh, 
 with some irritability, as he took 
 off his coat and hung it in the 
 hall. He entered the sitting- 
 room, where the younger portion 
 of the family, including Emmie, 
 had already sat.down to supper, 
 but an elderly lady was lying 
 on a sofa beside the window. 
 Herbert went straight across to 
 that sofa and gave the lady a 
 tender kiss. 
 
 “Any better, dearest?’ he 
 asked. 
 
 She was his aunt and Emmie’s 
 mother. Yet between the cou- 
 sins there was a great difference 
 in social rank. 
 
 Mr. Harris had been a self- 
 made man, son of a dock labourer, 
 who by ability and industry had 
 risen to be a shipping agent 
 
f fe) THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 His wife had been above him in 
 position; yet the marriage of 
 Squire Brooke’s daughter to Mr. 
 Harris’s brother, a solicitor in a 
 small way of business, had been 
 looked upon as a terrible mésal- 
 liance. The Squire disinherited 
 his daughter, the county cut her, 
 but on the death of both parents 
 Herbert had been received into 
 favour by his grandfather, who 
 had educated him, and was pre- 
 sumed, in default of other heirs, 
 to look upon him as his succes- 
 sor; but Herbert and his grand- 
 father often clashed, and the 
 young man preferred leading an 
 independent life in the town 
 house he inherited from his 
 father to being a hanger-on at 
 Brooke Hall. The county did 
 not ignore hin; the young ladies . 
 and even their mammas were 
 _ affable, and thought it would be 
 a meritorious action to get him 
 out of that horrid entanglement 
 with the Harrises—which, how- 
 ever, the Squire preferred to 
 ignore, on the ground that Her- 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. II 
 
 bert would be sure to get tired of 
 the girl if let alone, ‘‘for although 
 he’s no strength in him,” the 
 old man observed, ‘‘ he’s a con- 
 founded lot of obstinacy.” But 
 if it was an engagement it was 
 quite a tacit one, for not a word 
 of love had passed between the 
 pair. Emmie seemed incapable 
 of sentiment, and it would have 
 been a bold man who could have 
 spoken a tender word to her. 
 So although Herbert’s was an 
 expansive nature, the affectionate 
 demonstrations all spent them- 
 selves elsewhere, and came out 
 to the mother, even to the plain 
 and dull sister now and then. 
 His sentimentality also found 
 relief in mild flirtations with 
 other young ladies of whom 
 Emmie was not in the least bit 
 jealous—but it never came out 
 to her. Yet they were very fond 
 of each other, and meant to be 
 married in time—at least they 
 thought so, and so did everybody 
 else. | 
 
 Emmie’s sister might be de- 
 
12 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 scribed as a bad copy of herself, 
 the great difference between them 
 being, that although no one ever 
 forgot Emmie, no one ever re- 
 membered Lizzie. She was so 
 very undistinguishable in every 
 way. Plain, but not offensively 
 so; dull, though not absolutely 
 deficient, and bearing through all 
 a curious disappointing likeness | 
 to Emmie. Her only distinction 
 consisted in her extreme amia- 
 bility, and in her own family this 
 insignificant merit was found to 
 have its value. Dick, the gram- 
 mar-school boy, presented the 
 usual characteristics of his class. 
 His hands were in a chronic 
 condition of dirt, blisters, and 
 scratches. His charming spirits 
 found vent in a great deal of 
 practical joking not always en- 
 joyed by his family and friends, 
 his language was much flavoured 
 with unmeaning slang, but there 
 was a humorous twinkle in the 
 small grey eyes, a twitch at the 
 corners of the tight mouth, and 
 an occasional shrewdness in his 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 13 
 
 remarks that reminded one of his 
 sister Emmie. There was a 
 family likeness in all the young 
 people, but none whatever in any 
 of them to the mother, a pretty, 
 faded, sad woman with brown 
 eyes like her nephew’s. One 
 could much more easily have 
 imagined her the mother of 
 Herbert than of those other 
 three, whose likeness to one 
 another and unlikeness to her 
 afforded a subject of speculation 
 concerning the lost father. One 
 could almost conjure him up, 
 surely, and imagine what a dif- 
 ference the presence of a strong, 
 firm man with keen grey eyes 
 and a humorous mouth would 
 have made at the head of that 
 table. 
 
 Herbert took no part in the 
 frugal meal—he had dined but 
 an hour before; but he broughta 
 tray to the table by the invalid’s 
 couch and uncorked a bottle of 
 champagne, his own gift, which 
 he pressed upon her: for he 
 really loved his aunt, and to say 
 
14 THE SCHOOL OF ART. | 
 
 that she adored him, is to use 
 perhaps, too mild an expression. 
 Lizzie, who was always well up 
 in the gossip of the town, began 
 to relate how their next-door 
 neighbours, the Miss Mangles, 
 were about to take in lodgers ; 
 but Herbert, with a yawn, begged 
 to be spared chronicles of the 
 doings of all the old maids in the 
 town, and poor Lizzie, snubbed, 
 relapsed into silence. She was 
 the only one of the family much 
 influenced by the cousin’s super- 
 cilious grandeur. 
 
 Dick called him “My Lord 
 Herbert of Leigh,” and treated 
 him to an extra amount of vul- 
 garity and impertinence; Emmie | 
 was entirely indifferent to his 
 grand airs; whilst to his aunt. 
 they never came out. 
 
 When Mrs. Harrishad taken her 
 glass of champagne he yawned 
 again, and after appearing to be 
 for a few seconds profoundly im- 
 mersed in boredom, rose, kissed his 
 aunt, shook hands with Emmie, 
 nodded to Lizzie, and with a 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 15 
 
 languid cuff to Dick, took his 
 departure. 
 
 It was now some years since 
 this scene, with variations, had 
 been enacted every evening. 
 
Hi 
 THE MISS MANGLES’ LODGERS. 
 
 HE Miss Mangles, as has 
 been remarked, lived 
 next door to the Har- 
 rises. It was astonish- 
 ing how different the 
 different tastes of the. 
 inmates contrived to make these 
 houses, all built on one model. 
 The Miss Mangles’ was certainly 
 the primest house in the row. 
 Even the flowers in the little 
 garden seemed to stand more 
 upright on their stalks than those 
 in the other gardens. ‘The grass 
 plot was smoother, the path 
 more freshly strewn with gravel, 
 the bell-handle more polished 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. ay 
 
 than any others in the row. In- 
 side, of course, there is more field 
 for individual peculiarities,andthe 
 correctness of the Miss Mangles’ 
 parlour was quite unapproached 
 and felt to be unapproachable. 
 There the two very neatest old 
 ladies in creation were discussing 
 a letter written on foreign paper 
 in microscopic handwriting. 
 
 ‘‘T wonder who this Mrs. 
 White is?” Miss Mangles was 
 saying, in a slightly perturbed 
 tone of voice. 
 
 ‘““Why the wife of Captain 
 White, surely!” said Miss Martha 
 with surprise. ‘“ Did not the 
 agent tell us that he was acting 
 for Captain White, who desired 
 him to find suitable lodgings for 
 his wife and daughter? ”’ 
 
 ‘Yes, no doubt, but why does 
 she write from Genoa?” 
 
 Why should she not? Many 
 people travel.”’ 
 
 ‘‘But the letter says,‘ Where 
 I am residing.” 
 
 “Many people reside abroad.” 
 
 ‘¢ Martha, do not be so pro- 
 
18 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 voking. You must understand 
 very well that there is something 
 unusual about this letter.” 
 
 ‘‘Ttis a beautiful handwriting, 
 I think,” 
 
 ‘“Oh, so it is; but it is not 
 like an English hand, and the 
 phrases are turned so oddly—‘ I 
 thank you for your most amiable 
 letter. My daughter and myself 
 send you our distinguished salu- 
 tations.’ ”’ 
 
 ‘‘It’s foreign ways, I should 
 think,’ said Miss Martha; ‘‘ and 
 if she has lived abroad a long 
 time, it is not surprising that she 
 should have got into them.” 
 
 ‘‘T hope they are nice. Really, 
 taking strangers into the house ~ 
 is rather " 
 
 ‘‘The money will be very con- 
 venient; and then, as Captain 
 White’s ship is coming home, 
 we shall not have too much of 
 them, even if they should turn out 
 to be not quite what we wish. 
 But I don’t see any harm in the 
 letter, and I like politeness my- 
 self.” 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 19 
 
 ‘‘ Well, well, we shall see. 
 Meantime we must think about 
 preparing the best bedroom and 
 the little back parlour. Will 
 they think it a dreary look-out, 
 I wonder? We really cannot give 
 up this one, can we, Martha?”’ 
 
 ‘‘T think we almost might,” 
 replied Martha, “‘as they pay so 
 handsomely.” And Martha had 
 her way. 
 
 The front parlour was made 
 tidy. It would have been diffi- 
 cult to say how it could have 
 been nicer than before; but the 
 curtains were changed for more 
 immaculately fresh ones, a new 
 plant was procured for the table 
 in the window, the carpet was 
 taken up and beaten, and the 
 well-polished furniture polished 
 elaborately over again. ‘Then 
 the Misses Mangles sat in the 
 back parlour and awaited their 
 lodgers with very clear con- 
 sciences indeed. The parlour- 
 maid was to give them notice of 
 the approach of the expected 
 cab. It would not, of course, 
 
20 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 be decorous for them to be look- 
 ing out of window, but they 
 would go to the front door to 
 welcome their guests. It was 
 an afternoon in March, as bleak 
 and dreary as March afternoons, 
 with their lengthening hours and 
 strengthening cold, usually are 
 in England. The Misses Mangles 
 had conjectured that the travel- 
 lers from a warmer climate might 
 feel it bleak, and had provided 
 a cheerful fire, not only in the 
 sitting-room but in the bedroom. 
 To the bedroom Miss Mangles 
 and her sister made innumer- 
 able excursions “to see that 
 there was nothing wanting,” 
 although every possible prepara- 
 tion had been complete at least 
 three days before. If they were 
 not at the window, the neighbours 
 all were, as the long-expected cab 
 drove up, for the Miss Mangles’ 
 lodgers excited the deepest inte- 
 rest in Paradise Row. 
 
 ‘Here they comes, mum!” 
 cried Mary Ann, running into the 
 back parlour, breathless, before 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 2I 
 
 rushing to open the front door, 
 to which the Miss Mangles, with 
 all due dignity, followed her. 
 
 General curiosity was gratified 
 by the sight of a very pretty 
 dark lady, who got out of the 
 cab, followed by a young girl 
 more pretty and graceful still. 
 
 *¢ Why, she can’t be old enough 
 to be the mother of that young 
 lady! How foreign they look! 
 How nicely they are dressed!” 
 were the commentaries on the 
 strangers as they advanced down 
 the gravel walk, Mary Ann fol- 
 lowing with their bags, and the 
 gardener’s boy, who cleaned the 
 boots, helping the cabman with 
 their box. 
 
 To the civil greeting of the 
 Miss Mangles, and inquiries as 
 to whether they were not tired 
 with their journey, the lady 
 replied : 
 
 ** Thank you—yes—a leetle. It 
 is the first time Iam in England. 
 Madonna! how cold itis! ‘This 
 is my daughter, she speaks ver’ 
 ‘eetle English, but French she 
 
22 VHE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 can talk quite well. You donot, 
 perhaps, know Italian?” 
 
 ‘‘T am _ speaking to Mrs. 
 White ?”? asked Miss Mangles 
 of this manifestly foreign lady, 
 in great disturbance. It never 
 had occurred to her that a native 
 of the town could possibly do 
 anything-so outrageous as marry 
 a woman of another country. 
 
 ‘¢Oh, yes, I am Mrs. White ; 
 but that does not make me 
 English,” said the lady, with a 
 smile. ‘‘My husband came with 
 his ship to Genoa. It was there 
 I met and married him. My 
 name was Virginia Di Monte- 
 croce, and I come to my 
 husband’s country for the first 
 time now to meet him.” 
 
 They were by this time in the 
 parlour. 
 
 ‘Ah, but this is pretty!” 
 exclaimed Mrs. White, who 
 seemed willing to relieve her 
 hostesses of all the trouble of 
 talking (and indeed they were 
 too much upset to speak). | 
 
 ‘‘Outside I do not like your 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 23 
 
 England, but inside it is so nice. 
 Look, look, Marietta, at the coal 
 fire! Itis carbon cotto. How it 
 burns!” 
 
 So Mrs. White was an Italian ! 
 Probably a Catholic! A papist! 
 Miss Mangles was fairly knocked 
 down by the shock of this dis- 
 covery; but Miss Martha’s hos- 
 pitable instincts were stronger. 
 She showed the strangers their 
 room, ordered up tea, whilst the 
 lady continued her chatter in 
 imperfect English, and the girl 
 looked about her silently with 
 wondering eyes. They were 
 both very pretty and very much 
 alike. No one would for a 
 moment suppose either to be 
 English, although the girl was, 
 in fact, half English. They had 
 pale, clear complexions, black 
 wavy hair most picturesquely 
 arranged, and large, languishing 
 black eyes. ‘They were slenderly 
 made, and very graceful in their 
 movements. ‘Their dress was 
 simple, but, in spite of the long 
 journey, in perfect order, and 
 
24 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 arranged with a tastefulness and 
 a care which showed that much 
 thought had been expended on 
 it. If Miss Martha was won by 
 the charm of their pretty guests’ 
 faces and dresses, Miss Mangles 
 was not. She was made of 
 sterner stuff, and maintained a 
 very cold reserve towards the 
 foreigners and papists. The 
 strangers would not take tea— 
 never touched it except when 
 they were ill; and this was 
 another shock. 
 
 ‘What will you have, then ?”’ 
 asked Miss Martha, almost with 
 tears, as she ordered the appa- 
 ratus away. 
 
 “A little wine — and some 
 soup.” 
 
 Now there was neither wine 
 nor soup in the house. 
 
 ‘‘Oh dear!” exclaimed Miss 
 Martha, ‘‘we must send out for 
 iti 
 
 ‘JT am afraid,’ said Miss 
 Mangles, icily, “‘that we shall 
 have a great difficulty in meeting 
 all your wishes — ahem — Mrs* 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 25 
 
 White, and I should have warned 
 you of this had I imagined that 
 you were not of our own race— 
 and faith.” 
 
 ** Of your race I am not,” said 
 the lady, the warm blood man- 
 tling in her cheeks, ‘and I can- 
 not say either that I wish to be. 
 Of the same faith I am, for we 
 belong to the Protestant Church, 
 to which my husband converted 
 me; and I have brought up my 
 daughter in the same. We go 
 always to the church of the 
 Valdese — the Italian Protes- 
 tants.” 
 
 “Well then, ’m sure!” began 
 Miss Martha, but the lady con- 
 tinued to address Miss Mangles. 
 
 “We are not likely, I hope, to 
 shock you in any way, but if you 
 are in fear of this—if you so dis- 
 like my nation that you cannot 
 refrain from insulting me . 
 
 **Oh, Mamma! Cara, Mamma 
 ma!” exclaimed the girl, laying 
 her hand on her mother’s arm; 
 but the torrent of wrath was not 
 to be restrained. 
 
 3 
 
26 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 “We can go to a hotel, she 
 pursued, with flashing eyes. 
 ‘““Come, Marietta!” and she 
 moved towards the door. 
 
 ‘Oh dear, dear! No, pray 
 don’t!” fairly sobbed Miss Mar- 
 tha; ‘‘I’m sure my sister didn’t 
 mean——” 
 
 ‘JT had no intention of offend- 
 ing you,’ said Miss Mangles, 
 disturbed, but not exactly contrite, 
 “‘and beg at least that you will 
 remain here for the present. We 
 wiil do our best to make you 
 comfortable.” 
 
 “Yes, yes,’ said Marietta, 
 ‘‘Mamma will stay. Mamma, mia 
 buona!” she cried, coaxing and 
 kissing the irate lady. 
 
 ‘* Yes, dear, that’s right, do tell 
 your mamma we didn’t mean— 
 and I'll send out for some wine 
 in aminute. Meantime we’ve 
 got some cherry brandy, and 
 perhaps a little chicken might 
 do instead of soup,” said Miss 
 Martha. 7 
 
 The Italian lady held out her 
 hand to Miss Martha. 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 27 
 
 “For you I will stay,” she 
 said, but still shot flaming glances 
 at Miss Mangles, who retired to 
 the back parlour in greater dis- 
 comfiture than she had ever 
 known in her life. 
 
IIL. 
 
 EMMIE CIRCUMVENTS MISS 
 HARPER. 
 
 HE art school and the 
 museum of Southport 
 formed part of the same 
 building. It was the 
 s\ habit of the townsfolk 
 to speak of both with 
 great pride, but more particularly 
 perhaps of the museum, where so 
 many valuable treasures of all 
 kinds were amassed and were 
 presided over by a gentleman 
 with almost every letter in the 
 alphabet attached to his name. 
 He had refused most honourable 
 appointments in London in order 
 to dedicate his last years to the 
 town which had given him birth. 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 29 
 
 This learned man was sitting in - 
 his study amidst piles of books, © 
 but might as well have been any- 
 where else for all the attention 
 he paid tothem. He sat dozing 
 in an armchair—an old man 
 with vacant blue eyes, and a 
 round, simple, childish face. He 
 looked like a withered baby, and 
 not a particularly intelligent one. 
 No one certainly would have 
 guessed by his appearance that 
 he was one of the most erudite 
 men in the kingdom. 
 
 There was a knock at the study 
 door. 
 
 *“Co-me—i-n.” Hiscracked 
 voice had a quiver in it which 
 occasioned his words to be very 
 long in coming to an end; there 
 was a little shake and flourish 
 attached to each. The vacant 
 face lighted up a little as Emmie 
 Harris came in. 
 
 ** My dear, I am very glad to 
 see you, very-y—glad. Is there 
 anything that I can do for you 
 my--y dear?” 
 
 *“T only came to ask how you 
 
 -_——. = 
 
30 THE SCHOOL OF ART, 
 
 are, Mr.Stone. ‘There have been 
 rumours that you are not well.” 
 
 “Yes, my love—itisso. Iam 
 not well, and quite—quite in- 
 capable. Some younger man 
 must be found to take—my 
 duties.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, for the present, till you 
 get better, but we are so very 
 anxious that you should see a 
 doctor. Why not consult Mr. 
 Robinson ? ” 
 
 ‘‘My dear, I know a great 
 deal more about the human body 
 than Mr. Robinson,” said the 
 weak, plaintive voice, as if enun- 
 ciating the most modest convic- 
 tion. 
 
 ‘Well then—some lLondon 
 physician, have him down. Why 
 should money be a consideration 
 to you?” . 
 
 ‘Not all the doctors in crea- 
 tion could do me any good. 
 What ails me is—senile imbeci- 
 lity, my dear, a disease old people 
 have. It will increase, and this 
 prospect isunfortunate—for many 
 reasons, amongst which the chief 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 31 
 
 is—not that I have to give up 
 my work to another, for that in 
 due course must have happened 
 —but that Miss Harper will --1 
 marry -- y me—my dear.” 
 
 “No, she shan’t!” cried 
 Emmie, stoutly. 
 
 ‘* Yes, my love—she will, when 
 I get a little worse—and I don’t 
 blame her. It will give her ease 
 and a certain position, and I have 
 no doubt that she has every in- 
 tention of making me comfort- 
 able. I should not so much 
 mind the prospect, were it not 
 that I do not wish to alter my 
 will; and when I get—very much 
 worse—she will make me do 
 that.” 
 
 ‘Oh, never mind your will. 
 I mean you to live many years 
 longer, and I don’t mean Miss 
 Harperto marry you. She sha’n’t 
 if J know it, so make your mind 
 easy, dear Mr. Stone—and now I 
 must go to my picture.” 
 
 She put her hands on the old 
 gentleman’s shoulders and kissed 
 himontheforehead. Whynot? He 
 
32 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 was her godfather, and often had 
 she sat upon his knees with her 
 arms around his neck when she 
 was small, and often had she 
 trotted round the museum with 
 him, holding his finger and 
 delighting him by her intelligent 
 appreciation of what she saw. 
 
 “ Don’t be afraid, I'll keep Miss 
 Harper off you,” shesaid. Then 
 she whispered something in his 
 ear. 
 
 ‘‘Bless you, my love! you 
 have—a—bold— invention,” said 
 the old man. 
 
 ‘Trust me,” said Emmie, with 
 a nod of her head as she made 
 for the door. On going out she 
 turned the key in the lock and 
 quietly put it in her pocket. In 
 the passage she stumbled upon a 
 lady—a young old lady of, say, 
 forty, with spectacles and a high 
 nose, and a sharp, eager look in 
 her face. Dick called her ‘‘ the 
 harpie,” and one could see the 
 force of the similitude. She 
 greeted Emmie with, “So you 
 have been sitting with dear Mr. 
 
 A 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 23 
 
 Stone, and here I am ready to 
 take my turn!” 
 
 “T think I have been enough 
 for him,’ said Emmie. ‘He 
 wishes for a little quiet, and— 
 excuse me, but I think you will 
 find the door locked.” 
 
 ‘Oh, but really! It should 
 not be allowed—so dangerous at 
 his age to lock himself in.” 
 
 ‘When people will intrude 
 
 ‘* Oh, they should not do that 
 —even you, if you will excuse me 
 for saying so, Miss Harris. The 
 spirits of any young people are 
 sometimes trying, but a person 
 experienced in illness like my- 
 self——” 
 
 So saying, Miss Harper tried 
 the door, whilst Emmie looked 
 on with intense amusement. 
 
 ** Yes,” she reflected, ‘‘if he had 
 locked himself in you might have 
 done it, Miss Harper, but you 
 won't get the key out of my 
 pocket.” 
 
 Miss Harper knocked, and re- 
 ceiving no answer, expostulated 
 
34 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 —implored, but in vain. No 
 answer came from the other side 
 the door. 
 
 “Tt’s most dangerous!” she 
 exclaimed; ‘‘ he must have gone 
 to sleep.” 
 
 ‘Then pray let him sleep on! 
 Why do you try to wake him?” 
 
 ‘* He might have a fit. He 
 may have one now! I’ll have 
 the door broken open!” cried 
 Miss Harper, red and panting 
 with her exertions. 
 
 ** No, indeed!” said Emmie, 
 getting a little alarmed. ‘* You 
 had better not risk being put in 
 prison, Miss Harper.” 
 
 Etiquette was at an end now, 
 The two ladies perfectly under- 
 stood one another, and Miss 
 Harper glared at Emmie, who 
 retaliated with a shrewd look of 
 triumph, 
 
 “You are an intriguing girl!” 
 the elder lady burst out with, “and 
 you want that old man’s money! ”’ 
 
 With that she flung herself 
 out at the front door, and Emmie 
 executed a pas seul in the great 
 
{ 
 
 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 35 
 
 hall between the stuffed polar 
 bear and the orang-outang— 
 decorous, staid Emmie! Yes, 
 she actually did! But even the 
 dance was decorous—a_ little 
 curtseying pirouette. 
 
 She ran to open the study door 
 and peeped in. Mr. Stone was 
 seated in the same attitude, but 
 his melancholy mood had been 
 changed into one of beaming 
 contentment. 
 
 **She—tried—the door—and 
 used—every—artifice—to get in,” 
 he chuckled. ‘“‘Emmie, you are 
 a girl of resource—but’’—and a 
 sudden shrewd look came into 
 the vacant blue eyes—‘‘ don’t let 
 her find you out! Disappointed 
 women are sometimes spiteful, 
 my dear.” 
 
IV. 
 THE VERDICT OF THE RA. 
 
 7;HERE were great pre- 
 parations in the art 
 school for the visit of the 
 Royal Academician who 
 had promised to address 
 the students on the oc- 
 casion of the distribution of 
 prizes. The floor was scrubbed, 
 the windows were cleaned, the 
 busts were uncovered, and pic- 
 tures were being finished up in a 
 most zealous manner. 
 
 ““I shall show him over the 
 place,” Mr. Brown, the drawing- 
 master, was saying to his pupils, 
 “quite in an informal manner, 
 you know; and then if you all like 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 37 
 to be at your easels—why, he 
 might give you a few valuable 
 hints, you know. Now, Miss 
 Harper, those grapes of yours, 
 they stand out well. Miss Rus- 
 sell, there’s your head of Marcus 
 Aurelius. Miss Harris, you have 
 not touched your subject picture 
 for a long time; but if Mr. Har- 
 dinge were to encourage you 
 about it 
 
 **T don’t think I should even 
 then,” said Emmie, very much 
 as if she had made up her mind. 
 
 ** Well, well, but you can let 
 him see it—there can be no 
 igi. in that; and I. should 
 advise you to be present to hear 
 his remarks.” 
 
 “Yes, I should like to hear 
 his remarks,” said Emmie. 
 
 Emmie’s subject picture was 
 the first original composition in 
 which she had ever indulged. It 
 represented a child and a dog. 
 The child was reading to the 
 dog, and the dog’s look of per- 
 plexed attention was certainly 
 well given. The boy’s half belief, 
 
 | | 
 
38 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 too,in the brute’s powers of com- 
 prehension was indicated with 
 some force. For this picture, Dick 
 had been bribed into many un- 
 willing sittings by promises of 
 help with his Latin grammar. 
 The dog was one Toby, attached 
 to the Harris family. Mr. Brown 
 praised the picture, but. Emmie 
 would not be satisfied, and for 
 some time the work of art had 
 remained in disgrace, untouched 
 and with its face to the wall. 
 
 On the great man’s arrival, he 
 went first to inspect the museum, 
 in which he displayed great 
 interest—for there was a scienti- 
 fic side to his character; then 
 to visit Mr. Stone, who was 
 enjoying what he himself called a 
 lucid interval ; and only after that 
 could he be prevailed on to look 
 over the class-rooms. “It was an 
 off day, but there might be a few 
 students at their pictures, pre- 
 paring for their annual exhibi- 
 tion,” Mr. Brown said carelessly. 
 The students, as may be guessed, 
 mustered strong. 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 39 
 
 *¢ Oh, very nice,” said the R.A. 
 good-naturedly to most of the 
 works displayed. ‘‘ That vase is 
 well-finished ; those flowers are 
 graceful; that head shows in- 
 dustry,’ and so he went on 
 ‘‘damning with faint praise,” 
 and stifling a few yawns. 
 
 Mr. Brown was prepared for 
 this, but he had his last cardto play. 
 
 “This way,” he said, taking 
 the R.A. to the extreme end of 
 the room, where Emmie sat ona 
 high stool, rather like Patience 
 on a monument, in front of her 
 picture, but not painting nor even 
 looking at it. ‘‘ Here is an origi- 
 nal composition by a pupil. She, 
 I think, promises well, but she is 
 not satisfied with her own per- 
 formance.” 
 
 ‘That promises well,’ said 
 the R.A., looking at Emmie with 
 a keen scrutiny before looking at 
 her picture. 
 
 Emmie returned the scrutiny. 
 She had had a curiosity to know 
 what a real live Royal Academi- 
 cian was like, and now that one 
 
“oO THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 stood before her, she surveyed 
 him with serious attention. He 
 was not so old as she had ex- 
 pected—in fact he was not old at 
 all. In one respect only he re- 
 minded her of Herbert, who had 
 hitherto been her ideal of what 
 an artist should look like. He 
 was a gentleman; and gentlemen 
 in the rank of life to which 
 Emmie belonged, were scarce. It 
 may be added that he was a fine 
 gentleman, having the easy grace 
 and the politely bored manner 
 only acquired by those who are 
 sated with society. But there 
 the resemblance ended. The 
 face had neither the beauty nor 
 the weakness of Herbert’s. Mr. 
 Hardinge looked, as many people 
 had said of him, more a man of 
 science than a man of art. What 
 struck one in his expression was 
 its quick alertness, its keenness, 
 its penetration—not its poetry or 
 ideality. Yet his pictures, though 
 more of the realistic than the 
 romantic school, had much poetry 
 in them. 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 4t 
 
 The keen flash of scrutiny on 
 both sides made Mr. Brown feel 
 it necessary to formally introduce 
 the pair. 
 
 ‘‘ Miss Harris—Mr. Hardinge,” 
 he said. 
 
 The bow and curtsey were 
 exchanged, and then the picture 
 came in for its share of attention. 
 
 ‘‘It shows genius,” said the 
 artist, after a long gaze—“ yes, 
 genius. I congratulate you, Miss 
 Harris, on what the picture re- 
 veals; but I cannot congratulate 
 you altogether on the picture. 
 You are not yourself satisfied 
 with it?” 
 
 “No,” said Emmie. 
 
 ‘¢ And you are quite right. A 
 true artist would not be satisfied 
 with it. I'll tell you why. The 
 pose is wrong. Here, there is 
 too much similarity; there, an 
 undue preponderance of shadow. 
 The picture is not well balanced. 
 It is difficult to explain, but you 
 will see what I mean. It is not 
 out of drawing; on the contrary 
 the drawing is admirable and 
 
LS Se eee ee eee en 
 
 42 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 the colouring perfectly true, but 
 there is something inartistic, as 
 you have found out without 
 knowing why.” 
 
 “T think I have found out 
 why,” said Emmie, “and I am 
 glad I was right.” ) 
 
 ‘*It) is * a) pity, ean ear. 
 Brown, regretfully, ‘that there 
 is not time to paint the picture 
 over again before the exhibition ; 
 and this, perhaps, is my fault, 
 for Miss Harris had destroyed so 
 many sketches I thought it a 
 pity not to let this one stand, as 
 in my opinion she will not do 
 better.” 
 
 *¢ And in my opinion she w7ll,” 
 said the R.A. ‘‘ I must not spoil 
 your sketch, Miss Harris, but if 
 I had a brush I could just show 
 you.” 
 
 It was evident that his fingers 
 were itching to be at it. 
 
 *“T say, I wish he’d just touch 
 up my picture! ” said Miss Jones, 
 in a very audible whisper, 
 nudging Miss Smith. 
 
 “Don’t J! But he won’t so 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 43 
 
 much as look at ours. Emmie 
 Harris always gets everything.” 
 
 ‘Vell, if the picture does turn 
 out quite different in the exhibi- 
 tion, we shall know who did it,” 
 said Miss Harper, very emphati- 
 cally. ‘‘ Remember, girls! Re- 
 member what we have heard 
 to-day—and mark my words.” 
 
 Miss Harper spoke very low, 
 but managed to be heard dis- 
 tinctly enough by those in her 
 immediate neighbourhood. 
 
 Meantime the R.A. turned to 
 Emmie with rather a penitent 
 countenance. 
 
 “T am sorry to have dis- 
 couraged you,” he said. 
 
 “You have not discouraged 
 me,’ said Emmie, ‘‘ quite the 
 contrary.” 
 
 She rose and put her picture, 
 which had been but temporarily 
 promoted to the easel, again with 
 its face to the wall. Then with » 
 a ‘‘ good-bye and thank you”’ she 
 was gone. 
 
 But the R.A. lingered. He 
 turned the picture round again 
 
44 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 and read, ‘‘ Emmeline Harris,” 
 written in the corner in pencil. 
 
 ‘“‘Emmeline! A pretty, old- 
 fashioned name,” he murmured; 
 “IT am glad it’s not Emily. Girls 
 of the period are sometimes 
 called Emily, but the generation 
 of Emmelines has passed away. 
 I wish it had not—but I like that 
 girl, and I like the picture.” 
 
 ‘“*T am sorry it won’t do,” said 
 poor Mr. Brown, in hopes that 
 the R.A. was reconsidering his 
 verdict ; but he shook his head. 
 
 **TIt won’t do,” he said, ‘‘ but 
 the next will. Miss Emmeline 
 Harris will be a great credit to 
 you some day, Mr. Brown.” 
 
 Emmie walked home, not at 
 all like a disappointed damsel. 
 One might think, on the contrary 
 that she had had a great triump\. 
 She made haste home, and, 
 brushing past the maid who 
 opened the door, ran upstairs to 
 her own room, where stood 
 another picture on another easel 
 representing the same boy and 
 the same dog, but in a different 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 45 
 
 attitude. This picture was 
 nearly finished. 
 
 Tired of conflicting criticisms, 
 and resolved at last to trust to 
 her own unaided judgment, she 
 had elaborated this picture in 
 private. Lizzie, Dick, and Toby 
 having been sworn to secrecy 
 with solemn rites, in which Dick 
 had taken a particular interest. 
 The band of confederates did not 
 include the mother or Herbert, 
 though Toby (who might possibly 
 have kept his own counsel any- 
 how) had been solemnly in- 
 augurated. 
 
 “ Hurrah! I was right,” ex- 
 claimed Emmie, as she stood 
 before it. ‘“‘Oh! I am glad! I 
 am glad!” 
 
V. 
 HERBERT GETS HIS CONGR. 
 
 “HE Miss Mangles had 
 got quite reconciled to 
 their Italian lodgers—in 
 fact they had grown 
 even very fond of them. 
 Their careful house- 
 wifely habits, and perfect neat- 
 ness in all respects, were an 
 agreeable surprise to the land- 
 ladies, who had somehow imbibed 
 a notion that Italians were all 
 slovenly and indolent: whereas 
 there are no more thrifty ways 
 than those of Italian ladies who 
 have to keep up appearances on 
 a small income. Mrs. White, 
 although now very comfortably 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 47 
 
 provided for, had not always 
 been so, and had learnt of a 
 frugal mother how to make a 
 little go a long way. ‘The smart 
 *“‘toilettes’’ were turned about 
 and remade at home; and Mrs. 
 White would with her own 
 hands iron the dainty frills and 
 laces. Nota fold of the muslin 
 curtains in the best parlour was 
 ever displaced, not a crease was 
 ever made in one of the elaborate 
 antimacassars. 
 
 The neatness of the Miss 
 Mangles themselves did not sur- 
 pass the neatness of those Italian 
 ladies; and as for thrift, old as 
 they were, they began to learn 
 lessons with humility. Then the 
 devotion to that husband and 
 father so soon expected home 
 had a still further effect in en- 
 dearing Captain White’s female 
 belongings not only to the Miss 
 Mangles, but to the whole town. 
 Photographs of Captain White 
 in uniform, out of uniform, in his 
 ship, on shore, were hung on the 
 walls and set in pretty frames 
 
48 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 upon the tables. Any praise of 
 him was listened to with swim- 
 ming eyes, anecdotes of his boy- 
 hood treasured and asked for 
 eagerly again and again. Then 
 their love for one another was 
 touching. They were more, 
 far more, like sisters than 
 mother and daughter. They 
 would play together like kittens, 
 kiss, and romp, and laugh, and 
 embrace, and call each other en- 
 dearing names in a way which 
 much affected Miss Martha. 
 Miss Tabitha was not sure that 
 it was quite decorous, but even 
 she wiped her spectacles some- 
 times, when mother and daughter 
 
 meeting in the passage after they — 
 
 had been separated for five 
 minutes (they seldom were for 
 more) would run into each other’s 
 arms with a fond embrace. Then 
 they were punctual and devout 
 
 at church; and if Mrs. White’s 
 
 fine eyes did flash and her cheeks 
 
 redden at small provocations, it | 
 
 was over in a minute. As for — 
 
 Marietta, she was the softest, 
 
 Dip tac 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 49 
 
 sweetest, gentlest of girls, with 
 a shy playfulness and pretty 
 caressing ways that won all 
 hearts. 
 
 Many even of the county 
 families called, and amongst 
 them Mr. Brooke, of Brooke 
 Hall, Herbert’s grandfather. 
 Herbert had now deserted the 
 Harrises entirely for the Whites, 
 and spent his evenings in singing 
 duets and trios with Marietta 
 and her mother. This Miss 
 Mangles did not approve, and 
 after a week or so of evening 
 visits and music thought it time 
 to speak. 
 
 She took the opportunity while 
 Mrs. White was settling the 
 weekly bill. 
 
 **Bah! I cannot understand 
 your shillings and your pennies,” 
 said that lady, who did not by any 
 means neglect to look at the 
 items, over which she puzzled 
 sorely. ‘I always think of 
 francs and centimes.” 
 
 ** There are many of our Eng- 
 lish habits that you do not 
 
 4 
 
50 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 understand, Mrs. White,” said 
 Miss Mangles, impressively ; 
 ‘things of more importance than 
 shillings and pennies.” 
 
 Miss Mangles had the faculty 
 of impressive speech, rendered 
 all the more impressive by the 
 fact of her being asthmatic. The 
 words came out with pauses and 
 emphasis. She did not shrink 
 from the sudden flush of anger 
 that mantled in Mrs. White’s 
 cheek, for she was borne up by 
 a sense of duty. 
 
 “Tt is not the custom,” she 
 pursued very solemnly, “for 
 young men to pay evening visits 
 to young ladies, unless they are 
 relations.” 
 
 ‘‘Why not?” asked Mrs. 
 White, in genuine surprise. 
 
 ‘It is more usual to pay visits 
 in the afternoon.” 
 
 ‘Could I guess that? You 
 English are too extraordinary. 
 In Italy we always receive visits 
 in the evenings. We go out in 
 the afternoon—which is the 
 reason why I asked Herbert 
 
 ee eee ee 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 51 
 
 Leigh to come in the even- 
 ing.” 
 
 **T dare say it is all right and 
 proper in Italy 2 
 
 ‘‘ Of course it is, or I should 
 not countenance it.” 
 
 “ But here—just as the coinage 
 is different, so are the customs; 
 and here, as I said before, it is 
 not usual for ladies to receive 
 young men in the evenings.” 
 
 ‘Madonna! Is your house, 
 then, a convent ?”’ 
 
 ** Aconvent!” ejaculated Miss 
 Mangles with horror. “ No, in- 
 deed!” 
 
 “You do not wish me to 
 receive my friends?” 
 
 **Oh, yes—indeed I do—at 
 proper times.” 
 
 **Pazienza! How could I 
 guess?” 
 
 **Of course you could not be 
 expected to know our customs, 
 and therefore,” pursued Miss 
 Mangles in a tone of concilia- 
 tion, for the flush was deepening 
 on Mrs. White’s cheek, “I think 
 it right to tell you of them. If 
 
52 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 Captain White were here, I feel 
 sure that he would not like these 
 evening visits.” 
 
 The last hit produced the 
 desired effect. 
 
 ‘Tf you really think that——” 
 said Mrs. White. 
 
 ‘‘T am sure of it—especially 
 under the circumstances. Miss 
 White is very young.” 
 
 ‘¢Oh, as to that, I was married 
 before I was Marietta’s age; but 
 if you think I am such a neglect- 
 ful mother that I would let a 
 young man say a word to her, 
 or even be with her for one minute 
 alone, why, you are mistaken in 
 me, Miss Mangles. There can 
 be no danger of that.” 
 
 ‘‘ Especially,” said Miss Man- 
 gles, following up her advantage, 
 ‘‘as it is no secret that he is 
 engaged to be married to Emme- 
 line Harris. He did spend his 
 evenings there, but then Mrs. 
 
 Harris is his aunt, and the en- — 
 
 gagement an understood thing; 
 but now he never goes near 
 them.” 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 53 
 
 “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. White, 
 flushing, but not with anger this 
 time, ‘‘ what shameful behaviour! 
 If I had known that! Of course 
 I would not have done it for the 
 world. To take a poor girl’s 
 fiancée.” Why did Leezie not 
 tell me?” 
 
 ‘ They do not talk of it openly 
 —but it has been an understood 
 thing for years past; and so nice 
 for poor Emmie—a piece of good 
 fortune for a girl in her position, 
 and the Squire would have come 
 round. Poor Emmie! She says 
 nothing, for she is a brave girl, 
 but she must suffer.”’ 
 
 ** Oh, the wretch! ”’ exclaimed 
 Mrs. White. ‘I never heard of 
 such baseness. And la Leezie to 
 come smiling here to give Mari- 
 etta her English lesson and not 
 say a word. How strange the 
 English are! If those two sisters 
 had been Italian girls they would 
 have let us know their minds. 
 But after this evening he shall 
 come no more, Miss Mangles—of 
 that you may be quite sure.” 
 
54 THE SCHOOL OF ART 
 
 ‘*T am very glad to hear it,” 
 said Miss Mangles. “Yes, the 
 change is quite right ;—and you 
 would like fish for dinner to-day, 
 I think you said? Good morn- 
 ing, Mrs. White.” 
 
 With this Miss Mangles “ rose 
 and quitted the apartment.” 
 This would have been her own 
 expression, so I use it, feeling 
 that to say vulgarly, “‘ she got up 
 and went out of the room,” would 
 be to do injustice to the dignity 
 of that lady’s movements. 
 
 Se a aD 
 
Be 
 
 HERBERT’S DISMISSAL. 
 
 Emmie bear this flag- 
 rant desertion of her 
 4 lover? 
 Bravely —far more 
 ag so than the rest of her 
 family. Whilst Mrs. Harris 
 was moaning to Lizzie, “He 
 will come back again! Oh, I 
 am sure he will come back 
 again!” and Lizzie—who saw 
 more of what went on, for she 
 went daily to give Marietta an 
 
 ZN ay, 
 
 English lesson—could only re- , 
 
 spond with tears and a dubious 
 shake of the head; Emmie was 
 forming a silent resolution. She 
 
56 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 would definitely break with 
 Herbert Leigh. The problem 
 was how to break off an engage- 
 ment that had never been defi- 
 nitely made—only tacitly under- 
 stood. She pondered the subject 
 deeply—so deeply, that for once 
 the easier problem in the per- 
 spective class was worked out 
 wrong. She blushed as _ the 
 master pointed out the mistake; he 
 did it very gently, looking at her 
 with compassion: for the very 
 sudden transfer of her lover’s atten- 
 tions to the Italian girl had not, as 
 may be supposed, escaped notice. 
 Emmie knew that some of her 
 acquaintance pitied her, and 
 that others spitefully rejoiced in 
 her humiliation. It was a hard 
 trial to a proud girl. She went 
 home now always alone. 
 
 Was her heart really wounded? 
 No, she told herself, only her 
 pride. She was not quite sure 
 that she had a heart. She 
 thought that her painting might 
 fill her life. She knew that she 
 would have nothing else to fill 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 57 
 
 it henceforth. She was not sure 
 that she had loved Herbert, but 
 she was sure that she could not 
 marry any other man of her 
 acquaintance. 
 
 They were all vulgar and 
 commonplace by comparison — 
 all those that she knew, or would 
 ever have a chance of knowing. 
 Love and marriage were not for 
 her. Emmie was not much 
 given to sentimental dreams, 
 but as this conviction came over 
 her, the world did seem to be a 
 duller, drearier place than she 
 had ever thought it before. She 
 was above mean jealousy, and 
 would not for the world have 
 said or even thought a spiteful 
 thing of Marietta White, whom 
 she admired, and did not admire 
 the less because Herbert admired 
 her too. Emmie’s was a mag- 
 nanimous soul. 
 
 Fortune favoured her purpose, 
 for she met Herbert on his way 
 to the Miss Mangles’. He tried 
 to avoid her, but she went up to 
 him. | 
 
58 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 ‘* Herbert!” she said. 
 
 ‘He feigned a start of surprise. 
 
 ‘* Oh!—ah! Emmie, is it you?” 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 “J wish to speak to you. 
 Would you mind walking a 
 little way with me? I will not 
 keep you long.” 
 
 ‘‘Nothing amiss with Aunt 
 Grace?” he asked, in a tone of 
 real alarm. 
 
 “ She is not so well as usual ; 
 but that is not what I have to 
 speak to you about. It is a little 
 difficult to say ad 
 
 ‘‘Then for goodness’ sake don’t 
 say it,”’ said Herbert, hastily. 
 
 “Yes; it had better be said—it 
 is not anything that you will 
 mind hearing,” returned Emmie, 
 with rather a bitter smile. ‘It 
 is only that I think it would be 
 as well for us to contradict some 
 reports that have got about con- 
 cerning you and me.” 
 
 ‘‘T really can’t think how they 
 got about,” Herbert remarked. 
 
 Emmie’s lips tightened. 
 
 “JT think you must be aware 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 59 
 
 that they did,” she said; “and all 
 I want is, that you should help 
 me in emphatically contradicting 
 them.” 
 
 ** Certainly,” he replied, with 
 alacrity. Then added with a 
 touch of irritation—“ since you 
 are sO very anxious to proclaim 
 yourself free.” 
 
 With the inconsistency of 
 human nature, Herbert, in the 
 midst of his relief, resented 
 Emmie’s coolness. Was it pos- 
 sible that she could be indifferent 
 to him? Emmie, in her turn, 
 resented the covert sneer in the 
 speech. 
 
 **T am very anxious that there 
 should be no misunderstanding,”’ 
 she said, coldly, ‘‘and I have 
 told my mother.” 
 
 Herbert winced. He very 
 nearly said, ‘‘ Poor Aunt Grace,” 
 but checked himself in time. 
 
 ‘“* IT have told my mother,” she 
 repeated, “‘that we never did 
 care for each other at all except 
 as cousins, and that you never said 
 a word—of that kind—to me.” 
 
60 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 “JT never did,” said Herbert, 
 uneasily; ‘‘and if Aunt Grace 
 thought——” 
 
 “It isas well that there should 
 be no mistake about it at all,” 
 said Emmie. “That is all I 
 meant to say—except—that of 
 course I see how it is between 
 you and Marietta—and I like her 
 very much—and I hope you will 
 be happy—good-bye.” 
 
 Avoiding his outstretched hand 
 and broken words of gratitude, 
 she hastened home, whilst Her- 
 bert passed through the garden 
 gate next door. Mary Ann, who 
 was drawing down the blinds in 
 Miss Martha’s bedroom upstairs, 
 saw him, and ran to open the 
 door without giving him the 
 trouble of ringing. 
 
 It so happened that Mrs. White 
 _ was upstairs searching for a mis- 
 laid skein of the silk with which she 
 was embroidering her husband’s 
 slippers, and Herbert found 
 Marietta in the drawing-room 
 alone. 
 
 It was the first time, for her 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 61 
 
 mother literally guarded her like 
 adragon. There she was, sing- 
 ing softly to herself at the piano 
 a plaintive little Italian ditty 
 about amore and cuore, and she 
 started and blushed at Her- 
 bert’s entrance. As she turned 
 her gazelle-like eyes towards him, 
 he thought he had never seen a 
 lovelier girl. 
 
 “Oh, pray go on,” he mur- 
 mured ; “‘ your native sounds fall 
 so sweetly from your lips, I could 
 listen to them for ever, Mari- 
 etta!” 
 
 **Oh, I will call mamma,’’ 
 said Marietta, rising and blushing 
 deeply. 
 
 The opportunity was not to be 
 lost. Herbert knew that it would 
 probably not occur again. He 
 took Marietta’s hand to detain 
 her. 
 
 “Am I such an ogre?” he 
 pleaded. ‘‘ May I never see or 
 speak to you alone, even for one 
 moment? Marietta! a word. 
 Just one word for yourself 
 alone!” 
 
62 THE sCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 Mariettahesitated. Sheblushed 
 —turned white—trembled. 
 
 ‘*No, no!” she said; but the 
 movement she had made towards 
 the door was arrested. Herbert 
 took her hand, and as she was so 
 pale and trembling, it seemed 
 justifiable that the other arm 
 should be made use of to support 
 her. 
 
 It was at this moment that 
 Mrs. White entered the room. 
 
 ‘* Go upstairs, Marietta!” she 
 said, severely. Then turned on 
 Herbert with eyes which literally 
 blazed. 
 
 ‘“Be so kind as to leave my 
 house, and never on any pretext 
 whatever to re-enter it,” she 
 said. 
 
 “One word, Mrs. White, before 
 you condemn me—one word,” 
 pleaded Herbert. 
 
 ‘No, there shall not be one 
 word. Your conduct this even- 
 ing is only what might have been 
 expected after what I have heard 
 of you to-day. When I ad- 
 mitted you into my house I 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 63 
 
 thought, ‘Oh, it is an English- 
 man, a compatriot of my dear 
 Federigo. They are so good, so 
 well-regulated, the English.’ But 
 I am undeceived—I am unde- 
 ceived!” 
 
 “‘Oh, hear me one moment!” 
 cried Herbert. ‘‘I love your 
 daughter. I only wished for an 
 opportunity of asking her to be 
 my wife. Was that so wicked ?” 
 
 ** Most wicked, indeed, to speak 
 of such things to a young girl— 
 especially as you are the affianced 
 of another.”’ 
 
 “YT am not,” said Herbert. 
 ** If you allude to Miss Harris, 
 there is nothing whatever be- 
 tween us. She is my cousin, and 
 as her mother is my aunt, of 
 whom I am very fond, I used to 
 be a great deal at the house. 
 You may ask Miss Harris herself 
 if there is anything between us.” 
 
 ** Ah, well,’’ said the lady, look- 
 ing very incredulous, “if you are 
 free, my daughter is not. She has 
 been promised to a countryman 
 of my own, the Count di Silva- 
 
64 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 verde, since she was seven years 
 old.” 
 
 ‘‘ Since she was seven years 
 old! Without consulting her! 
 What, pray, did Captain White 
 say to such a _ proceeding?” 
 asked Herbert, indignantly. 
 
 ‘‘ Captain White leaves the 
 care of Marietta entirely to me: 
 He likes Silvaverde, an excellent 
 man, with a good ‘estate, who 
 would not object to her religion— 
 on the contrary, prefers a wife 
 who does not confess. And he is 
 a safe age, old fenough to be 
 Marietta’s father. I should feel 
 quite happy in trusting her to 
 him.” 
 
 ‘‘T quite understand,” said 
 Herbert, speaking, in his turn, 
 with loftyindignation. **The poor 
 sweet little girl has been sold 
 when scarcely out of her cradle. 
 I know they do these things 
 abroad. God forgive you, Mrs. 
 White !” 
 
 He bowed himself out, leaving 
 the Italian lady quite speechless 
 with indignation and amazement 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 65 
 
 at the unparalleled impudence of 
 the young Englishman, who had 
 contrived so neatly to turn the 
 tables on her. He walked home 
 with all the feelings of a knight- 
 errant. He would save this poor 
 little victim, who evidently loved 
 him—he would save her yet. 
 
VII. 
 
 EMMIE AT BAY. 
 
 GZN the return of the 
 aN Harris girls from a 
 
 \ shopping excursion the 
 next day (newly trimmed 
 % bonnets in which to 
 attend the art exhibition 
 were voted quite necessary), the 
 maid-of-all-work greeted them 
 with— 
 
 ‘¢Here’s his card, and so 
 sorry you was out, Miss Emmie, 
 and Miss Lizzie too, as I told 
 him, and the missus not well 
 enough to see anybody ; and he 
 was so sorry, because he was go- 
 ing off by the train, and couldn’t 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 67 
 
 wait, though I said as I was 
 sure you'd be back soon.” 
 
 The explanation of this speech 
 was furnished by the card, ‘‘ Mr. 
 Hardinge. P.P.c.”’ 
 
 ‘‘How very nice of him to 
 call!” exclaimed Lizzie; ‘‘ and 
 how I wish we had been at 
 home!” 
 
 Emmie said nothing. 
 
 The morrow was the great day 
 on which all the artistic genius 
 of the town challenged criticism 
 in the picture-gallery of the 
 museum. Miss Russell's Head, 
 Miss Harper’s Grapes, Miss 
 Harris’ Boy and Dog, Mr. Leigh’s 
 Eurydice, were all well hung 
 amongst some scores of minor 
 celebrities. The town set an 
 example to all mutual admiration 
 societies. ‘The local paper only 
 mentioned Poynter, Millais, Alma 
 Tadema, and suchlike, to com- 
 pare their paintings unfavour- 
 ably with those of its own towns- 
 men. The mutual admiration 
 was so self-sufficing, that its 
 members seldom went to see any 
 
68 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 London exhibition. Their own 
 annual show completely satisfied 
 all their artistic yearnings. At- 
 tendance was not scanty. Each 
 artist was quite sure of an ad- 
 miring circleof family and friends, 
 and just a few pictures enlisted 
 the sympathy of strangers—or 
 comparative strangers (for it 
 Was quite amazing how much 
 everybody knew about everybody 
 else). Herbert Leigh had al- 
 ways, on former occasions, borne 
 off the palm, and his Eurydice 
 was surrounded by a bevy of very 
 nice-looking young ladies. Eury- 
 dice was pretty, but slightly out 
 of drawing. The picture was 
 not bad enough to be ridiculous, 
 not good enough to be other than 
 sadly disappointing. Herbert 
 himself was not there, for al- 
 though he had no objection to 
 receiving admiration, he seldom 
 bestowed it on any of his towns- 
 people, and declined to patronize 
 this very inferior show. It was 
 sufficient that one of his works 
 should grace it. But Emmie 
 
 SS eS OO 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 69 
 
 and Lizzie affected no such in- 
 difference. They had been in 
 the gallery since the opening, 
 eager to see where “ Taking 
 Lessons,’ as Emmie called her 
 picture, was hung. 
 
 Their most sanguine hopes 
 were gratified. The picture at- 
 tracted all comers, and kept them 
 gazing. There was;a_ force, 
 a reality about it, which ap- 
 pealed to all alike. The first 
 arrivals were provincials whom 
 the girls did not know, and the 
 loudly expressed admiration of 
 these good folks caused Emmie 
 to stand aside blushing. Then 
 came Squire Brooke with some 
 of the London people, of whom 
 his house was never empty. 
 Emmie drew further back, whilst 
 Lizzie pressed forward to hear 
 the comments. 
 
 ‘Bead!’ exclaimed the Squire, 
 ‘that’s nice now—that’s very 
 nice! I’ve seen a dog look like 
 that, and it’s the first picture in 
 this room that I’ve seen look like 
 anything. Here, Ponsonby, what 
 
70 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 do you think? I can’t talk of 
 tone and harmonies, and all that 
 —humbug, I was going to say, 
 like you fellows that write the 
 art criticisms—but I know what 
 I like, and I like that.” 
 
 “Yes, there are nice lines in 
 it,” said Mr. Ponsonby, languidly. 
 ‘* It’s the only pictchar here that 
 one can, in short, look at.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, come!  There’s my 
 grandson’s Eurydice. A pretty 
 thing, you can’t deny it. Can 
 he, now, Lady Harriet? It isn’t 
 like anything, to be sure; but 
 then, it isn’t meant to be. No- 
 body could have been like such 
 a fool as Eurydice, you know, 
 rewarding her poor husband’s 
 trouble in that way; but it’s 
 pretty—a pretty thing,” persisted 
 the Squire, who was in the habit 
 of laying down the law, and 
 could not stand contradiction, 
 even from an art critic, on his 
 own ground. 
 
 ‘“Oh, no doubt,” said Mr. Pon- 
 sonby, suppressing a yawn. 
 
 ‘But let us see who this 
 
 7 a 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 71 
 
 picture’s by,” pursued the Squire, 
 consulting his catalogue. Hum 
 —um—‘ Taking Lessons,’ by 
 Miss Harris. By George! That 
 girl? I wish it had been any- 
 body else. I’d have bought it if 
 it had been anybody else.” 
 
 “What's the matter with 
 her ?”’ asked one of the ladies. 
 
 ** Nothing; only I dislike the 
 family—a low, intriguing lot!” 
 
 Lizzie turned away, struggling 
 with her tears. She hoped that 
 Emmie might have been out of 
 earshot, but the Squire’s voice 
 carried. Emmie had heard. 
 
 Miss Harper, accompanied by 
 Miss Russell and the Russell 
 and Harper families, now arrived 
 in front of the picture. Emmie 
 and Lizzie had their backs turned 
 to it, and appeared absorbed in 
 a wishy-washy landscape. If 
 Miss Harper saw them, she did 
 not betray the fact. 
 
 “Why, that’s not Emmie 
 Harris’s_ picture!” exclaimed 
 Miss Russell. “The dog and 
 boy were in a different position 
 
72 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 only three days ago. It’s by 
 somebody else. Let’s look,” 
 consulting the catalogue. 
 
 ‘* It cs by somebody else, what- 
 ever the catalogue may say,” 
 observed Miss Harper, with great 
 emphasis; ‘‘and I think, my 
 dear, we can guess who the per- 
 son is. He left the town yester- 
 day evening, having taken his 
 farewell of the Harrises in the 
 afternoon, and put the finishing 
 touches.” 
 
 “Oh my!” exclaimed Miss 
 Russell. ‘‘ Yes, I do know who 
 you mean, Miss Harper; and it 
 is just as he said he wanted to 
 do it. Well, the idea!” 
 
 ‘““What’s that, eh? What’s 
 _ that?” asked the Squire, who 
 was moving on when the shrill 
 tones of Miss Harper arrested 
 him. ‘‘Are you saying Miss 
 Harris didn’t paint that picture, 
 eh? I was wondering how a 
 chit of a girl came to doit. It’s 
 a mistake, is it, eh?” 
 
 ‘“‘T don’t think it’s a mistake 
 exactly,” said Miss Harper, “ but 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 73 
 
 the picture Miss Harris painted 
 is now in the school of art. This 
 one, painted exactly in accordance 
 with suggestions made by Mr. 
 Hardinge, the Royal Academician, 
 has come into existence ap- 
 parently in a single night, for 
 yesterday no one had seen or 
 heard of it.” 
 
 ““Oh, that accounts!” said 
 the art critic, who, it was some- 
 times hinted, did not know so 
 very much about painting him- 
 self, but got an artist friend to 
 write his notices. ‘I thought I 
 could not mistake Hardinge’s 
 touch.” 
 
 Emmie now came forward. 
 
 “If you wish me to explain 
 how I painted that picture, I will 
 do so,” she said. 
 
 **Oh dear, no! We don’t 
 require any explanation at all,” 
 sneered Miss Harper. 
 
 “Yes, let her explain—let her 
 explain; let’s hear what she’s 
 got to say for herself! Fair 
 play’s a jewel,” said the Squire. 
 
 Emmie explained in a few 
 
 5 
 
74 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 brief words the history of her 
 picture. | 
 
 “What a very remarkable 
 story !”’ observed Miss Harper. 
 
 ‘‘There is a curious coinci- 
 dence in it,” said Emmie, still 
 choosing to ignore any insinua- 
 tion that the picture was not her 
 own. 
 
 ‘‘Miss Harris, you’re a clever 
 girl,’ said the Squire, sternly. 
 ‘* You’ve done a great many very 
 clever things in your life, but 
 you have mot painted that pic- 
 ture.”’ 
 
 ‘*Are you all so mad,” cried 
 Emmie, impatiently, ‘‘ as to sup- 
 pose that any one would paint it 
 for me?” 
 
 “For an attractive young 
 lady,”’ sneered the Squire, ‘* what 
 won't they do?” 
 
 ‘“‘Come away, Emmie,” cried 
 Lizzie, who was now in tears; 
 ‘‘why should we stay to be 
 insulted any longer?” 
 
 ‘‘T demand an apology!” said 
 Emmie, her colour rising, her 
 eyes flashing. ‘* What do you 
 
 —— 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 75 
 
 mean by these infamous insinua- 
 tions, Miss Harper?” 
 
 Miss Harper merely shrugged 
 her shoulders and passed on. 
 The Squire bowed sarcastically, 
 and passed on, too. The rest of 
 the company, except the well- 
 bred few who merely looked 
 uncomfortable at the esclandre, 
 gaped and stared. | 
 
 ‘Never mind, Lizzie, they 
 will have to apologize, and that 
 publicly, before long. We will 
 come away now,” and Emmie 
 left the room, her head high, her 
 cheeks burning, and her lips com- 
 pressed, followed by the sobbing 
 Lizzie. 
 
. VIII. 
 A KNIGHT-ERRANT. 
 
 MMIE found, like many — 
 other people,that justice — 
 .) is not so easy to obtain. © 
 , Her friends said that — 
 the accusation was too — 
 absurd to be taken any © 
 notice of. Her enemies, and it — 
 was a fresh blow to find how © 
 many enemies envy had made © 
 her, defied her to prove her case. 
 Mr. Brown, the first person to 
 whom she applied for advice, — 
 promised to write to Mr. Har- — 
 dinge requesting him publicly to — 
 deny the charge against them ~ 
 both, if it should be publicly — 4 
 made; but, in Mr. Brown’s — i 
 opinion, an accusation so mons- — 
 
 i 
 
 trous, so flagrantly absurd, could © 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. vp 
 
 not long hold its own ground. 
 No one in the profession could 
 suppose the picture, good as it 
 was, to be the work of a Roval 
 Academician, and, least of all, 
 the work of Mr. Hardinge. 
 
 “Your talents have made you 
 enemies, Miss Harris,’ he ob- 
 served ; ‘* but one of the burdens 
 of genius is the envy it ex- 
 cites”’ 
 
 Emmie had scarcely patience 
 to bear with these truisms. 
 
 ‘‘Then there is nothing more 
 to be said, nothing to be done, 
 but to bear. Good morning, Mr. 
 Brown,” she said. 
 
 Yes! to bear—to bear—to 
 bear; and every day added to the 
 burden. Oh, would her back 
 not break under it! Emmie was 
 a strong, brave girl, but she was 
 being tried beyond her strength 
 and beyond her courage. 
 
 Even Herbert, whose love she 
 had so magnanimously yielded 
 to another, was not, she felt, 
 altogether loyal and true in his 
 friendship. She had expected, at 
 
78 LHE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 least, some cousinly warmth in 
 his defence of her; that he would 
 have shown indignation ; that he 
 would have spoken his mind to 
 the Squire. But Herbert merely 
 remarked that she had done a 
 very foolish thing in keeping her 
 picture a secret; that she had 
 been more foolish still in mak- 
 ing an enemy of Miss Harper. 
 ‘‘Why, pray, should not Miss 
 Harper have married that im- 
 becile old man who could not 
 
 take care of himself? A very 
 
 good thing for him, but Emmie 
 had such a mania for arranging 
 everybody’s affairs,” &c., &c. 
 
 Could it be that Herbert was just ; 
 a little annoyed at “ Taking © 
 Lessons” having cast Eurydice — 
 
 into the shade, and that the oft- 
 
 quoted old adage that there is © 
 
 eS 
 
 se ne eee ee ae ae ee Te) ee ns 
 
 something in the misfortunes of — 
 our best friends not entirely dis- — 
 pleasing to us, was in some © 
 slight degree applicable to him? — 
 Or was it that his chivalrous — 
 feelings were so absolutely en- 4 
 
 listed in the cause of another i 
 
 * 
 
 4 
 ; 
 : 
 BS 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 79 
 
 damsel, that he had neither time 
 nor thought to spare for Emmie? 
 One thing was certain, that he 
 was of little help and no comfort 
 to her, except in the matter of 
 keeping the affair a secret from 
 Mrs. Harris, whose health began 
 now to fail so perceptibly as to 
 occasion the very greatest un- 
 easiness. ‘The doctor had to be 
 called in, and, of course, pre- 
 scribed the most expensive 
 remedies, such as taxed the very 
 slender resources of the family 
 to the utmost. To be sure, 
 Lizzie gained something by her 
 lessons to Marietta, and Herbert 
 was still liberal of his cham- 
 pagne; but Emmie, on taking 
 the management of affairs into 
 her own hands, was horrified to 
 discover that her mother had 
 been drifting gradually into debt, 
 and owed long bills to several 
 of the tradesmen; and there was 
 no hope of retrieving matters by 
 the sale of the picture, from 
 which she had hoped so much. 
 It fay under a ban. No one 
 
80 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 would buy it now.  Lizzie’s 
 sisterly love and sympathy were — 
 a certain solace, but even Lizzie 
 was not entirely free to be 
 absorbed in Emmie’s troubles. 
 She had a trouble of her own. — 
 Herbert had honoured her with © 
 his confidence, and employed her — 
 to convey secret missives to 
 Marietta. Now Lizzie felt the 
 honour of being Herbert’s con- — 
 fidante immensely, and nothing | 
 pleased her better than to serve — 
 him like a faithful slave. It was © 
 impossible for her to resist any — 
 desire or wish of his. But her 
 conscience pricked her sorely. — 
 What return was she making 
 Mrs. White for her kindness to — 
 her? What would Emmie say 
 if she knew? She dared not tell — 
 Emmie, yet it was the first 
 secret she had ever kept from 
 her. When she hinted at these _ 
 scruples to Herbert, he quieted — 
 her with demonstrations of Mrs. } 
 White’s wickedness in selling her 
 daughter, evidently without her 
 husband’s knowledge or consent, : 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. Sr 
 
 for what Englishman would con- 
 sent to such a thing? 
 
 It was a sacred and imperative 
 duty to rescue this poor girl from 
 an uncongenial marriage; but it 
 could only be done by counter- 
 acting the mother’s influence. 
 Marietta should be shown the 
 state of her own heart. The 
 iniquity of a loveless marriage 
 should be pointed out to her by 
 impassioned letters from Herbert 
 to be delivered privately by 
 Lizzie. There could be no other 
 way, of course. Poor Lizzie was 
 conquered. In her eyes all that 
 Herbert did, or required to be 
 done, was, and must be, right, 
 and she had no arguments where- 
 with to meet his. 
 
 She scarcely knew how she 
 managed with the first note; but 
 it got insinuated into Marietta’s 
 hand somehow as she said good- 
 bye after the lesson. 
 
 Now if Marietta had been an 
 English girl she might have 
 stared, or exclaimed ‘‘ What’s 
 this?” or have done something 
 
$2 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 equally embarrassing; but — 
 Marietta had lived all her life — 
 amongst the most intriguing © 
 people in the world, and although ~ 
 not herself deceitful, a sly action — 
 neither astonished nor offended ~ 
 her. She therefore kept the note — 
 
 in the bosom of her dress, and ~ 
 
 took advantage of the rare © 
 
 moments when her mother was ~ 
 
 not in the same room with her — 
 to read it through. 3 
 
 It ran as follows :— 3 
 
 ‘‘ Dearest, sweetest—I dare not — 
 say Marietta, yet I can call you © 
 by no other name. Your mother © 
 has banished me from her house © 
 for daring to tell you my love, — 
 for presuming to think that it 
 might be returned. Perhaps this 
 was presumption, and had the > 
 matter ended there I might 
 possibly have accepted my dis- 
 missal: but when I heard that — 
 you had been sold—yes, sold is 
 the word, promised almost from — 
 your cradle to a man old enough 
 to be your father, then my blood 
 boiled within me—I- could no 
 
 _ De ete, Ee. | Se RMT ee TB I arn 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 33 
 
 longer hold my peace. Marietta! 
 you do not love this man—and 
 you do not know what a loveless 
 marriage is! Marietta! had I 
 lost all hope for myself, I would 
 still die to save you from this 
 wrong.” This passage was so 
 very noble and pathetic that 
 Marietta had hard work to keep 
 back her tears. She did it 
 though, because she heard her 
 mother call— | 
 
 **What are you about, Marietta, 
 so long in your bedroom?” 
 
 ‘Oh, tidying my drawers.” 
 
 *“But I want you to help me 
 iron the frills. Lesta! what a 
 dawdle you are!” 
 
 Marietta thrust the letter into 
 her pocket, ironed the frills, and 
 then offered to fetch some ribbons 
 to smooth over while the irons 
 were hot. On the way upstairs 
 she took out the letter again and 
 read: 
 
 “Your father is an English- 
 man: I feel sure that he would 
 not allow his dear little daughter 
 to be sold. Take courage! He 
 
84 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 will soon be here. Go to him! 
 Tell him the secrets of your 
 heart. If there should be a 
 secret in which I have a part— 
 dare I hope it?—oh, Marietta, 
 tell him that. Without presump- 
 tion I may venture to say that 
 he would not look unfavourably. 
 upon me, although I am not an 
 Italian Count, only an English- 
 man of unblemished character 
 (whatsoever your mother may 
 choose to say in order to pre- 
 judice you against me) and of 
 good prospects. Angiola mia! I 
 dare not sign myself otherwise 
 than as—yYour true and faithful 
 knight.” 
 
 This letter troubled and dis- 
 turbed poor Marietta very much. 
 To say her prayers and to obey 
 her mother had been, hitherto, 
 her one idea of duty. No doubts 
 had disturbed her, no qualms 
 of conscience. It was as natural 
 for her to do her duty ac- 
 cording to her lights as for 
 a bird to sing; and now to be 
 told that her mother was inciting 
 
 oo 
 
 \ 
 
\ THE SCHOOL OF ART. 85 
 
 ter to do a wicked thing, a thing 
 her father would not approve! 
 Oh, was it possible? Yet 
 Marietta had a dim recollection 
 of a few hot words between 
 father and mother which, being 
 spoken in English, she had not 
 understood, but which she knew 
 had reference to her; of her 
 father having asked her if she 
 liked Count Silvaverde, and, on 
 her replying, “‘Oh yes, well 
 enough!” his telling her that 
 marriage was a very serious 
 thing, and she should not enter 
 that state lightly. The speech 
 had merely made Marietta yawn. 
 She had looked upon marriage 
 as a rather tiresome necessity 
 belonging to the distant future, 
 until her acquaintance with 
 Herbert began. Then, when 
 this handsome young English- 
 man betrayed his admiration for 
 her, her heart had begun to 
 flutter and beat, and the world 
 of sentiment opened before her, 
 for the first time. Herbert 
 might have awakened a gentle 
 
86 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 passion in her, if his own passioa 
 had not been so strong that it 
 frightened hers away. For once 
 he had got beyond the region of 
 flirtation; for the first time a 
 fancy had deepened into love, 
 and he, being deficient in self- 
 control, could not help betray- 
 ing himself in a way which 
 startled the timid girl. The 
 letters agitated, moved her, but 
 also filled her with fear and 
 dismay. After receiving the 
 third, she unbosomed herself to 
 Lizzie. This she could only do 
 in a whisper, for Mrs. White was 
 always in the room. 
 
 “Tell him not to send any 
 more, and not to speak to me 
 until my father comes.” 
 
 “T will! I will!’ whispered 
 Lizzie back, ‘‘and oh, I am sure 
 it would be better.” 
 
 *“You’re not working, girls, 
 only chattering,’ observed Mrs. 
 White, severely. ‘‘ Proceed with 
 your recitation, Marietta.” 
 
; THE SCHOOL OF ARY1. 87 
 lea boast of heraldry, ze pomp of 
 power, 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth eer 
 \ gave, 
 Await alike ze inevitable hour ; 
 Ze paths of glory lead but to ze grave.” 
 *“*How dismal English poetry 
 is—it’s all about tombs and 
 dying,” observed the Italian lady 
 with a shiver. 
 “Qh dear!” said Lizzie, ‘‘ yes, 
 I thought it dull when we had to 
 learn it at school; but Emmie— 
 { always consult her, you know— 
 said it was a standard piece for 
 Marietta to learn, and so 2 
 Marietta bent forward, and put 
 her arms. caressingly round 
 Lizzie’s neck. ‘‘ Does Emmie 
 really love him?” she whispered. 
 Lizzie shook her head. 
 ‘‘Emmie only loves her art.” 
 “Whispering again!” ex- 
 claimed Mrs. White. Shewas apt 
 to be irritable and fault-finding 
 in these last days of suspense, 
 for the ship was near at hand. 
 **We were saying how dull it 
 was,” said Marietta—who, it 
 must be confessed, was not so 
 
88 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 perfectly straightforward as some 
 English girls—and then resumed 
 in haste: 
 
 “ Can storied urn or animated bust, 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
 bref ? 
 
 Can honour’s voice awake the silent 
 dust, 
 
 Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of 
 deaf ?” 
 
 ** Misericordia!”’ — exclaimed 
 Mrs. White, starting up, “‘ I have 
 had enough of this. I see you 
 girls can do no work to-day. Let 
 us get ready and go to the pier. 
 I can scarcely bear to be away 
 from it now.” 
 
 The poor woman was working 
 herself up into a perfect fever of 
 impatience, in the daily expecta- 
 tion of her husband’s ship being 
 signalled. 
 
IX, 
 
 COUNT SILVAVERDE. 
 
 4yLAS! poor Mrs. White! 
 That ship, on which all 
 her hopes rested, never 
 ? Game atto port. ..... 
 < It went down in a ter- 
 rific gale, almost within 
 sight of land. One boat-load of 
 the crew only reached shore, to 
 tell how their gallant commander 
 had gone down with his ship. 
 The catastrophe caused a deep 
 ‘sensation in the town. Captain 
 White had been a favourite as a 
 boy, and his charming wife and 
 daughter had done much to re- 
 awaken interest in him. All 
 Southport had been expecting 
 his arrival with eagerness, and 
 many festivities had been planned 
 
90 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 in his honour. Old Admiral 
 Wainwright, on board whose 
 ship Freddy White had taken 
 refuge when the fit first seized 
 him to run off to sea, wept like a 
 child; and so did many an old 
 tar who had pleasant recollec- 
 tions of the bright boy. The 
 question now arose, Who should 
 tell the unhappy widow? The 
 Miss Mangles thought that Ad- 
 miral Wainwright was certainly 
 the most fitting person. Their 
 feelings forbade; but so did the 
 Admiral’s. It ended in Emmie 
 Harris undertaking voluntarily 
 the dreadful task, whilst Lizzie 
 nerved herself to break the news 
 to Marietta. 
 
 Terrible work it was. Mrs. 
 White understood only too 
 quickly and too well. With the 
 quick perception of her race, she 
 had noticed the grave faces 
 around her; she had been aware 
 of a trouble in the air, and 
 Emmie’s first word was enough. 
 
 ‘‘The ship has gone down! 
 he has perished! I dreamt it 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. gi 
 
 last night!’ she shrieked; and, 
 reading the answer in Emmie’s 
 face, fell prone. She remained 
 long unconscious, and only re- 
 covered to go into violent con- 
 vulsions—which, however, as the 
 doctor assured the frightened 
 women around her, were not 
 dangerous; and, in truth, being 
 sound both in body and mind, 
 she recovered before long—re- 
 covered bodily health, although 
 the youth and gaiety which a 
 contented life had preserved so 
 well for her during her thirty 
 odd years had departed for ever. 
 Marietta’s grief was less violent. 
 She had known comparatively 
 little of her father, and her love 
 and reverence for him was more 
 a reflection of her mother’s feel- 
 ings than anything else. Still, 
 the shock was great; and the 
 sight of her mother’s first frenzy 
 utterly unnerved her. The 
 Harrises took her in, that she 
 might not witness another attack, 
 and there for some days she re- 
 mained prostrate, refusing to see 
 
92 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 any one but Lizzie, to whom she 
 clung. 
 
 ‘Oh, I want to go home! I 
 want to go home!” she sobbed. 
 ‘‘ And how are we to get there 
 with mamma like this >—and she 
 will die too, perhaps!” 
 
 Nothing now seemed too hor- 
 rible, too unnatural, to happen. 
 
 ‘No, no! Dobecalm! She 
 is only ill—in bed—like you—it 
 is nothing serious.” 
 
 “Oh, we are all alone! all 
 alone!’’ cried Marietta. ‘‘ We 
 have no one to care for us—to 
 think for us—to expect—now! 
 and in this strange country !” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, hush!” said Lizzie. ‘‘So 
 many people love you.” Then, 
 with a little hesitation, ‘*‘ Herbert 
 was here just now, wanting so 
 much to hear how you were.” 
 
 But Marietta only shuddered. 
 
 ‘Tell him not to come!” she 
 said. ‘‘Oh, pray don’t let him 
 come!” 
 
 Lizzie could scarcely believe 
 her ears. That Marietta should 
 not return a love like Herbert’s 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 93 
 
 seemed to her simply impossible. 
 She had scarcely believed in 
 Emmie’s indifference — brought 
 herself to believe it because it 
 was the only excuse for Herbert’s 
 conduct—and, then, Emmie was 
 an enigma. 
 
 **T want to go home!” re- 
 iterated Marietta—‘‘ home to 
 Genoa, amongst mamma’s people. 
 But how shall we manage the 
 long journey when we are so ill 
 and miserable? It was a dread- 
 ful business coming; but we were 
 well, and happy, and hopeful. 
 If some one would come and 
 fetch us! Oh, I know who 
 would! If only he were here!” 
 
 ** Oh, who ?” asked Lizzie. 
 
 ‘Tl Conte—Silvaverde.” 
 
 ** But you don’t care for him?” 
 
 ** Oh, yes, Ido. I don’t want 
 to marry him just now: but he 
 has been so kind to me, and he 
 is my countryman. You don’t 
 know how I long for some one 
 from my own country! Do help 
 me to send a letter or a telegram 
 mat once |”’ 
 
94 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 Lizzie could not contrive 
 to look upon England with 
 Marietta’s eyes as a strange and 
 dreary country; and the treachery 
 to Herbert of helping to send for 
 his rival was a thing utterly im- 
 possible to her. 
 
 For once Lizzie was entirely 
 out of sympathy with Marietta. 
 
 **You had better ask some one 
 else,’ she said, a little coldly; 
 “for indeed I should not know 
 how.” : 
 
 Marietta began crying like a 
 fractious child, and Emmie, 
 coming into the room, under- 
 took to send the telegram as 
 desired. 
 
 ‘*I do not see what right we 
 have to refuse, and it is proper 
 that their friends should know,” 
 she said to Lizzie with mild re- 
 buke, being ignorant of Herbert’s 
 intrigues and of Lizzie’s part in 
 them. 
 
 In a very few days outward 
 calm was restored. Marietta re- 
 turned to her mother, who sat 
 pallid and tearless in her widow’s 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 95 
 
 weeds, but not unmindful of her 
 duties or the claims of others 
 upon her. She gave the Miss 
 Mangles due warning that it was 
 her intention to return to Genoa 
 as soon as she had seen erected 
 a memorial stone in the church 
 to her husband. She had written 
 to tell Count Silvaverde of their 
 bereavement, but did not, like 
 _ Marietta, expect him to come 
 and fetch her home. Silvaverde 
 was very Italian in his dislike to 
 movement, to novelty, to trouble, 
 and had never in all his life left 
 Italy—seldom Genoa. Shecould 
 not expect that even his sincere 
 friendship would prevail on him 
 to conquer the indolent habits 
 of years. But Marietta knew him 
 best, as the event proved. 
 
 One day there was a ring at 
 the bell, and Mary Ann, with 
 very round eyes, brought Miss 
 Mangles a card, on which was 
 inscribed, “‘Agostino di Silva- 
 verde.” Above was a coronet. 
 
 “I asked the gentleman to 
 step in,” said Mary Ann; “ but 
 
96 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 he would do nothing but bow 
 and keep on a-handing of me 
 this card; so I thought I’d better 
 bring it to you, Miss.” 
 
 “Take it at once to Mrs. 
 White,” said Miss Mangles, 
 ‘‘Do you mean to say you have 
 left that nobleman outside the 
 door?” 
 
 ‘‘ What was I to do, Miss? 
 He wouldn’t come in, nor do 
 nothing but bow; and I don’t 
 think as he understood what I 
 said.” 
 
 Under these circumstances, 
 Miss Tabitha thought herself 
 justified in approaching the front 
 door in person. That a gentle- 
 man with a coronet on his card 
 should be kept in that undignified 
 position, was a thing not to be 
 thoughtof. Therefore, withalldue 
 dignity, she walked up the pas- 
 sage, and saw standing, in front 
 of the open door, a strange-look- 
 ing little gentleman, with a 
 much-cared-for moustache and 
 very oily black hair, who im- 
 mediately executed a bow so 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 97 
 
 low that he swept the ground 
 with his hat—such a bow as had 
 never graced Miss Mangles’ sight 
 since she had taken twelve 
 dancing lessons from Monsieur 
 Pirouette in her very early 
 days. 
 
 “* Illustrissima Mees Mangles?” 
 he said interrogatively, repeating 
 the performance. 
 
 “Oh! Mossoo le Comte, par- 
 dong! Entrez, sivvoo play ?” en- 
 treated Miss Mangles. 
 
 The Count put himself on the 
 right side of the door, but not 
 until he had made a third bow, 
 more elaborate than either of the 
 preceding ones. Then there was 
 a cry of * Conte Agostino! Caro 
 buono Conte mio!” and Mrs. White 
 sprang forward with outstretched 
 hands. 
 
 ** Poveretta!” exclaimed the 
 Count, weeping, as he kissed 
 both the hands; whilst Marietta 
 from behind said: 
 
 “I knew he would come, 
 mamma—I knew it!” 
 
 Miss Mangles withdrew as the 
 
 6 
 
98 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 three passed into the sitting- 
 toom, where the blinds had never 
 been drawn up since that fatal 
 day. 
 
X. 
 
 THE RIVALS. 
 
 YPITH what feelings Her- 
 44/@ bert heard of his rival’s 
 ’ appearance on thescene 
 maybe conjectured. All 
 the chivalry within him 
 was roused. He was 
 resolved to make one last bold 
 effort to rescue the hapless dam- 
 sel. Could he but obtain an 
 avowal of love from her own 
 lips, then he felt that he could 
 defy all the powers in league 
 against him. But how to rescue 
 a fair lady who might not wish 
 to be rescued! It was certainly 
 as well to be quite assured upon 
 that point. Herbert had such a 
 
100 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 serene confidence in his own 
 attractions, that he had few 
 misgivings as he resolved on 
 writing to ask the momentous 
 question. He was not without 
 
 —— 2). 
 
 experience in the tastes of young © 
 
 women, and knew that a little 
 mystery and ambiguity is grate- 
 ful to the female mind in its 
 teens. The note, therefore, that 
 he now penned had neither be- 
 ginning nor ending, and was a 
 pattern of mysterious brevity. It 
 ran thus: 
 
 “The true knight is on his 
 way to rescue the distressed 
 princess. For his encourage- 
 ment let her write beneath this 
 but the two words ‘ 7z amo’ 
 and return to bearer. Those 
 magic words will prove a spell, 
 enabling him to do and to dare 
 all.” ) } 
 
 Herbert had to confide this 
 precious missive to Mary Ann, 
 
 who, as he surmised, had orders 
 to deny him admittance; but he © 
 had no doubt of the girl’s full — 
 Sympathy, and made, as he > 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. IOI 
 thought, assurance doubly sure 
 by slipping half a sovereign into 
 her hand with the note. 
 
 ** No, sir,” said Mary Ann, as 
 she restored the money; “no, I 
 can’t take that indeed! But I'll 
 take the note and put it into 
 Miss Marietta’s own hand. Yes, 
 sir, that I will do.” 
 
 _ Herbert could not quite in- 
 terpret the expression of the 
 girl’s countenance, but he did 
 not suspect treachery, because 
 he had been too much accus- 
 tomed to find faithful allies in 
 women of all sorts and degrees, 
 with whom he had been, as a 
 rule, irresistible. But Mary Ann 
 had discussed affairs frequently 
 with Mrs. Harris’s Susan, had 
 come to the conclusion that Mr. 
 Leigh had behaved “quite shame- 
 ful’ to Miss Emmie, and was 
 glad of an opportunity for “‘ pay- 
 ing him off,’ as she would have 
 expressed it. She placed the 
 note, therefore, on a little tray, 
 and entering the parlour, where 
 Mrs. White, Marietta, and the 
 
102 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 Count were all sitting together, 
 handed the tray ostentatiously to 
 Marietta, saying— 
 
 ‘*A note for you, Miss, which 
 I was to give into your own 
 hand.” 
 
 ‘“‘Ah, la Leezie, I suppose,” 
 said Mrs. White, indifferently. 
 
 Marietta turned very pale as 
 she took the note and read it 
 hastily. 
 
 “Tt was Mr. Leigh as left it, 
 Ma’am,” said Mary Ann, on her 
 way to the door. 
 
 Marietta burst into tears, and 
 flung the note on the floor as if 
 it had been an adder. The Count 
 was beforehand with Mrs. White 
 in picking it up. There were 
 two words in it underlined which 
 he could understand very well— 
 ** T2 amo.”’ 
 
 He turned pale. ‘Ah! I 
 had hoped better things of thee, 
 Marietta,” he said, but with more 
 sorrow than anger or surprise. 
 
 ‘¢ [did I ever wish it ?”’ cried 
 Marietta. ‘‘ Did I not tell Lizzie 
 that I wanted no more of the 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART 103 
 
 j%? 
 
 horrid notes? Oh, Mamma mia! 
 (for the mother was looking Rey 
 terrible), ‘‘ hear me!” 
 
 The poor girl threw herself on 
 the ground by her mother’s knees 
 and made a clean breast of the 
 whole story. 
 
 ‘So you have been deceiving 
 me allthis time! You, the child 
 that I have watched over so 
 jealously —that I imagined to 
 have no thought concealed from 
 me! You are all that I have 
 left, and now you, even DER fail 
 me ! { 93 
 
 In her bitterness the mother 
 pushed the daughter from her, 
 where she lay, a sobbing heap, 
 upon the floor. Silvaverde raised 
 and soothed her very tenderly. 
 
 ‘Cosa vuole !”’ he said, remon- 
 stratingly, to the mother. ‘* Why 
 vent your wrath on this poor 
 innocent? But the traitor, the 
 serpent who abused your hos- 
 pitality—I’'ll have his blood!” 
 And the Count, small as he 
 was, looked a perfect Mars. 
 
 His face turned purple with 
 
_ L104 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 rage, his black eyes blazed, and’ 
 
 he gesticulated fiercely. 
 
 ‘‘Tll have his blood!” re- 
 iterated the little man, seizing 
 his hat and striding towards the 
 door. Mrs. White ran after him, © 
 
 seizing his arm. 
 
 ** Not .a-duell not a duel 1] 
 No, indeed he isn’t worth it! 
 No, no, no!’ 
 
 But the Count was not to be 
 detained. 
 
 *‘See to your daughter, Sig- 
 nora,” he said. ‘*I go to get 
 satisfaction from the culprit.” 
 
 He was gone, leaving Mrs. 
 
 White somewhat consoled by the - 
 
 reflection that he did not know 
 Herbert’s address and possibly 
 had not caught his name. His 
 entire ignorance of the English 
 language would certainly make 
 
 it difficult, if not impossible, for 
 
 him to find out these matters. 
 The difficulty occurred to Silva- 
 verde himself as soon as he was 
 well out of the house; but he 
 was a man fertile in resource, 
 and was already devising a plan 
 
 | 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 105 
 
 of extracting the desired infor- 
 mation from the Miss Mangles, 
 when, in his feverish walk, he 
 knocked against the object of his 
 search, who was pacing Para- 
 dise Row with equal speed and 
 distraction in the opposite direc- 
 tion. 
 
 “Pardon!” exclaimed the 
 Count. 
 
 ‘¢ Pardon!” returned Herbert, 
 who had been walking up and 
 down in the hope that Mary Ann 
 might shortly appear with the 
 answer to his note. 
 
 Now, Silvaverde could scarcely 
 identify Herbert, but Herbert had 
 no difficulty whatever in identi- 
 fying him. 
 
 The apparition of any foreigner 
 in Paradise Row would have been 
 in itself sufficient ground for 
 hypothesis, and this, coupled 
 with the various descriptions he 
 had heard of his rival, was quite. 
 sufficient to cause him to ex- 
 claim— 
 
 “‘T am speaking to the Count 
 di Silvaverde.” 
 
‘106 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 “And I?” inquired the Count, 
 bowing. 
 
 “‘My name is Herbert Leigh.” 
 
 ARTS 
 
 The two men stood glaring at 
 one another defiantly for a time. 
 Silvaverde was the first to speak. 
 
 “Monsieur,” he said, ‘I de- 
 mand satisfaction for the letter 
 which you have had the inso- 
 lence to address to my fiancée !”’ 
 
 “Your fiancée! I,in turn, ask 
 what right you have to call her 
 500 
 
 “The right which her mother 
 has given me.” 
 
 ‘‘Of course the wishes of the 
 young lady herself are a matter 
 of profound indifference to you ?” 
 . “Not at all; but the young 
 lady’s wishes entirely coincide 
 with her mother’s.” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, indeed! The consent 
 of the father it was naturally 
 your first care to obtain ?” 
 
 The Count visibly winced, and 
 Herbert followed up his advan- 
 tage. 
 
 ‘Although I am aware,’ he 
 
 > 
 ee ae Re ee ee eee 
 
 ee ae 
 
 Se a a ee ee ee 
 
 —_—= 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 107 
 
 said, ‘that on the continent it 
 is the fashion to marry young 
 ladies without their own consent 
 and against their will, yet I think . 
 that in all countries the husband 
 rules the wife; and that an Eng- 
 lishman should give an unquali- 
 fied consent to such a proceeding 
 is a thing that I cannot and wik 
 not believe. We were but wait- 
 ing for the arrival of Captain 
 White to declare our attachment. 
 That unhappy man has met with 
 a most tragic end, and you would 
 take advantage of the dreadful 
 circumstance to ignore his most 
 sacred wishes! Oh, beware! lest 
 his ghostrise up to reproach you!” 
 
 Herbert was seldom roused into 
 energy of speech and action, but 
 when he was, it became him well. 
 Not weak sentimentality now, 
 but real feeling stirred his heart 
 and made a man of him. He 
 had some right on his side, and 
 Silvaverde felt it. The choleric 
 little Italian struggled with his 
 feelings. Finally he held out his 
 hand to Herbert. 
 
108 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 “I acknowledge the force of 
 what you say,” he said, “ and 
 although I consider your conduct 
 
 in treacherously stealing from me 
 
 the girl’s heart base to the last 
 degree ”—his eyes began flashing 
 as he said this—“‘still, if you have 
 done so, and if you are in a posi- 
 tion to keep her in comfort fe 
 
 ‘‘T am,” said Herbert. 
 
 ‘‘ Then you may be sure that 
 neither myself nor her mother 
 will interfere with her happiness. 
 She shall choose for herself.” 
 
 “ That’s. right!” exclaimed 
 Herbert, taking the proffered 
 hand, and perhaps a little dis- 
 appointed to find his knight- 
 errantry such very easy work. 
 There only remained the details 
 of the matter to arrange. Her- 
 bert thought that they should 
 present themselves together and 
 at once before the lady, and ask 
 for an immediate decision. He 
 was influenced possibly by the 
 conviction that in personal ap- 
 pearance he had much the ad- 
 vantage. The Count, however, 
 
 © 
 ; 
 4 
 ; 
 ‘ 
 ) 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 10g 
 
 declared that such a proceeding 
 would agitate the nerves of the 
 ladies. ‘Their better plan would 
 be each to write a note to Mrs. 
 White preparing her for their 
 joint appearance the next morn- 
 ing. Each was to give his word 
 of honour not to write or to 
 attempt an interview before. 
 This course was finally decided 
 on. The Count produced his 
 note-book and pencil, Herbert 
 his. The notes were written in 
 French, exchanged, handed back ; 
 and then the question arose, How 
 were they to be conveyed? There 
 seemed no better way than for 
 each to deliver his scrap of paper 
 in person, the otherkeeping watch 
 at the garden gate meanwhile. 
 Great was the astonishment of 
 Mary Ann at the reception of 
 another note from Herbert so 
 soon after the delivery of the 
 first; but at the second ring of 
 the bell and the reappearance 
 of the Count with jis note she 
 could only conjecture that they 
 had both gone mad. However, ~ 
 
be de) THE SCHOOL OF ART, 
 
 she delivered the notes duly to 
 Mrs. White, who had by this 
 time quite forgiven Marietta. 
 They were weeping quietly in 
 each other’s arms. Mrs. White 
 was not astonished, but much 
 relieved, to find that the affair 
 had been so quickly arranged, 
 and concluded that Silvaverde 
 intended to bring Herbert to 
 apologize in person. 
 
 The next morning, accordingly, 
 she kept Marietta upstairs and 
 awaited with composure the arri- 
 val of her expected visitors. There 
 was often a stillness about her 
 now that seemed unnatural when 
 contrasted with her former viva- 
 city and perpetual movement. 
 
 If it had not been for occasional 
 outbreaks of tears and irritability, 
 Marietta would scarcely have 
 known her mother. 
 
 Mary Ann, whose bewilder- 
 ment was now at its height, had 
 instructions to let in Mr. Leigh 
 if he should call with the Count. 
 
 “* Well, what next ?”’ was her 
 mental comment. ‘‘ They can’t be 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. Iil 
 
 both going to marry Miss White, 
 that’s certain.” 
 
 They arrived together—the tall 
 handsome, loosely built, slouch- 
 ing Englishman, and the dapper 
 little Italian, upright, alert, all 
 bristling with vivacity—a strange 
 contrast. 
 
 Mrs. White did not rise as 
 they entered the room, for Italian 
 ladies never do. ‘They receive 
 their male visitors as if they were 
 queens—seated. The conversa- 
 tion was in French, the only lan- 
 guage known to all three. 
 
 ‘‘ You have come, I suppose, 
 to apologize,” said Mrs. White to 
 Herbert before offering her hand. 
 
 ‘*Tf I have in any way offended 
 or distressed you,” began Her- 
 bert, whose good heart melted at 
 the sight of the change in the 
 stricken woman, but here Silva- 
 verde struck in with: 
 
 *< Signora mia, we have hada 
 satisfactory explanation with one 
 another, and now desire to have 
 one with you. I went forth to 
 encounter Monsieur Leigh in a 
 
112. THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 state bordering on frenzy. It 
 was my intention to call him 
 
 out, but—he convicted me of 
 
 being not altogether in the right. 
 If Monsieur did more or less 
 treacherously gain the affections 
 of La petite - 
 
 “It was very treacherous and 
 wicked !’’ burst out Mrs. White. 
 
 Herbert would have defended 
 himself, but the Count put up his 
 hand. 
 
 ‘* Pardon!” he said. ‘* Have 
 patience, I entreat, and let me 
 finish what I have to say. If, 
 as I say, Marietta’s affections 
 have been bestowed elsewhere, 
 I would not for all the world 
 force her into an uncongenial 
 marriage with me. Even selfishly 
 speaking, what pleasure could 
 I have in a wife who hated me ? 
 And you, Madame, who mourn so 
 truly the dear lost one, would 
 hold his least wish sacred. We 
 cannot, I think, pretend to forget 
 a conversation which took place 
 on his last visit to Genoa. He 
 
 had no objection to me personally | 
 
 ne ee ef ee EEA 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 113 
 
 oe 
 
 for a son-in-law, but his desire 
 was that his daughter should 
 choose for herself. Madame— 
 under the circumstances ”’—his 
 voice broke, and he turned away 
 to hide his tears for the poor 
 man’s shocking fate. 
 
 Mrs. White, to whom it was 
 always present—in her thoughts 
 by day, in her dreams by night— 
 had no tears. Only her lips 
 quivered a little as she turned to 
 Silvaverde and said: 
 
 “You are right. In all things 
 we should act as if he were still 
 here. He was English—he would 
 perhaps, himself, have preferred 
 his own countryman.” 
 
 Herbert now spoke: 
 
 ** He would have said, as it 
 appears that he did say, ‘ Let 
 my daughter choose for herself ! 
 In such a matter, the inclination 
 surely of the person most in- 
 terested, not of the father and 
 mother, should be consulted.’ 
 ‘By her decision I am prepared 
 to abide. If she should prefer 
 Count Silvaverde,” pursued Her- 
 
114 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 bert, drawing himself up and 
 looking with disdain, mingled 
 with amusement, on his rival, 
 “T have but to withdraw, but in 
 the opposite case ss 
 
 ‘*T will retire,” said Silvaverde. 
 
 ‘And I,” said Mrs. White, “will 
 promise to make no opposition.” 
 She rang the bell and desired 
 Mary Ann to call Marietta. The 
 poor girl looked frightened and 
 bewildered as she saw the two 
 men, both in great agitation, con- 
 fronting her. 
 
 ‘‘ Marietta,” said her mother, 
 ‘these two gentlemen both love 
 you—both desire to marry you. 
 It rests with you to make your 
 choice. I have promised not to 
 interfere.” 
 
 Her voice was unnaturally cold 
 and calm. 
 
 “Oh, mamma!” cried Marietta, 
 ‘don’t speak to me like that! 
 What shall I say? What shall 
 I. do?? | 
 
 ‘Tell the truth!” cried Her- 
 bert, coming forward. ‘‘ You have 
 but to speak one word to make me 
 
 ene ae Le 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. I15 
 
 the happiest of men. Marietta! 
 dearest ! Say but those three 
 words, ‘I love you.’” He ap- 
 proached her with ardent eyes, 
 but Marietta shrank away. 
 
 ‘‘ See what it is to have frigh- 
 tened her until she dares not call 
 her soul her own!” cried Her- 
 bert, bitterly. 
 
 ‘‘ Marietta, 1 am not angry 
 with you,” the mother forced 
 herself to say. ‘“‘ It was your 
 father’s wish that you should 
 exercise your own choice in 
 marriage, and his wishes, you 
 know, have always been my law.” 
 
 (This was not quite true, but 
 Mrs. White at this moment 
 sincerely believed that she had 
 never had a will of her own.) 
 
 “If you love this young 
 Englishman, I am _ ready to 
 welcome him as a son.” 
 
 “ And I,” said Silvaverde, 
 taking her hand in a fatherly 
 manner, and making as though 
 he would put it in Herbert's, 
 “JT am ready to dance at the 
 wedding if you will only keep a 
 
- 116 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 corner in your heart for your old 
 friend.” 
 
 Herbert advanced again, his 
 arms held out, his eyes literally 
 blazing with passionate love ; but 
 Marietta turned away, and sud- 
 denly throwing her arms round 
 . the Count’s neck, ‘It is you, you 
 whom I love!” she cried. ‘‘ You 
 do not frighten me, and you are 
 my countryman!” 
 
 Herbert never knew how he 
 got home that day. 
 
XI, 
 
 TOO MUCH FOR EMMIE AT LAST. 
 
 > VE must now bid farewell 
 dk to the Italians whose 
 INV vicissitudes figure so 
 Ce y largely in the annals of 
 CeW8/@, Southport. They left 
 England very soon after 
 the events recorded in the last 
 chapter. 
 
 They were much regretted, 
 much talked of, and then for- 
 gotten there as completely as 
 they probably wished to forget a 
 place where they had suffered so 
 much. 
 
 No word or message ever en- 
 lightened the town as to their 
 subsequent fate, but they were 
 good people, they all loved one 
 another, and it may therefore 
 
118 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 safely be conjectured that things 
 went well with them. 
 
 Meantime, how had the ee 
 gone with Emmie Harris? 
 
 Very badly. The picture did 
 not sell, for the public indigna- 
 tion was excited by the convic- 
 tion that its credulity had been 
 imposed upon: but there had 
 been no public accusation, and 
 therefore there could be no public 
 denial. 
 
 The rumour spread by Emmie’s 
 two bitter enemies, Miss Harper 
 and Squire Brooke, grew apace. 
 Emmie was sent to Coventry, 
 and although she did not for that 
 miss one lesson at the art school, 
 the cold looks and sneers of the 
 companions who had once fiat- 
 tered her struck her to the heart. 
 The discovery of how envy and 
 spite had been secretly at work 
 against her, was a revelation of 
 the worst side of human nature 
 which sickened her. In her home 
 she found no comfort. Dick was 
 sullen, and daily brought home 
 fresh scars gained, as Emmie 
 
 Cot Seeagecial 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 119 
 
 knew, in her cause. She plais- 
 tered the wounds, kissed the boy, 
 and exhorted him to be less Zeal- 
 ous in his championship; but 
 Dick had his own ideas of what 
 was due to himself and his family. 
 He could not, to use his own 
 expression, “lick’’ all the boys 
 in the school—consequently a 
 good many “licked” him. It 
 became the favourite sport to 
 “take the cheek” out of the 
 poor little boy. Dick’s spirit was 
 not subdued, but his heart was 
 sore, and his temper morose. 
 Herbert came as formerly in the 
 evenings, and would sit, silent 
 and moody, by his aunt’s sofa; 
 but his society was not cheering, 
 and so far from sympathizing 
 with other people’s troubles, he 
 claimed their entire sympathy 
 for his own. Lizzie was so full 
 of commiseration for the woes 
 around her as to have become a 
 perfect fountain of tears; and as 
 for poor Mrs. Harris, her health 
 declined from day to day, and the 
 doctor doubled his orders for 
 
120 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 luxuries which became more and | | 
 more difficult to supply. 
 
 Emmie then at last made up > 
 her mind to appeal to her god- 
 father. She had a hard struggle 
 with her pride, but put on her hat — 
 and went to her mother with a_ 
 cheerful countenance. 
 
 ‘* Mother,” she said, with a 
 
 desperate attempt at gaiety, ‘I 
 have had enough of that troubled 
 face of yours. I know it’s about 
 the rent, and Dick’s schooling. 
 Now it’s very naughty of you! Did - 
 I not tell you that I know a good - 
 fairy who will give me Fortunatus’ 
 purse. I have but to ask, and I 
 am going to bring it back to 
 you.” 
 
 A flush of pride and pleasure 
 came into the mother’s wan cheek. 
 
 ‘‘It is that picture, I know!” 
 she cried. ‘‘ Now who has 
 bought it? What have you 
 - made by it? Do tell me, Emmie!” 
 
 ‘‘ Ah! that is my secret,” said 
 Emmie, acting playfulness with — 
 a bursting heart. 
 
 ‘*You are such a girl for mys- 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 12I 
 
 teries,’ said the mother, almost 
 angrily. ‘‘ You love to plague 
 me, I think!” 
 
 Emmie kissed her mother and 
 ran off saying : 
 “Pil tell you by and by—but 
 let me first bring back the purse.’ 
 
 Once out of her mother’s sight 
 all the forced merriment faded 
 away, and harsh lines came into 
 Emmie’s young face, giving it a 
 look of premature age, such.as it 
 too often wore now. But she 
 went resolutely, and did not linger 
 on her wayto the museum. Yet 
 she paused for a moment at the 
 door of Mr. Stone’s study. A 
 sick feeling came over her. Why 
 should this task be so terrible? 
 She tried to conquer the feeling. 
 She argued with herself; but the 
 reluctance that possessed her 
 seemed to have something super- 
 natural about it. Why could 
 she not open that door? Why 
 dared she not. go in? What in- 
 visible force seemed to paralyze 
 her hands, to make her limbs 
 tremble and her heart turn sick? 
 
 i 
 
122 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 Some dread — some presenti- 
 ment? ... She conquered it— © 
 turned the handle of the door, and - 
 entered the familiar room. : 
 
 Mr. Stone was there, sitting as — 
 usual in his armchair by the — 
 table; but he did not turn his 
 head as she approached. She 
 went up to him. Oh! His head 
 was sunk on his breast, and there 
 was such a strange look in his 
 eyes. She touched his hand— 
 it was icy cold. Then suddenly 
 the truth broke upon Emmie. 
 She was in the presence of death! 
 The overstrained nerves at length 
 gave way. Her head swam—she 
 could not scream nor cry, but 
 many hours afterwards was found 
 senscless at the feet of the corpse. 
 
XII. 
 
 THE LONG LANE TURNS AT LAST. 
 
 TNIV SS 
 4) FENG 
 
 as 
 S| LOSS 
 
 Pe) 
 
 re 
 
 MMIPBE lay prostrate with 
 brain fever. Emmie who 
 had never been ill in her 
 life. who had always 
 been the prop and main- 
 stay of the family, was 
 
 now entirely helpless and depen- 
 
 dent on others; and so she long 
 remained. The nervous system, 
 too long overstrained, could not 
 recover quickly, and after all 
 danger and fever had passed, she 
 lay asin a dream, watching people 
 like shadows come and go in her 
 darkened room. . She was not to 
 be roused, the doctor said. Miss 
 
 Harris would be sure to rouse 
 
 herself when capable of the effort 
 
 —meantime let her rest. She 
 
124 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 began to observe long before she © 
 
 spoke or gave any sign of return- — 
 ing vigour. She noticed that the © 
 
 faces around her were not sad or 
 
 distressful—that her mother must 3 
 certainly be better and stronger, — 
 
 for, supported by Lizzie, she © 
 
 came often into the room, and ~ 
 
 sat in an armchair by the bed- — 
 side, and that she smiled on her, ~ 
 not like a broken-hearted mother — 
 
 at all. She noticed that Lizzie’s 
 
 eyes were no longer tearful, and — 
 
 that Dick, when allowed to put — 
 in a furtive appearance, appeared — 
 to be restraining an inclination i 
 
 to whistle. 
 
 “*T can’t be so very ill,” argued ‘ 
 Emmie, ‘‘ or they would not look © 
 like that. Perhaps I am only © 
 
 fancying myself ill!” 
 She made an effort and raised 
 
 herself in her bed. Lizzie came — 
 
 in, and, at sight of Emmie’s atti- 
 
 tude and the animation in her © 
 countenance, uttered an exclama- { 
 
 tion of joy. 
 
 ‘Oh, Emmie, you are coming ~ 
 
 ‘round at last!” she cried. 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 125 
 he i 
 “If you had told me I was 
 well, I should have done it be- 
 fore,” said Emmie, reproachfully ; 
 ‘but how could I know, shut up 
 in this darkened room? Draw 
 up the blind, please !” 
  * But you must not over-exert 
 yourself, Emmie. The doctor 
 said you must be given time to 
 get up your strength.” 
 
 ‘‘Nonsense! I was always as 
 strong as an elephant, and it’s 
 absurd being so knocked down by 
 anillness. It was because I had 
 not had one before that I did not 
 know when I was well—but I 
 think I might have been told,” 
 reiterated Emmie, returning to 
 her slightly injured tone. 
 
 From that time her recovery was 
 very steady, although not quite so 
 quick as she had expected. She 
 found that attempting too much 
 threw her back, and so, like a 
 sensible girl, she yielded to the 
 advice of those who understood 
 illness better than she did. One 
 day that she was on the sofa in 
 the drawing-room, looking with 
 
126 ‘THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 contented eyes at the cheerful — 
 sunlight playing on the satin © 
 diamonds of the quilt worked in © 
 school days by her mother, which ~ 
 covered her feet, her brain began 5 
 
 to be very busy. 
 
 ‘‘T never saw them all look so © 
 cheerful before,” she reflected. — 
 
 ‘‘ Knowing me to be out of danger 
 scarcely accounts for it. They 
 look as if they had some good 
 
 news which they are almost — 
 bursting to tell me. I wonder — 
 if that old slowcoach, Dr. Robin- — 
 son, has been assuring them that — 
 
 my nerves are too weak to stand 
 even a pleasant shock. Have 
 theyapologized about my picture? 
 
 Has any one left mother money ? — 
 It looks like it, for they seem — 
 quite reckless about expense now. ~ 
 
 I must and will find out.” 
 She grew almost frantic with 
 
 impatience. Mrs. Harris and — 
 
 Lizzie were out (Mrs. Harris had 
 
 set up a bath-chair, and went — 
 out in it continually), and Miss ~ 
 
 Martha Mangles was supposed to 
 besitting with Emmieduring their 
 
 wT 
 
 —_—_s i 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 127 
 
 absence. But Miss Martha had 
 been detained by a visitor, and 
 had not appeared, to Emmie’s 
 great relief. A whistle sounded 
 in the passage —testifying to 
 Dick’s return from school. 
 
 “Dick! Dick!” called Emmie. 
 
 The boy put his head in at the 
 door. 
 
 “Come here!” she said. 
 ‘¢Come here and sit down a 
 minute. I want to talk to 
 you.” 
 
 “Oh, but I say! You mustn’t 
 talk much, you know,” said Dick, 
 wriggling in a nervous manner. 
 
 ‘¢7T don’t want totalk. I want 
 you to tell me things.” 
 
 ‘¢ But I wasn’t to, Emmie.” 
 
 ‘‘ That’s all nonsense. I’m well 
 now —nearly. Shut the door, 
 and come and sit on the stool 
 here by the sofa.” 
 
 Dick had always been in the 
 habit of obeying Emmie, so with 
 some hesitation he did as she 
 told him; but he looked con- 
 strained and uncomfortable. Em- 
 mie put her hand softly on his 
 
128 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 head and stroked his hair. Dick © 
 
 felt that he was being “‘ come 
 over,” and shut his lips as tightly 
 as Emmie herself did sometimes. 
 
 “‘T only want you to tell me 
 the news, Dick,” she said, con- 
 tinuing her blandishments. 
 
 ‘* News—Oh! let’s see! The 
 Whites have gone away, you 
 know —I forget if you were 
 taken ill first—and that rum little 
 Count wanted to fight a duel with 
 Herbert, only Marietta said she 
 liked him best, so there was 
 nothing to fight about; and the 
 Squire says Herbert’s made him- 
 self a laughing-stock for all the 
 county; and there are two boys 
 in the grammar school take them 
 off to the life—the Count and 
 his Lordship parleyvooing.” 
 
 ““You know very well that’s 
 not what I want to hear about,” 
 said Emmie, severely; ‘‘ but if 
 
 there should be any good news— © 
 
 such as, for instance, that my 
 picture had been sold, or even if 
 they had given up saying un- 
 pleasant things about it, I am 
 
 ee ee ee oe sa yal dons 4 i y 
 
 En en ee ee ee ee ee ee eee a 
 
 ee a Sy ee, 
 
 SS eee Ss ee, ee 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 129 
 2 Sk 
 sure it would do me a great deal 
 of good to hear it.” 
 _ “ Oh—as to that—yes—they're 
 jolly well cured—if that’s all you 
 want to know.” 
 
 ‘‘ And if by any chance it has 
 got sold ie 
 
 “‘Sold—yes—it’s sold to the 
 museum, with the money old Mr. 
 Stone left for all that——” 
 
 ‘Sold! Oh, for how thuch? 
 How much?” 
 
 “Oh, a matter of a hundred 
 pounds, I believe,” said Dick, 
 carelessly ; ‘ but,’ in sudden 
 alarm, ‘‘that’s enough—I’m off 
 now.” 
 
 ‘¢ No, you’re not,” said Emmie, 
 putting her arm round the boy’s 
 neck, and drawing his head to- 
 wards her. ‘“‘No, I won’t be 
 tantalized like that. Tell me all 
 about it. Who made them come 
 round? Was it—was it—Mr. 
 Hardinge?”’ | 
 
 Well—Oh! don’t throttle a 
 fellow. Yes, it was Mr. Har- 
 dinge; he came down for Mr. 
 Stone’s funeral. There were a lot 
 
130 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 of swells—you never saw such 
 a funeral. Oh—I forgot—I was 
 not to say anything on that sub- 
 ject. You shouldn’t worm 1 things 
 out of a fellow so!” 
 
 -Emmie had shuddered a little 
 af this mention of Mr. Stone. 
 
 ‘IT only want to know about 
 
 my picture, and what Mr. Har- 
 dinge said.” 
 - “Of, he called all the students 
 together and made them a speech, 
 showing what duffers they were 
 to pretend anybody but you could 
 have painted that picture. Think- 
 ing he did it was enough to make 
 a cat laugh, he said, and they 
 were all a set of duffers and 
 greenhorns, and envious, spiteful 
 fools besides.” 
 
 “Was that how he said it?” 
 
 “Well, not exactly those words 
 
 perhaps, but that was the sense, 
 
 I mean. It all came out in the 
 paper—I’ll go and get it for you,” 
 and Dick made an attempt to 
 twist his head out of Emmie’s 
 keeping, which only resulted in a 
 strengthening of her clasp. 
 
 eS eS 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 13! 
 
 ‘“‘ Go on, Dick, go on!” 
 
 “Well, the R.A.’s a regular 
 brick, and no mistake, and he 
 came to ask after you a lot of 
 times. Mr. Stone made him 
 executor and trustee for you— 
 Oh, I’m off! They said I wasn’t 
 to tell, and you’re getting it all 
 out of me.” He succeeded in 
 disengaging his head and pre- 
 paring for a bolt, but Emmie 
 held out imploring hands. 
 
 “Oh! Dick, dear Dick, you 
 are such a delightful boy! Do 
 stay with me a little longer! 
 You have done me so much good, 
 but it seems to me as if it could 
 not be true. You are not ho- 
 cussing now, are you?” 
 
 This accusation brought Dick 
 to an indignant standstill. 
 
 “ Hocussing indeed! Why I 
 have only told you just the stupid 
 natural part of it all by com- 
 parison. You might think I was 
 hocussing if I did tell youall. I 
 thought they were hocussing me 
 at first—mother and Liz—Oh, I 
 say, Emmie, I’ve had enough of 
 
Need chee 
 
 132. ‘THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 these beastly cads here—you will 
 send me to Eton, won’t you?” 
 (with a burst). 
 
 ‘Dick, Dick! Are you mad? 
 What do you mean?” 
 
 ‘¢ Well—hang it, it must come 
 out, and it ain’t my fault if you 
 will bully a poor fellow so—it’s— 
 it’s—the most goloptious thing— 
 that tremendous old brick, your 
 godfather Stone, has been—and 
 gone—and left—two thousand a 
 year to you.” 
 
 With that Dick turned a 
 somersault to the door and pre- 
 cipitately bolted, leaving Emmie 
 to grasp the situation as best she 
 might. 
 
 It took her some time before 
 she could realize the conse- 
 quences of such a tremendous 
 change in her fortunes. After 
 the first thrill of surprise and 
 gratitude there came an over- 
 whelming sense of all the duties © 
 and responsibilities which the 
 possession of such riches, to her 
 almost fabulous, would involve. 
 She tried to collect her ideas— 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 133 
 
 to think it all out, but the effort 
 in her weak condition was too 
 much for her. She got intoa 
 state of bewilderment that was 
 akin to despair and ended in a 
 passion of tears. In this state 
 the mother and sister found her 
 on their return. 
 
 - Poor Dick, who confessed with 
 remorse, was not forgiven for at 
 least a week, in spite of Emmie’s 
 reiterated declaration that she 
 alone was to blame and that 
 the good news had been most 
 beneficial to her. It is certain 
 that it had not done her much 
 harm, and that her subsequent 
 recovery was as speedy and com- 
 plete as could be desired. 
 
XIII. 
 THE HARRISES IN PROSPERITY. 
 
 ORE than a year had 
 ( gone by, and the Harris 
 
 family had ceased to be 
 } continually astonished 
 
 : position in which they 
 found themselves. 
 
 Prosperity, alike in one thing 
 to adversity, soon becomes fami- 
 liar. Emmie had taken her 
 mother to London for the best 
 advice, with great results. How 
 iar Mrs. Harris’s improvement 
 in health might be attributed to 
 the doctor, and how far to ease, 
 happiness, and relief from anxiety, 
 it would be difficult, and quite 
 unnecessary, to ascertain. She 
 could never be a strong woman, 
 
 4 
 { 
 ok. 4 
 4 
 4, 
 4 
 7 
 ‘ 
 i 
 a 
 i 
 ; 
 2 
 
 Ye eee 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 135 
 
 but she could, with great care, 
 live many years, it was said; 
 and the care she had was of the 
 greatest. The wish of Dick’s 
 heart was gratified—he was now 
 an Etonian, learning to be a 
 gentleman if not much else. 
 Lizzie was revelling in gowns 
 and bonnets no longer home- 
 made, but the product of the 
 very best milliners and dress- 
 makers; and Lizzie, though the 
 least vain of mortals, took an in- 
 nocent pleasure in smart dressing. 
 Those who are conscious of want 
 of personal attractions rejoice 
 most in their clothes. They 
 cannot change the shape of their 
 noses or the contour of their 
 figure, but they can choose as 
 pretty gowns, and change them 
 as often, as the greatest beauty 
 alive. 
 
 ‘*T am sure I never see more 
 fashionable, nice-looking young 
 women than my daughters,” 
 Mrs. Harris was wont to think, 
 with maternal pride. Emmie 
 and Lizzie, when dressed alike, 
 
136 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 were apt to be classed together 
 as two nice-looking girls, Emmie 
 thus losing and Lizzie gaining 
 by the superficial likeness be- 
 tween them. But for Lizzie, 
 Emmie would have been dubbed 
 pretty; and but for Emmie, Liz- 
 zie would have been considered 
 plain. As for Emmie, she had 
 acquired much new experience 
 of the world. She had not sought 
 society, but society sought her. 
 A few introductions to Herbert’s 
 friends and a few to Mr. Har- 
 dinge’s, but more especially Mr. — 
 Hardinge’s sister, Lady Rivers, 
 who was one of the leaders of 
 fashion, had launched her into 
 that world which its votaries are 
 apt to look upon as the world— 
 the only possible world to live 
 in. Emmie was voted a pleasant, 
 nice-looking original girl with 
 artistic tastes, and always well- 
 dressed. It soon transpired, as 
 those things always do transpire, 
 that the money was hers. But 
 the interest which this discovery 
 excited in the minds of various 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 137 
 
 young men who honoured her 
 with proposals caused Emmie so 
 much annoyance and disgust that 
 she soon gave up the world, ex- 
 cept to a very limited extent. 
 Her mother not being able to 
 accompany her, made the dif- 
 ficulty of getting a chaperon a 
 good excuse for declining even- 
 ing parties, and Emmie soon 
 announced that she must confine 
 her gaicties to the limits of the 
 afternoon. Five o’clock tea, gar- 
 den parties, and drives in the 
 park would give Lizzie all the 
 amusement she cared for. But 
 for Lizzie, and what she con- 
 sidered Lizzie’s rights, which 
 Lizzie herself would have been 
 the last to insist on, Emmie 
 would have given up the world 
 altogether. 
 
 One bright afternoon in June, 
 Mrs. Harris was sitting on the 
 balcony in their house in Park 
 Lane, under the awning and 
 amidst the flowering plants 
 which luxuriated there, watch- 
 ing with placid amusement the 
 
138 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 smart carriages go by. Lizzie 
 was out with Herbert, who 
 hovered about the house in 
 Park Lane just as he once had 
 hovered about the cottage in 
 Southport—and not for Emmie’s 
 sake, for he and Emmie had 
 grown very far apart, but it 
 would seem as if his aunt’s 
 smile and kiss were necessary to 
 his very existence. 
 
 “We have settled to break 
 through our rule for once and 
 so to Lady Rivers’ ‘At Home,’ ” 
 Emmie was saying. “‘ She wants 
 us to go early and put ourselves 
 under her wing, so that we shall 
 not need achaperon. It is to be 
 a very grand affair, I believe— 
 royalties and ambassadors from 
 all parts of the world. I thought 
 Lizzie might like to see the 
 Chinese,” she explained. 
 
 ‘‘T am very glad to hear that 
 you are going,” said the mother ; 
 ‘‘T always regretted your giving 
 up so many amusements. Gaiety 
 is quite right for young people, 
 and now that you have such 
 
 iia: ee in: tial cme 
 
 ee ee ae ee 
 
 Le ee Oe ee 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 139 
 
 opportunities! What dresses do 
 you think of wearing ?”’ 
 
 “You shall settle that, mother, 
 but I am going to take pains with 
 our heads. Smithers sha’n’t touch 
 them, and we spent the night in 
 curl papers.” 
 
 ‘‘ Why, my dear, your hair 
 is curly enough, in all con- 
 science.” 
 
 ‘It is, but Lizzie’s is straight, 
 and if I make her suffer martyr- 
 dom, I want to show that I am 
 willing cheerfully to bear it too. 
 You'll see what a glorious frizzle 
 she will come out in to-night. 
 I am determined that Lizzie 
 shall look her best this evening, 
 because Herbert has discovered 
 that though he hates evening 
 parties in general, Lady Rivers’ 
 are always amusing, and he 
 thinks he will go too.” 
 
 ‘* Poor dear Herbert! Why do 
 you snub him so, Emmie?”’ 
 
 ‘¢ J !__Oh, there is no love lost 
 between us, he positively dis- 
 likes me now; but I am trying to 
 get up some of the feelings due 
 
140 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 to a future brother-in-law. Have 
 you not observed that he can no 
 longer exist without Lizzie?” 
 
 “Lizzie! Why to be sure, now 
 you say it, he does seem to follow 
 her about like her shadow; but 
 then I had always looked upon 
 them as brother and sister.” 
 
 ‘‘ Brother and sister is all very 
 well, but why should they not be 
 married when there is no reason 
 against it? It must occur to 
 them before long that that will 
 be the most satisfactory arrange- 
 ment, and the sooner the better 
 If they shilly shally much longer 
 I'll see to it myself. You shall 
 have the son-in-law of your heart, 
 mother, yet.” 
 
 ‘‘T should be very pleased if it 
 could come about, I’m sure. It 
 is dear Lizzie’s thinking so little 
 of herself, makes one think so 
 little of her. But, Emmie, you 
 who are so sharp about other 
 people’s affairs, are wonderfully 
 blind about your own. Do you 
 always mean to ignore that poor 
 man’s devotion to you?” 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. I4I 
 
 “What man?” asked Emmie, 
 blushing scarlet. 
 
 “ Why, Mr. Hardinge of course 
 —and here he has been waiting 
 a year and afraid to declare him- 
 self, for want of a little encourage- 
 ment. And I amsureyou likehim, 
 Emmie, all the time; but he is 
 so modest and retiring, and 
 thinks, I dare say, that he is too 
 old for you, and that with your 
 money and your genius you 
 ought to make a better match.” 
 
 “Oh, mother, mother! what 
 are you saying?” cried Emmie, 
 suddenly kneeling down by her 
 mother’s chair, and hiding her 
 face in it. 
 
 “That you are a very perverse 
 girl, and it’s quite cruel of you 
 to keep trifling with that poor 
 man’s affections so. I don’t say 
 you might not make a better 
 match—you might be a duchess, 
 I’ve no doubt—but what I do say 
 is, you will not find a truer lover. 
 My mother’s heart tells me so.” 
 
 ‘*Mother, mother, don’t run 
 on so fast! I assure you he has 
 
142 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 never said a word which could 
 lead me to suppose that he cared 
 for me at all. Please, please 
 don’t say these things without 
 having more grounds for saying 
 them!” ; 
 
 It was quite true that Emmie 
 had never thought of Mr. 
 Hardinge in the light of a 
 possible suitor, but so far from 
 despising him as such, she had 
 looked upon him as far above her 
 reach. No doubt she had refused 
 younger, smarter men, but she 
 had never swerved from the 
 early, exaggerated, almost super- 
 stitious respect that she had felt 
 for the Royal Academician since 
 the day when she stood trembling 
 to hear his verdict on her picture. 
 Towards him her posture had 
 always been one of inferiority—of 
 
 humility. In him she had found © 
 
 a master. That he should con- 
 descend to her sufficiently to 
 wish to make her his wife, was 
 an honour she could scarcely 
 comprehend. The proposal of a 
 duke would have seemed to her 
 
 ns al ee ee 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 143 
 
 less of an honour—she whose 
 education in a school of art had 
 taught her to reverence a great 
 painter like no other man. 
 
 ““Anch’ 10 son pittore!’? she 
 could have exclaimed with the 
 humble exultation of the artist 
 of old, when she gazed at the 
 great master’s paintings on the 
 walls of the Academy. 
 
 She had declared to her 
 mother that he had never said 
 a word which could lead her to 
 suppose that he cared for her; 
 but when she thought over many 
 conversations, the interpretation 
 of words which had conveyed 
 then no meaning to her mind, 
 stood revealed to her,—and had 
 she through her own obtuseness 
 lost her chance of happiness ? 
 
 She had never had patience 
 with those heroines of novels 
 who are represented silly enough 
 not to speak a few plain words 
 when so doing would set matters 
 completely to rights, just because, 
 forsooth, it might seem a little 
 forward! and who prefer to ward 
 
44 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 down upon themselves and lovers 
 a volume and a half of misery 
 before things are put right in 
 the end by some most unlikely 
 incident. Emmie had no such 
 irritating scruples, no such false 
 delicacy; but she had true 
 delicacy, and showld her mother 
 be mistaken—Ah then! let her 
 die before she gave a sign! 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 A COMEDY OF ERRORS. 
 
 =¥TiE Harris sisters went 
 early to Carlton Gar- 
 dens, as had _ been 
 agreed, and found 
 Lady Rivers standing 
 at the top of her broad | 
 staircase, with an enormous bou- 
 quet, and what she called ‘‘her 
 reception smile’? on her face, 
 quite eclipsing by her size and 
 general magnificence her noble, 
 but small and meek husband, 
 _who stood beside her. 
 
 ‘‘T see you are bent on con- 
 quest, my dears,” she said; ‘“‘and 
 you will have the world to choose 
 from—in all shades from black 
 to white. Here comes a yellow!” 
 It was the Chinese ambassador. 
 
 8 
 
146 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 The Persian followed, and then 
 a host of notabilities of every 
 description—dukes and duch- 
 esses, relics of the French > 
 monarchy and off-shoots even 
 
 Pee a Se 
 
 of our own reigning dynasty—_ 
 poets, painters, actors, ambas- 
 sadors, politicians, professional 
 
 beauties—until the vast rooms — 
 
 were all filled to overflowing. 
 Poor Lizzie, quite scared, had 
 
 dropped into a chair under shelter 
 
 eels see 
 
 of Lady Rivers’ capacious back, © 
 early in the proceedings, but 
 jumped up again in a cold per- © 
 spiration on seeing a royal lady — 
 
 blazing with diamonds standing ~ 
 
 j 
 
 in front of her. She made an 
 
 apologetic curtsey and moved on, 
 
 till her passage was barred by a | 
 colossus. Her eyes were some 
 time in arriving at his head, but — 
 when they did she nearly 
 screamed, for the broad expanse — 
 of white shirt-front was sur- 
 
 mounted by a face black as ebony. 
 
 Emmie, meantime, was still : 
 standing by her hostess’s side, 
 fascinated by the brilliancy and — 
 
 \ 
 Tt ne 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 147 
 
 variety of the scene. She felt 
 like a spectator at some page- 
 antry, not as one who formed 
 part of it—until Mr. Hardinge 
 appeared. Then she became 
 conscious enough and blushed 
 deeply. 
 
 He came up to her followed 
 by another gentleman, who had 
 expressed a wish to be intro- 
 duced, and immediately with- 
 drew. It was a_ celebrated 
 painter. The painter was suc- 
 ceeded by an equally celebrated 
 poet, and the poet by a duke. 
 In short, Emmie was creating 
 a furore, to her great astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 She had taken great pains with 
 her appearance, and with her, to 
 attempt a thing, meant to suc- 
 ceed. She had been bent on 
 conquest, as Lady Rivers said— 
 but not on universal conquest, 
 and the only one whom she had 
 intended to conquer was the 
 only one who held aloof. 
 
 There are moments when even 
 plain people look pretty, and 
 
148 HE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 when not quite pretty ones look 
 beautiful. This was the case 
 now with the two sisters. 
 
 The dark ivy garlands that 
 Emmie’s cunning hands had 
 
 twisted about the soft white — 
 
 draperies and in their auburn 
 hair, gave an original and pictu- 
 resque appearance to their hama- 
 dryad costumes, as they called 
 them. So far, Emmie had suc- 
 
 ceeded, but could not rule blind 
 
 fate. Mr. Hardinge, when he 
 had made the required presenta- 
 tions, escaped as if for life, 
 
 ‘‘Miss Harris, will you allow 
 me to introduce Mr. this, or the 
 Duke of that?” were the only 
 words that he addressed to her. 
 Meantime, Lizzie was not to be 
 seen, and that provoking Herbert 
 would persist in joining the circle 
 round Emmie. ‘ Just because I 
 happen to be the fashion this 
 evening,” she said to herself. 
 At last flesh and blood could bear 
 it no longer. 
 
 * Excuse’ me, but’? 2 don't 
 understand German,” she said 
 
 ae ee) ee 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 149 
 abruptly to the ambassador of 
 that nation, who retired murmur- 
 ing piteously, ‘‘ But I was sprek- 
 ing to you de English!” 
 
 Then turning on Herbert, with 
 whom she was left téte-d-téte, 
 **I should be obliged to you if 
 you will find Lizzie,” she said, 
 ‘and tell her I want to go, for I 
 am bored to death, and I dare 
 say she is too.” 
 
 *“* Certainly,” said Herbert, in 
 dudgeon; “but I don’t see why 
 Lizzie is to be sacrificed to your 
 caprices, and I shall tell her 
 nothing about going if she is 
 enjoying herself.” 
 
 This speech was satisfactory, 
 and Emmie breathed more freely. 
 She had succeeded so well in 
 snubbing all her admirers as to be 
 left entirely alone. 
 
 Mr. Hardinge, who had scemed 
 immersed in political conversa- 
 tion with a cabinet minister the 
 moment before, at once came 
 forward. 
 
 “Let me take you down to 
 supper, Miss Harris,” he said. 
 
150 THE SCHOOL OF ART. es 
 ‘*You look asif exhausted nature — 
 needed reinforcing.” 4 
 The hand she laid on his arm 
 trembled, and he thought—oh, 
 how wrongly !—that he knew the © 
 reason. % 
 ‘It is clear that she means to © 
 marry young Leigh,” his sister — 
 had told him casually that very — 
 afternoon. ‘ He’s always in the © 
 house. Boy and girl attachment, — 
 cousins, and all that—one under- — 
 stands it, but she ought to do — 
 better.” ae 
 He had _ noticed Emmie’s — 
 flushed §face, Herbert’s lower- 
 ing brow and abrupt departure. — 
 There had been evidently a lovers’ — 
 quarrel, arising probably from — 
 Herbert’s jealousy of the admira- — 
 tion she excited. No wonder 
 Emmie looked pale. No wonder — 
 her hand trembled on his arm. — 
 He could not see her neglected, — 
 abandoned, without coming to — 
 the rescue. | 
 Lady Rivers, always struggling — 
 after some new idea, had deco- 
 rated her supper-table in an 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. I51I 
 
 original manner. A vine, with 
 the grapes hanging in clusters, 
 arched itself right across. The 
 effect was exceedingly pretty and 
 novel. 
 
 ‘‘Was it your idea?” asked 
 Emmie, struck with admiration. 
 
 “Mine! Oh, dear no! Any 
 suggestions of mine get fearfully 
 snubbed. I believe it was the 
 butler, who is listened to, and 
 deservedly, with much more de- 
 ference. It is astonishing how 
 much artistic feeling one often 
 finds amongst the uneducated.” 
 
 Meantime Herbert had found 
 Lizzie, quite lost and frightened, 
 in a corner. ‘The sight of him 
 caused her face to be illuminated 
 by an expression very different, 
 and much more gratifying to him- 
 self, than that which he had left 
 on Emmie’s. 
 
 He was soon beside her. 
 
 ‘6 Oh, Herbert! I am so glad 
 you are here,” she gasped. | 
 
 ‘Why these improper un- | 
 chaperoned wanderings?” he 
 asked. — | 
 
I52 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 “Oh, I ran away first from 
 one of those French princesses, — 
 and I came across the most — 
 dreadful black man | 
 ting away from him, I believe I 
 
 !andget- — 
 
 trod on some very great person’s — 
 
 toes. Oh, I’m not sure it was 
 not the Duke of Cambridge! — 
 And at last I got into this corner, 
 where I can’t turn my back on 
 any royal person, because there 
 is nod one behind, and I hope I — 
 
 am not much seen. Oh! do — 
 
 you know where Emmie is ?” 
 ‘¢Emmie,” said Herbert wrath- 
 fully, ‘‘is standing in the most 
 conspicuous place she can find, 
 looking as if she were three 
 duchesses rolled into one, and 
 snubbing ambassadors by the 
 score. Good fortune has quite 
 spoiled Emmie. You are worth 
 -a thousand of her, Lizzie, as 
 people would soon find out if you 
 weren’t so modest and retiring.” 
 ‘Oh, Herbert!” cried Lizzie, 
 with a deep blush and very mixed 
 feelings. Praise from Herbert 
 could not but be sweet; but at 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 153 
 
 Emmie’s expense it could never 
 be acceptable to Lizzie. 
 
 “T am tired of seeing you 
 always poked into the corner. 
 Come and have some supper,” 
 said Herbert. 
 
 In the supper-room, now very 
 crowded, this pair happened to 
 find themselves close to the other 
 couple—Emmie and Mr. Har- 
 dinge. 
 
 The sisters greeted one another 
 warmly after Lizzie’s perilous 
 wanderings; but Mr. Hardinge 
 did not look at all pleasantly on 
 Herbert. 
 
 **Your sister is tired,’ he said 
 to Lizzie; ‘‘and I think I had 
 better call the carriage.” 
 
 “Very well,” Herbert an- 
 swered for her, in an aggressive 
 tone; “I will see my cousin 
 Lizzie home later.’ 
 
 “Oh, yes!”? acquiesced Emmie 
 with great readiness; ‘“‘ by all 
 means stay, Lizzie; and I will 
 send the carriage back for you.” 
 
 ‘IT said nothing about the car- 
 riage,” said Herbert, loftily. “We 
 
% 
 
 154 THE SCHOOL OF ART, 
 
 will cab it, or walk it, as Lizzie 
 pleases; but she must consider 
 herself under my charge ex- 
 clusively.” 
 
 ** And I hope that Miss Harris 
 will consider herself under mine,” 
 said Mr. Hardinge. 
 
 “Let us go,” said Emmie, im- 
 patiently. She took his arm, 
 and as he went to call her car- 
 riage and she to put on her cloak, 
 she felt that she had let a golden 
 opportunity of clearing up the 
 misunderstanding slip by. He 
 looked so wretchedly unhappy, 
 and one word from her might 
 turn his misery into joy! ‘*Poor 
 me!” she thought. “I am 
 always in some painful dilemma. 
 First I had to refuse a man who 
 never proposed, and now I have 
 to accept one under the same 
 circumstances—a more difficult 
 task still.” 
 
 More difficult, perhaps, but not 
 
 so painful. On the former oc- 
 
 casion Emmie had had no smiles 
 for the ludicrous part of the situa- 
 
 tion; but now her keen sense. 
 
 i Te TC ne a ee Eee ee RR ER Ne ee ee EN ae ae ee ee 
 
 a 
 
 ae ee 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 155 
 
 of the humorous made dimples 
 round her mouth. What would 
 Mr. Hardinge’s amazement have 
 been could he have seen the 
 broken-hearted lady for whom 
 his chivalry was in arms at that 
 moment? But Emmie’s face was 
 quite decorous when he returned 
 to claim her. 
 
 ** Your carriage is waiting,” he 
 said, in tones of the tenderest 
 _ pity, as he gave her his arm. 
 
 Emmie could understand his 
 being unhappy himself; but why 
 he should imagine her to be so 
 when he did not think she cared 
 for him, puzzled her. The truth 
 flashed on her, together with a 
 sudden recollection of the strange 
 and savage glances he had be- 
 stowed on Herbert. ‘Oh, what 
 a pretty complication we are 
 getting into!” she thought. ‘“‘It’s 
 lucky that I am not like those 
 heroines of romance, or we 
 should certainly go on for ever 
 playing at cross questions and 
 crooked answers.” 
 
 ‘‘Mr. Hardinge,” she said, as 
 
_ 156 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 3 
 
 tN ‘e 
 he put her into the carriage, “I _ 
 want you to come and see me . 
 to-morrow. I have something to | 
 say to you—and—I rather hope © 
 and expect that I shall have 4 
 good news to give you.” a 
 
 “IT am always at your com- 
 mands,” said Mr. Hardinge; and — 
 as he told the coachman to drive a 
 on, and raised his hat, he said to — 
 himself, “The dear, proud, brave _ 
 girl!” but did not fora moment — 
 suppose that Herbert’s desertion _ 
 of her for her sister meant any- _ 
 thing more than a temporary fit — 
 of jealousy. It was not in his — 
 nature to imagine that he really _ 
 preferred the sister; butonewho 
 could so torment the girl he — 
 loved, and who loved him, was _ 
 not worthy of her. a 
 
 Emmie was in bed, but not 
 asleep, when Lizzie stole in, in a 
 her ball dress, and threw herself 
 on her knees beside the bed. 4 
 
 “Oh, Emmie! Emmie!” she _ 
 cried, “kiss me, congratulate 
 me! It seems impossible; but — 
 it’s true. You'll never guess; so 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 557 
 
 I must tell you that Herbert has 
 asked me—wme to be his wife!” 
 
 ‘It was about time,” said 
 Emmie, languidly. ‘‘ He does 
 not deserve you, dear, nor all 
 the happiness he’ll get through 
 you; but I think you will be 
 happy yourself too, just because 
 you have no self at all.” 
 
XV. 
 NO MORE MISUNDERSTANDINGS. 
 
 930 Herbert is to be my 
 ~ son-in-law, after all! 
 “7,j Dear Herbert!” ex- 
 claimed Mrs. Harris 
 9 fervently. 
 “Yes, mother, I 
 told you so,” said Emmie, who 
 was looking out of window. 
 
 The young couple had come 
 
 both together with their glad 
 
 tidings, and the rapturous scene 
 that ensued—kisses, tears, bless- 
 ings—had made Emmie feel 
 rather ‘out of it.” She felt that 
 she was not so enthusiastic as 
 she ought to be, so she went 
 
 to the window, and as she watched 
 
 for an expected visitor, her 
 
 pea ron 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ARI. I5¢ 
 
 thoughts became quite engrossed 
 in another subject. 
 
 The lovers had gone off to- 
 gether to wander under the trees 
 in Kensington Gardens, and Em- 
 mie and her mother were alone 
 in the drawing-room. 
 
 *‘But what will the Squire 
 say ?” Mrs. Harris pursued. “ If 
 he should cut off Herbert ?” 
 
 “Not he! Besides, you don’t 
 suppose that I am going to allow 
 Lizzie to marry without a penny 
 for her dowry, do you?” 
 
 ‘*I know how generous you 
 would wish to be; but dear, there 
 are your trustees—Mr. Hardinge 
 might perhaps, he would do any- 
 thing to please you; but Mr. 
 Brown might think it his duty to 
 remonstrate.” 
 
 ‘*They must consider it their 
 duty to let me do what I like 
 with my own money. It is not 
 theirs. It’s a mockery to be left 
 money and then not to be allowed 
 to do what one likes with it,” 
 said Emmie, flushing. 
 
 “Only it’s usual, dear, and 
 
160 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 trustees never will do anything 
 you ask them.” 
 
 ** Mr. Stone must have meant — 
 that we should all share’ alike 
 in that money.” 
 
 ‘IT am not sure; but of course 
 you would not be happy unless 
 we did. We all know that, and 
 so we don’t even thank you.” 
 
 “Well, about this trusteeship. 
 I’ve asked Mr. Hardinge to come 
 and speak to me to-day, knowing 
 what was going to happen.” 
 
 “Did you appoint any parti- 
 cular time ?” 
 
 ‘*T forgot to do that, but most 
 likely he will come in the morn- 
 ing. Oh, there he is!” 
 
 ‘* Then, dear, please take him 
 into the studio, for I am a little 
 tired—not equal to visitors.” 
 
 “I had already given orders 
 for him to be shown in there, 
 dear mother, so that your ruse de 
 guerre was quite unnecessary. 
 With that she hastily kissed her 
 mother and ran downstairs, leav- 
 ing Mrs. Harris immersed in 
 dreams of a double wedding in 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. I6Lr 
 
 which white satin, bridesmaids, 
 breakfast, and guests and con- 
 gratulations, figured somewhat. 
 Meantime Emmie ran joyously 
 to her tryst with her lover—for 
 such it was. Only at the door she 
 faltered a little, and she blushed, 
 then opened it resolutely. 
 
 Mr. Hardinge was _ startled 
 at the expression on. her face, 
 for it was not that which he 
 had expected. Certainly not the 
 face of a heart-broken damsel. 
 It was evident that the lovers’ 
 quarrel had been made up, and 
 —well, his feelings were very 
 mixed. He could not bear to 
 see her miserable, and yet a wild 
 pang of jealousy shot through 
 his heart as she said—— 
 
 ‘I must beg for your con- 
 gratulations.” 
 
 She paused as the cruel pain 
 betrayed itself in his face. Oh! 
 there could be no doubt. 
 
 ‘* [—I wish you every 
 
 ‘Stop! Not me—my sister is 
 going to be married to Herbert 
 Leigh.” 
 
162 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 ‘*'Your sister! Oh, I is 
 
 He really could not proceed. 
 What wonderful spirit and cour- 
 age she showed, poor ill-used 
 darling! It was very sad, but 
 at the same time the dreadful 
 pain in his own heart had turned 
 into something of a trembling 
 hope that he might in time 
 console her, and he felt distinctly 
 better. 
 
 ‘IT am not very fond of him 
 myself,” continued Emmie, in a 
 cheerful tone, ‘‘and don’t think 
 him good enough for my sister ; 
 but she has the bad taste to love 
 him, and—this is partly what I 
 asked you to come about, Mr. 
 Hardinge. I want to settle some 
 of my money on her - 
 
 ‘“‘Wait, wait !’’ he cried, bewil- 
 dered, “‘ one thing at a time. Let 
 me know, in charity, whether— 
 whether ” He had never been 
 so much at a loss for words. 
 How could he ask a poor girl 
 if her sister’s future husband had 
 not first jilted hey? He had felt 
 as if it would madden him not 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART, +163 
 
 = sr 
 
 to know, but now he stopped 
 short, reflecting that he had no 
 right to ask. Emmie came to 
 the rescue. 
 
 ‘‘Whether I ever cared for 
 Herbert myself. I know people 
 thought so. To be quite honest, 
 “we were not perfectly sure once 
 ‘ourselves that we did not like 
 each other, but things never went 
 farther than that very negative 
 stage, and for some time past 
 we have disliked one another 
 rather particularly. I came to 
 the conclusion, once, that I could 
 never care for anybody in that 
 sort of way—that I should not 
 like to give up my independence.” 
 
 ‘6 No, why should you?” said 
 Mr. Hardinge, despondingly. 
 
 “TI thought that I could 
 neither feel nor inspire a passion.” 
 
 “Not inspire it! Ah! and 
 how many hearts have you not 
 broken ?—unwittingly perhaps.” 
 
 “TI do not believe that I have 
 broken one. Men have declared 
 it, but I have not believed them, 
 for it is only since I came into 
 
164 ‘THE SCHOOL OF ART, 
 
 my money that these things have 
 happened to me.” 
 
 “Oh, good heavens! What 
 would be your money——” Again 
 he stopped. It was evident that 
 he could not get a sentence 
 finished that morning. 
 
 ““T should like to settle half 
 of it on Lizzie, with my trustees’ 
 consent.” 
 
 “TI don’t know whether I could 
 allow you to impoverish yourself 
 to that extent.” 
 
 “T should like to give it all 
 away, just out of curiosity, to 
 see if anybody proposed to me 
 after that.” 
 
 She looked at him very hard— 
 it was a look which challenged 
 a reply, and she thought to her- 
 self the while, “ There never was 
 such a brazen girl as me, but he 
 shall speak.” 
 
 “If I dared ” began Mr. 
 Hardinge, with trembling lips. 
 “I am a vain fool. It was Mr. 
 Stone who encouraged me to hope 
 that I might win you. He had 
 taken some strange liking to me, 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 165 
 
 and tohim I confessed my passion. 
 A passion such as in all my youth 
 I had never felt—the love at first 
 sight that I had never believed 
 in. It was the strangest thing! 
 A face I had seen in my dreams. 
 A face unique, like no other. 
 _ When first I saw it I felt as if 
 I had known it always! I have 
 tried to reproduce it, but I never, 
 never could. If you knew how 
 _ many portraits of you I have de- 
 stroyed! Emmeline! Emmeline! 
 I do not know even that you are 
 pretty, but you seem to have been 
 created on purpose to please me. 
 Emmeline! sweetest of names! 
 Let me call you by it for once! 
 Sweetest of women! If you love 
 no other, will you not try at least 
 —to like me?” 
 
 He had found the words now, 
 and Emmie trembled at the 
 depths of passion she had stirred, 
 and trembled yet more at the 
 response they awakened in her- 
 selfi—she who had truly believed 
 that she could neither feel nor 
 inspire love. 
 
166 THE SCHOOL OF ART. 
 
 ‘“There is no need to try,” 
 she faltered. 
 
 ‘You can—you will like me?” 
 he cried, stretching out his arms 
 towards her. 
 
 ‘‘Like you!” cried’ Emmie, 
 “luke you? No! that is not the 
 word. I love you—with a love 
 that’s like worship, my divine 
 painter!” 
 
 They werethe first words of love 
 that Emmie had ever spoken in 
 answer to the first that she had 
 ever heard. They came with a 
 burst, and suddenly she threw 
 herself into the outstretched arms 
 and wept upon his shoulder. 
 
 * * * # 
 
 Emmie was calm again, but her 
 lover was white to the very lips 
 and almost speechless as they 
 sat on the sofa together hand in 
 hand. 
 
 ‘‘And I may settle half m 
 fortune on Lizzie?” she asked 
 demurely. 
 
 “Oh, all if you like. What 
 is your money to me?” 
 
 “ Nothing, of course, when you 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 167 
 
 have already the purse of For- 
 tunatus—that is, a purse that you 
 can fill whenever you like. I 
 don’t suspect you of marty- 
 ing me for money. That makes 
 your conduct the more inexplic- 
 able. Oh, what is it you can 
 see in me—prosaic me—to make 
 all this fuss about ?” 
 
 “And am I a man to take a 
 young girl’s fancy ?” 
 
 “It must be that God made 
 us for one another,” said Emmie. 
 
CONCLUSION. 
 
 WQUIRE BROOKE 
 NC looked very black over 
 his letters at breakfast 
 Y one morning. If there 
 3 had not been ladies 
 present, he would cer- 
 tainly have relieved himself by 
 a few round oaths. As it was 
 he seemed threatened with a fit 
 of apoplexy, and there was a 
 smothered exclamation of “ Oh, 
 what is the matter?” from his 
 guests. 
 
 “The matter? That d—— I 
 beg your pardon, ladies, I mean 
 that confounded ass of a grand- 
 son of mine!” 
 
 ‘‘ What has he done now?” 
 
 ‘‘ What has he not done that’s 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 169 
 idiotic? As if it wasn’t enough 
 his being cut out with that 
 pretty White girl, by a little gri- 
 macingridiculous Italian (whohad 
 “more sense and—and go, all the 
 same, in his little finger than 
 Herbert had in his whole body), 
 and get himself branded for a 
 coward all over the continent by 
 refusing achallenge! If after that 
 he’d gone back to his old love! 
 She’sa deuced clever girl anyhow, 
 and the way she got that old fool 
 to leave her his money, and a 
 Royal Academician to paint her 
 pictures for her, and marry her 
 into the bargain—for it seems 
 she’s got so far as that—I ad- 
 mire it, upon my soul I do! 
 And she’d have shoved him along 
 through life and got him into par- 
 lament perhaps; but to propose 
 to the stupid plain sister, without 
 money or brains or beauty, or 
 anything else—the infern—ahem, 
 noodle! It’s too much—I’ll cut 
 him off with a shilling!” 
 
 But the Squire did nothing of 
 the sort. He is gathered to his 
 9 
 
170° THE SCHOOL OF ART, 
 
 fathers, and Lizzie reigns meekly — 
 at Brooke Hall. Her mother ~ 
 lives with her, an example of — 
 how strongly happiness is con- 
 ducive to health. She is scarcely — 
 more feeble than the average of — 
 old ladies, and quite equal to the © 
 task of spoiling her grandchildren — 
 —a duty she performs admirably. — 
 Herbert is rather an indolent — 
 landowner; but his temperismore 
 amiable than formerly, the result — 
 possibly of being stroked the right — 
 way. He has one virtue rare in ; 
 men——that of loving his mother- — 
 in-law, who, in her turn, would ~ 
 certainly take his part against © 
 her own daughter 1f a misunder- — 
 standing should arise. But it — 
 never enters Lizzie’s head to 
 think that she can possibly have © 
 anything to complain of.... 
 And Emmie? her bright fortunes 
 have not been clouded again. 
 She lives chiefly in London, and © 
 paints with her husband—some . 
 say almost as well. Nothing — 
 pleases the husband better than 
 : 
 - } 
 
 to hear it said; but the wife is 
 
THE SCHOOL OF ART. 171 
 
 : furious. She cannot bear to be 
 compared with her master — 
 her 
 
 ‘* Pin che mortal, divin pittore.” 
 
Che Gresham 
 
 CHILWORTH AND 
 
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